or at least improved on, the scallop dish named in Saint James’s honor.”
Grace had to think for a moment. “Aha! Coquilles St. Jacques!”
“Right. You’ll be pleased to know the current chef at the hôtel has followed in his predecessors’ footsteps. Auguste’s scallops au gratin will make you think you hear heavenly choirs.”
The easy banter took them up to a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates left open in anticipation of their arrival. Once inside, Grace understood instantly the inspiration for the villa’s new designation. Majestic elms that must have been planted more than a century ago formed a graceful arch above a crushed-stone drive. The curving drive wound through landscaped grounds dotted with statuary and vine-shaded arbors, then ended in a circle dominated by a twenty-foot fountain featuring bronze steeds spouting arcs of silvery water.
And looming beyond the fountain was a masterpiece in mellowed gray stone. The Hôtel des Elmes consisted of a three-story central wing, with two-story wings on each side. Wisteria vines softened its elaborate stone facade, drooping showy purple blossoms from wrought-iron trellises. Grace breathed in the purple blossoms’ spicy vanilla scent as Blake braked to a stop.
The front door opened before he’d killed the engine. The woman who emerged fit Grace’s mental image of the quintessential older French female—slender, charming, impossibly chic in silky black slacks and a cool linen blouse.
“Bienvenue à Saint-Rémy, Monsieur Blake.”
“It’s good to be back,” he replied in English.
After the obligatory cheek kissing, he introduced Grace. She must have been getting used to being presented as his wife. She barely squirmed when Madame LeBlanc grasped both her hands and offered a profuse welcome.
“I am most happy to meet you.” Madame’s smile took a roguish tilt. “Delilah has long despaired of getting her so-handsome sons to the altar. One can only imagine how thrilled she must be that Alex and Blake have taken brides within a month of each other. Quelle romantique!”
“Yes, well…”
Blake’s arm slid around Grace’s waist. “Trés romantique.”
His casual comment fed the fantasy of a honeymoon couple. Madame LeBlanc sighed her approval and handed him a set of tagged keys.
“As you instructed, the staff will not report until tomorrow, but Auguste has prepared several dishes should you wish them. They need only to be reheated. And the upstairs maid has made up the bed in the Green Suite and left for the rest of the day. You will not be disturbed.”
“Merci.”
If the villa’s grounds and exquisite eighteenth-century exterior evoked visions of aristocrats in silks and powered wigs, the interior had obviously been retrofitted for twenty-first-century visitors. Grace spotted high-tech security cameras above the doors and an alarm panel just inside the entryway that looked as if it would take an MIT grad to program. The brass-accented elevator tucked discreetly behind a screen of potted palms was also a modern addition.
While Grace peeked around, Blake carried in their few bags and deposited them in the marbled foyer. “Would you like the ten-cent tour, or would you rather go upstairs and rest for a while first?”
“The tour, please! Unless…” Guilt tripped her. “I’m sorry. I zoned out on the plane, but you didn’t. You’re probably aching for bed.”
Something shifted in his face. A mere ripple of skin across muscle and bone. Grace didn’t have time to interpret the odd look before he masked it.
“I’m good.” He made an exaggerated bow and swept an arm toward the central hall. “This way, madame.”
Grace soon lost count of the downstairs rooms. There was the petite salon, the grand salon, the music room, the library, the card room, an exquisitely mirrored ballroom and several banquet and eating areas in addition to the kitchens and downstairs powder rooms. Each contained a mix of antiques and ultramodern conveniences cleverly integrated into an elegant yet inviting whole. Even the painted porcelain sinks in the powder rooms evoked an eighteenth-century feel, and the copper-and-spice-filled kitchen could accommodate cooks of all ages and eras.
The pool house with its marble columns and bougainvillea-draped pergola was a Greek fantasy come to life. The shimmering turquoise water in the pool made Grace itch to shed her clothes on the spot and dive in. But when they went back inside again and started for the stairs to the second floor, it was the painting of deep purple irises displayed in a lighted alcove that stopped her dead.
“Ooooh!” Grace was no art expert, but even she could recognize a Van Gogh when it smacked her between the eyes. “I have a poster of this same painting in my bedroom.”
Blake paused behind her. “That’s one of my mother’s favorites, too. She donated the original to the Smithsonian’s Museum of Modern Art but had this copy commissioned for the villa.”
He was only an inch or two from her shoulder. So close she felt his breath wash warm and soft against her ear. The sensation zinged down her spine and stirred a reaction that almost made her miss Blake’s next comment.
“This is one of the more than one hundred and fifty paintings Van Gogh painted during his year in Saint-Rémy. There’s a walking tour that shows the various scenes he incorporated into his works. We can take it if you like.”
“I would!”
The possibility of viewing sunflowers and olive groves through the eyes of one of the world’s greatest artists tantalized Grace. Almost as much as the idea of viewing them with Blake.
Hard on that came the realization that she had no clue if her new husband was the least bit interested in impressionist art. Or what kind of music he preferred. Or how he spent his downtime when he wasn’t doing his executive/corporate lawyer thing. She’d known him such a short time. And during those weeks he, his twin and his indomitable parent had focused exclusively on Molly and the hunt for the baby’s mother.
Could be this enforced honeymoon wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The main participants in every partnership, even a marriage of convenience, needed to establish a working relationship. Maybe Delilah had their best interests at heart when she’d arranged this getaway.
Maybe. It was hard to tell what really went on in the woman’s Machiavellian mind. Withholding judgment, Grace accompanied Blake on a tour of the second story. He pointed out several fully contained guest suites, two additional salons, a reading room, even a video game room for the children of the Dalton employees and other guests who stayed at the hôtel. At the end of the hall, he opened a set of double doors fitted with gold-plated latches.
“This is the master suite.” His mouth took a wry tilt. “Otherwise known as the Green Suite.”
Grace could certainly see why! Awed, she let her gaze travel from floor-to-ceiling silk wall panels to elegantly looped drapes to the thick duvet and dozens of tasseled pillows mounded on the four-poster bed. They were all done in a shimmering, iridescent brocade that shaded from moss-green to dark jade depending on the angle of the light streaming through the French doors. The bed itself was inlaid mahogany chased with gold. Lots of gold. So were the bombe chests and marble-topped tables scattered throughout the suite.
“Wow!” Mesmerized by the opulence, she spun in a slow circle. “This looks like
