his glance, she said, “You might not think it interesting, but I find it thoroughly delightful.”
“And on behalf of everyone living here, I thank you. But how did you discover it?”
She took a moment to consider her answer. “By chance,” she said finally. “I’d fallen into a rut after my marriage ended, and decided I was ready for a little adventure. I knew I wanted to visit the south of France, so I stuck a pin on the map, promised myself I’d explore the spot I found, no matter what, and here I am. I consider myself lucky that I ended up in a place that offers food and lodging, and not on top of a mountain with nothing but the stars for company.”
“Yet you’re wasting the opportunity to see the best Provence has to offer. Why else do you think we make no real effort to accommodate tourists here?”
“I’m not exactly your average tourist. I don’t care about seeing the sights. I just want a place where I can find a little peace.”
A plausible enough story on the surface, and one he might have accepted were it not that she still couldn’t quite meet his gaze. “Not nearly as lucky as I consider myself, that you chose here,” he returned smoothly. “Fate brought us together, no question about it, which means we definitely must dine together. I highly recommend Henri’s bouillabaisse.”
But she’d already gathered up her straw handbag and was preparing to leave. “Some other time, perhaps, but not tonight, thank you. After my earlier faux-pas, I’m afraid Henri might poison me. I even wonder if he’ll still allow me to stay here.”
A pity he couldn’t keep her a little longer and discover the reason for her sudden uneasiness, Anton thought, but he had a whole month in which to uncover her secrets, and could afford to bide his time. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself about that,” he said, coming around the table to pull out her chair. “Henri Molyneux is one of the most equable fellows you’ll ever meet.”
In her eagerness to escape him, she must have risen too quickly because she staggered, and if he hadn’t steadied her with a hand at her shoulder, he thought she might have fallen. As it was, her bag slipped from her grasp and fell on the table, knocking over her wineglass and sending it rolling to the dusty paving stones where it shattered.
Concerned, he said, “Diana? Are you okay?”
“No,” she muttered distractedly, as breathless as if she’d run five kilometers in under five minutes. “I spilled my wine and broke the glass.”
“Alors, don’t worry about that. It happens all the time. See, Henri’s already coming to clean it up.”
“No,” she insisted. “It’s my mess. I’ll clean it up.”
Pressing her down onto the chair again, he said firmly, “You’ll do no such thing. You’re shaking, and white as a sheet. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” she cried. Then, as if she realized she was behaving oddly, she made a concerted effort to pull herself together. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. It’s just that I haven’t eaten all day, and two glasses of wine on an empty stomach…”
“That settles it, then. We’re having dinner.” He nodded to Henri who, having shoveled up the broken glass, was wiping down the table. “How’s the bouillabaisse coming along, my friend?”
“Not ready for another fifteen minutes, I regret to say,” he replied, and cast an anxious glance at Diana. “You did not cut yourself, madame? You are not hurt?”
Diana stared at him wordlessly, her eyes huge. Two bright spots of color bloomed in her cheeks, making the rest of her face that much paler by comparison. Although the evening was pleasantly warm, she shivered as if it was winter and the mistral blew.
Baffled, Henri swung his glance to Anton. “Perhaps a little cognac might help?”
Equally mystified, Anton shook his head. There was more going on here than a missed meal. He was no doctor, but he recognized shock when he saw it. What he couldn’t determine was its cause. In fact, nothing about this woman quite added up. “No alcohol,” he said, laying his hand against her forehead and finding it clammy. “She’s cold. Bring her a tisane and some bread instead.”
She flinched at his touch, as if she’d been startled from sleep. “I don’t need tea,” she mumbled, struggling to her feet. “I’ll get a sweater from my room.”
“Send someone else for it. Those stairs—”
“No. I felt a little faint for a moment, but I’m fine now, and I’ll be even better after I’ve freshened up a little.”
“Very well,” he conceded. “But don’t think for a minute I’ll allow you to miss dinner. If you’re not back down here by the time the bouillabaisse is ready, I’m coming up to get you.”
She managed a smile, as if the very idea of trying to avoid him would never cross her mind, and turned to Henri. “Fifteen minutes, you said?”
“At the very most, madame.”
“Okay. I’ll be ready and waiting.”
Yesterday, when the chambermaid had shown her to her room, Diana had considered it barely acceptable. At little more than twelve feet square, with its old, mismatched furnishings, it was, without question, the least sophisticated space she’d ever occupied, and certainly not one in which she planned to spend much time. Now, leaning against the closed door, she surveyed the narrow, iron-framed bed, hand-painted night table, carved armoire and three-drawer chest, with fond gratitude for the haven they represented.
Even the age-spotted mirror hanging above the old-fashioned washstand held a certain charm. Its most grievous sin lay in distorting her reflection on its wavy surface so that one half of her face looked as if it didn’t quite belong to the other. Unlike Comte Anton de Valois, who possessed an unnerving talent for seeing clear through to her brain and detecting every nuance of hesitation, every carefully phrased falsehood.
She doubted he’d swallowed her excuse that hunger had left her light-headed, but it had been the best she could come up with on short notice, most especially since she really had been thrown for a loop at learning that Henri was a Molyneux.
“You are alone?” he’d inquired, when she’d shown up last night and requested a room.
She’d nodded and murmured assent, so captivated by everything she saw that it simply hadn’t occurred to her to ask his full name. It had been enough that everyone called him Henri.
Bathing her in a welcoming smile, he’d pushed an old-fashioned ledger across the counter for her to sign. “Then you’re in luck. It so happens a single room just became available.”
L’Auberge d’Olivier was a picturesque building with the date, 1712, stamped above the open front door. Its thick plaster walls were painted a soft creamy-yellow. Flowers tumbled from baskets perched on the sills of its sparkling, deep-set windows. Outside, under a huge plane tree, candles flickered on wrought-iron tables where old men hunched over glasses of dark wine and smoked pungent cigarettes.
Charmed, she’d seen it as a fortuitous start to her search. Because Bellevue-sur-Lac was so small, she’d thought it would be easy to unearth clues that would lead her to her birth mother. Had spent this entire
