To his surprise he went on, “That was just a few months before my mom died. She died unexpectedly in her sleep….”
He expected the usual platitude of,I’m sorry,but instead she asked, “How old were you?”
“Ten.”
She sat back, surprise registering on her face. “I was ten when my dad died, too.”
Well, at least we have that in common,he thought. But the mildly fuzzy feeling of connection he felt didn’t last long.
She shrugged, pushed away her half-finished bowl of soup, and returned to the book she was reading.
Chapter 11
Chantelle hadn’t slept as well as she’d expected. They’d come in later than originally planned, as their flight had been temporarily re-routed due to bad weather, and then held in a holding pattern for an interminable amount of time before being allowed to land.
By then, it was already growing dark, and impulsively she had invited Dustin to spend the night at her mansion, rather than have to find a taxi to take him to his Airbnb in the Old Town. Her place was out in the country, and it would be an hour’s drive there. She figured if she was tired, he would be as well.
Before she could stop the words from coming out of her mouth, she had offered, and he had accepted.
Shouldn’t be a problem, she reminded herself. After all, there were seven bedrooms, and when she’d called ahead to the family housekeeper, a woman called Rosemarie who she kept on retainer, to let her know she was flying in, the house had immediately been opened, aired and prepared.
She’d made sure that Dustin was led to the bedroom farthest from the master suite, so with a bit of luck she’d never even have to see him.
She turned to look out the window, seeing the white lace curtains flutter in the light morning breeze. Her home back in the States was ultra-modern, with all the amenities, cutting-edge appliances and modern art, in keeping with her image as a savvy businesswoman. But this home, the home in which she was raised, still had that country charm, and Chantelle wanted to keep it that way.
Sure, it was digitally wired, and the surveillance system efficient enough to keep her safe—she wasn’t a fool. But the furnishings, art, sculpture, linens, carpets, were all kept in the style she remembered as a child. Cozy and comforting.
Yet she had barely slept a wink, even with Minerva curled up at her feet.
She rolled over and hit the intercom, calling down to the kitchen to ask Rosemarie to prepare a light breakfast to send up. The housekeeper was anxious about how sparse her order had been, asking if she was sure she didn’t want something more robust and nourishing, like eggs, country bread, sausages.
Chantelle’s stomach protested, and she groaned. Food. Ugh. “No,” she reiterated in her flawless French, “fruit, juice and yogurt would be fine. And a plate of tuna for Minerva.”
Ten minutes later, there was a tap on the door. She turned to face it, smiling, her sheets dropping to her waist to reveal a light, almost demure cotton nightgown.“Entrez.”
The tray appeared around the door, and immediately Chantelle could see a small bunch of flowers hastily assembled from her garden, tied with a piece of string. Rosemarie had been with her family ever since she was a girl, and always remembered her love of flowers.
She sat up, smiling happily, and held out her arms for her breakfast. “Merci!”
“Uh… what’s French for ‘you’re welcome’?”
That’s when she realized that the person bringing her breakfast not only wasn’t Rosemarie; they weren’t even female.
“Dustin!” she gasped, grabbing the sheets and pulling them up to cover herself. “What the hell!”
He held out the tray, and when she didn’t immediately take it, set it down on the side table before explaining. “Sorry. I was in the kitchen—on Miss Rosemarie’s invitation, mind you—getting breakfast when you called. She’s busy giving the kitchen a spring cleaning, so she asked me to bring this up to you.”
“Rosemarie could have paused what she was doing for a while,” Chantelle groused.
Shaking his head, Dustin said, “She’s up to her elbows in silver polish. Apparently, your entire silver collection gets polished twice a year. Are you aware that you have a complete handmade silver cutlery set for 24? It’s likeDownton Abbeydown there!”
Chantelle eyed him suspiciously, wondering if he was once again implying that she was a snob, but saw amusement rather than disdain. She said, “It’s an old house. This stuff has been here for generations.”
Setting the plate of tuna on the floor for her cat, who glared at it as if it had offended her, Chantelle then picked up the spoon and poked at the yogurt. She knew immediately that it homemade. The yogurt glistened with a dollop of honey on top. Delicious. Suddenly, she realized she was hungry.
Chantelle waited for him to exit, but instead, he began to wander around her large bedroom, making no secret of his curiosity.
“I can tell some of these things are antiques.” He paused before a large framed landscape painting and contemplated it for a while before asking, “Basque?”