bitter liquid did nothing to clear her head.
She’d been a fool to come back after all this time. She should’ve just agreed with the lawyer’s suggestion of selling Harry’s half of the vineyard to his business partner, stopped off briefly at the tiny church in the village to lay some flowers on her great-uncle’s grave and pay her respects, and then gone straight back to London.
Instead, something had made her come back to the old stone farmhouse where she’d spent so many summers as a child. Whether it was an impulse to do right by her great-uncle or something else, she wasn’t sure. But now she was here in the Ardèche, she regretted the impulse. Seeing the house, smelling the sharp scent of the herbs growing in their terracotta troughs by the kitchen door, had made her feel physically sick with guilt. Guilt that she hadn’t come back before. Guilt that she hadn’t been there to take the call telling her that Harry had had a stroke—and that he’d died in hospital before she’d even found out that he was ill. Guilt that, despite her best efforts, she hadn’t made it here for the funeral.
Everyone in the village had already judged her and found her wanting. She’d been aware of the glances and mutters from people in the square as she’d put the flowers on the greening-over mound in the churchyard, next to the little wooden cross that would mark Harry’s grave until the ground had settled enough for it to support a proper headstone. And the coldness with which Hortense Bouvier had received her, instead of the warm hug and good meal that the housekeeper had greeted her with all those years before, had left her in no doubt as to the older woman’s disapproval.
Walking back into the kitchen had been like walking straight back into the past, ripping all of Allegra’s scars wide open. All she needed now was Xav to walk into the kitchen and drop into the chair opposite her, with that heart-turning smile and the sparkle in his silver-green eyes as he reached over to take her hand, and…
No, of course not. He’d made it quite clear, ten years before, that it was over between them. That what they’d shared had simply been a holiday romance, and he was off to start a high-flying career in Paris—a new life without her. For all she knew, he could be married with children now; once she’d taken that first step to heal the breach between herself and Harry, they’d had an unspoken agreement never to talk about Xavier. Pride had stopped her asking, and awkwardness had stopped Harry telling.
Her hands tightened round the mug of coffee. After all these years, she really should be over it. But then again, how did you stop years and years of loving some-one? She’d fallen for Xavier Lefèvre the very first time she’d met him, when she was eight years old and he was eleven: he’d been the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen, like one of the Victorian angels in the stained-glass windows at school, but with dark hair and silver-green eyes. As a teen, she’d followed him round like an eager puppy, mooning over him and wondering what it would be like if he kissed her. She’d even practised kissing against the back of her hand so she’d be ready for the moment when he finally realised she was more than just the girl next door. For summer after summer, she’d wished and hoped; even though she must have driven him crazy, he’d been kind and treated her the same way that he treated everyone else, never teasing or rejecting her outright.
But, that very last summer, it had been a kind of awakening. Xav had finally seen her as a woman instead of an annoying little urchin trailing around behind him. They’d been inseparable. The best summer of her life. She’d honestly believed that he loved her as much as she loved him. That it didn’t matter that she was going to do her degree in London while he was starting a new job in Paris—she’d spend the holidays with him, and he’d maybe come and spend weekends with her in London when he could get the time off work, and then when she graduated they’d be together for the rest of their lives.
Granted, he hadn’t actually asked her to marry him, but she’d known he felt the same way she did. That he was as crazy about her as she was about him.
And then it had all disintegrated.
Bile filled her mouth and she swallowed hard. For pity’s sake. She was an adult, now, not a dream-filled teenager. A realist. Harry’s business partner was Jean-Paul Lefèvre—Xav’s father, not Xav himself. Xav wouldn’t be here; as far as she knew, he was still in Paris. She wouldn’t have to see him again.
‘Monsieur Lefèvre called,’ Hortense said coolly, walking into the kitchen. ‘He’s on his way back from the vines. He’s calling in to see you.’
Allegra frowned. Their meeting wasn’t until tomorrow. Then again, the French had impeccable manners. Jean-Paul was probably calling on her out of politeness, to welcome her to Les Trois Closes.
And then the kitchen door opened abruptly and Xavier sauntered in, as if he owned the place.
Allegra nearly dropped the mug she was holding. What the hell was he doing here? And why hadn’t he knocked? What made him think that he could just walk into Harry’s house—her house, she corrected herself mentally—whenever he pleased?
‘Xavier! Alors, sit down, sit down.’ Hortense greeted him with all the warmth she’d refused to bestow on Allegra, kissing him on the cheeks. She settled him opposite Allegra with a mug of coffee. ‘I’ll leave you to talk with Mademoiselle Beauchamp, chéri.’ And with that she swept out of the kitchen.
Allegra was too stunned to say a word. At twenty-one, Xavier Lefèvre had been a good-looking boy. At thirty-one, he was all man. A little taller, unless her memory deceived her, and his frame was broader—though his T-shirt showed that it was muscle rather than fat. His olive skin made his grey-green eyes seem even more piercing, and he had the beginnings of lines round his eyes, as if he smiled a lot or spent most of his time in the sun. His tousled dark hair was overlong; the style, she thought, was more in keeping with a rock star than a financial whiz-kid. And the fact that he hadn’t shaved made him look as if he’d just got out of bed, leaving his lover asleep and totally satiated.
Just the sight of him made Allegra feel as if the temperature in the room had soared by ten degrees—and she could still remember just how it had felt to fall asleep in Xav’s arms, warm and satiated in the sunshine after making love all afternoon.
Oh, hell. How was she supposed to think straight when the first thing that came into her mind where Xavier Lefèvre was concerned was sex—and the second thing was how much she still wanted him?
She needed her libido strapped into a straightjacket. Right now. Before it started wrestling with her common sense.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Beauchamp.’ Xavier gave her an enigmatic smile. ‘I thought I’d better come and say hello to my new business partner.’
She stared at him, shocked. ‘You were Harry’s business partner?’
His look told her just how stupid that question was.
‘But…’ Xavier was supposed to be a financier in a sharp suit, not a vigneron in faded denims and an ancient T-shirt. ‘I thought you were in Paris.’
‘No.’
‘Monsieur Robert said Harry’s partner was Monsieur Lefèvre.’
‘Indeed.’ Still seated, he pantomimed a half-bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Xavier Lefèvre—at your service, mademoiselle.’
‘I know who you are.’ For pity’s sake. Of course she knew who he was. The man to whom she’d given her virginity—and her heart, only to have it thrown back in her face. ‘I thought he meant your father.’
‘You’re
