“Your father or stepfather?” he asked for clarification, having learned from their dinner conversations that she’d been born in France and grew up there since she was about twelve, before her mother moved to the States to marry Simon Clark, the man who’d managed the family empire that Chantelle now ran.
“My mom’s first husband, Renaud,” she responded. “I was just a kid. I used to spend a lot of time ‘helping’ him. As a grownup looking back, I’m pretty sure all the little bits of wood and screws he had me hold down were literally of no consequence. He probably just wanted me to feel useful.” She chuckled.
He listened, entranced with the image of her as a young girl, eager for her father’s company and approval. In his mind, it made her seem softer, less stiff, and buttoned up than the image of her that he’d first had.
“He always sent me trotting off for a glass of water. He used to joke that it must be because I’m Aquarius that I was the best little water bearer he’d ever met.” Then she seemed to be struck by a thought. “That was hard work. Are you thirsty?” She gestured behind her, in the direction of the kitchen. “Because I could get you something.”
To be honest, he wasn’t all that thirsty, having just had half a gallon of coffee with breakfast, but he’d die rather than let her know that. He nodded his thanks.
She disappeared and almost immediately returned with a glass of water that was already frosting up. As she handed it over, she let her fingers linger against his, and for that split second felt once again that frisson of excitement he’d felt when they’d kissed in the car.
He hadn’t expected her to come to his room last night, to accept his invitation, but he’d stayed awake a few extra hours, anyway. Because what if?
He wondered if she’d stayed awake for the same reason.
Then she was a kid again, watching him sip the water in the way he imagined she did when she brought it for her father.
“So,” she said. “You’re leaving.”
“In a couple of days.” He tried to shake off the deep regret his leaving her brought him.
“Have you seen lots of Aix? Did you enjoy it?”
“Not much,” he said slowly. “Most of my time was confined to the conference hall. I just popped out to nearby bistros or coffee shops if I wasn’t eating in the cafeteria—”
“You haven’t seen the Old Town?”
He shook his head regretfully, wondering to himself if he was truly hearing in her tone what he thought he was hearing. “No. And I’ve heard so much about it….”
He left it there, dangling between them.
“I can take you around,” she blurted. “If you like.” Then she seemed to think she’d stepped out of line, and hastily added, “But you don’t have to—”
“I’d love to,” he said quickly, denying her the chance of backing out. He set down the glass and dusted off his hands. “Are you driving, or shall I?”
Chapter 17
The jewelry shop they were standing in was certainly nothing like the kind of place Dustin entered occasionally when he was in the States, places that offered just a handful of truly good pieces among a slew of knickknacks and overly bright junk. The only jewelry store he’d ever been to was the one where he’d bought Jen’s engagement ring.
He shoved aside that intrusive thought.
They were standing in the midst of a small boutique, one that was perfectly happy with its discreet décor and muted tones. It didn’t need to brag or shout: it allows for its pieces to speak for themselves. Because the gems that had been artfully arranged in their cases, ensconced in velvet, were so obviously exquisite that the words ‘king’s ransom’ sprang to mind.
Dustin and Chantelle had spent a lovely morning in the truly beautiful Old Town, with its narrow twisting streets and low buildings, with their arched doorways and yellow, sun-blushed facades. They strolled through cobbled streets and open-air markets, where Dustin picked up some trinkets for Kim and Arabella, and a hand-painted t-shirt for his vain brother who liked nothing more than“looking good for the lay-deez”.
Afterwards, the pair lunched on a café-terrasse that looked out onto a charming street where they did nothing for an hour but watch people stroll by. She’d introduced him to genuine Provençal cooking. Asparagus, wild mushrooms and thin-sliced country ham with lashings of garlic and fresh herbs, crusted fish with garlic aioli, and crisp baguettes with black olive tapenade.
The conversation was pleasant, and even though it hadn’t gone any deeper than the type of conversation shared by office workers whose cubicles abutted each other, Dustin enjoyed every minute of it. He was going to miss her when he left.
Now they were standing in this tiny shop, and Chantelle and the jeweler were bowed down over a velvet-covered tray of bracelets, heads close together as they discussed the merits of this piece or that. Despite his protests, he’d insisted on sending a gift for his sister.
The door chimed, and he turned instinctively to see a tall, good-looking man who Dustin assumed was in his late thirties, wearing an impeccably cut suit. The man’s golden-brown hair was neatly swept back off a high forehead, revealing lion’s eyes.
“Chantelle?” he asked, looking surprised.
She turned around, her curious expression morphing into one of delight. “William!Cher!”
She immediately abandoned the nonplussed jeweler and hurried to the man, opening her arms and embracing him in a tight hug.