Jack pulled back so he could see her face. “Still want to eat?”
“Still want to feed me?” she parroted back.
“Of course.” He planted a quick kiss on her lips and then rinsed the mass of pasta before tossing the sausage into the sauté pan. He pulled a jar of sun-dried tomatoes from the fridge and chopped them before adding them and the herbs to the pan. Once everything was heated through, he shook out the excess pasta water and dumped the noodles into the olive oil mix, stirring to coat them.
Lily found a couple plates and he served them heaping helpings with a generous grating of Parmesan cheese on top. While it cooled for a minute, he poured a ruby-red wine into what had to be Irish lead crystal—the real, handcut kind. “Bon appétit.”
It was beautiful, had taken ten minutes and was straight from jars and boxes. A perfect recipe for her blog. “Wait a second.” She sprinted upstairs and brought back her camera, taking several shots of the food and wine.
“All right, all right, enough with the photos,” he finally said after a few minutes. “The pasta is getting cold and you need to eat.”
She grumbled a bit but was secretly pleased at his concern for her well-being.
He raised his glass in a toast. “To Lily. I am so lucky we met.”
“To Jack.” She raised hers, as well. “For showing me the real France—and a lot of a certain real Frenchman.”
He laughed and sipped his wine. “Eat, eat.”
The food was exquisite, as good as any restaurant meal she’d had. “You’re almost as good in the kitchen as my mother’s new husband, Stan.”
“Ah, you did mention he was skilled around the house—he can cook, as well?”
Lily couldn’t help giggling. “I should hope so. He’s the Wyndham family chef.”
“Lovely!” Jack started to laugh. “The housekeeper finds happiness with the family chef.”
“Their new house is spotless and they eat like kings. What more could you ask for?”
“Love.” He said it so matter-of-factly that she knew he meant it. “If they have love, then nothing else matters.”
“Nothing? Not money or age or different backgrounds?”
He was already shaking his head. “Nothing. Everything else can be dealt with, but love is the one thing that should never be compromised.”
“They do love each other,” Lily whispered. Sometimes it made her feel left out since it had been just Mom and her for so many years. But she was a woman now, and it was time to let her mother be a woman in her own right, as well. “Have you ever loved like that?” she blurted and then immediately blushed. If she were going to drink wine like a Frenchwoman, she needed to get better control of her tongue.
He stared steadily at her and she raised her glass to block the mortified expression on her face. He waited to answer her until she had set down her glass. She couldn’t spend the entire meal hiding behind it, despite her cheeks that felt as red as the wine. “I thought I did once, but I was wrong. And you?”
Turnabout was fair play and she answered him as bluntly. “No, never. Not even close.”
He nodded. “I know we are not in love, Lily, but I am glad we are lovers.”
“Lovers.” She tested the word on her lips, remembering the first time she had used it with the Frenchwoman on the train. Then, it had been awkward and embarrassing. But now that she and Jack truly were lovers, it was natural and freeing to say the word, at least with him. “Yes, I am glad, too.”
Not that she would go around introducing him like that, as in, Have you met my lover, Jack? Really, a woman had to draw the line somewhere in maintaining some mystery.
“However long you want me—you want us, Lily,” he promised solemnly.
That was what she wanted, too—but what if she wanted him forever? The thought stunned her, and she used her jaw dropping as an excuse to shovel in a mouthful of pasta. Lovers did not equal forever; it was a live-in-the-moment kind of thing.
He watched her eat for a minute, satisfied that she was replenishing her body, and then settled down to his meal. They chatted as they ate, finding common interests in music, art and movies. They of course had different perspectives, but that made it more interesting to debate the fine points. He was witty and well-read, intelligent and amusing.
Lily paused for a second and looked at Jack and looked at their amazing meal. Their relationship was like the pasta—hot and fresh, but after a certain point would get cold and lumpy, not ever quite living up to its original flavor. But for now, oh, was it delicious.
THE NEXT DAY, Jack left Lily chatting with her cousin via webcam and headed out to meet Jean-Claude to talk about estate business. This was the first summer in many years that Jack had been in Provence for the lavender harvest, and Jean-Claude was eager to involve him. Probably so Jack wouldn’t stay away so long again. Halfway up the hill to the field, his own phone rang.
He smiled at the display and answered it. “Bonjour, chérie.”
“Oh, Jack, I’m so glad to talk to you. I was worried to death when George told me you were sick.” It was Stevie, his little sister in all but DNA. Even though Princess Stefania was a beautiful grown-up lady, he couldn’t help remembering her as the inconsolable twelve-year-old who had come to live with them after the death of her parents. George had been a sophomore at the university living off-campus with Jack and Frank, but had quickly hired a housekeeper to care for Stefania and make sure their flat wasn’t condemned by the New York Board of Health.
“George tells me you are in Provence now. Good for you. I never liked Paris that much anyway.”
He grinned. Translation: Stevie never liked his mother that much anyway, and had absolutely detested Nadine. “How else can I make sure your lavender will be ready for the parfumerie?”
“I know, and I’m absolutely thrilled you’re doing this. I want to sell the perfume and give all the proceeds to my charity—you know, the obnoxiously named Princess Stefania of Vinciguerra Foundation for Women and Children?”
“Why is that obnoxious?”
“Because, dummy, my grandmother set it up when I was too young to know any better and named it after me, as if I wanted to blow my own horn. On the other hand, that self-servingly-named foundation is going to pay for several new schools in poor countries and is rescuing girls from sex slavery in Western Europe as we speak. But don’t tell anyone about that last part, because I fund them under the table. Dangerous work, prying girls away from their pimps.”
Jack’s eyebrows shot up. “Am I to assume you’ve gone on these missions yourself?”
“Assume whatever you like,” she said airily. “I will categorically deny we’ve ever had this conversation if necessary.”
He shook his head. “Stevie, are you working for the CIA now?”
She laughed. “And if I did, would I tell you? Besides, I am a loyal subject of my brother and our principality.”
Which wasn’t much of an answer, but she had always been maddening in her own lovable way.
“Don’t work too hard on the lavender harvest. Jean-Claude can handle it,” she informed him.
“Stevie, I am not some ancient invalid. I have been quite active the past several days and have no ill effects.” He smiled at the memory of several of his activities.
“What have you been up to?” Her tone was suspicious.
“What?” She caught him off guard. Maybe she did work for the CIA.
“What kind of activities?” she repeated and then paused. “You have a woman there with you, don’t you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied with some dignity.
“Mmm-hmm. What’s her name?”
“A gentleman never kisses and tells.” And he wasn’t going to talk about his sex life with Stevie.
“So you do have someone!” She sounded delighted. “Have Jean-Claude and Marthe-Louise met her yet?”
A reluctant laugh was dragged from him. “Stefania…”
“Uh-oh, you only call me that when you
are trying to be stern and paternal. Tell me her name.”
“Lily.” It slipped out. But once he did, he couldn’t stop grinning. He’d been hugging the secret of his new relationship to his chest like a teenager with a photo of a movie star, and Stefania was the first of his friends to learn about Lily. Next thing he knew, he’d be skipping through the lavender fields, sniffing a sprig and mooning over Lily. At least the field workers would get a hearty laugh.
“Really? I was just guessing, you know. Is she French?”
“American. But we met in Paris.”
“An American in Paris.” Stevie hummed a few bars of the Gershwin ballet. “Did you dance around the fountain with her?”
“I am no Gene Kelly.” Jack smirked. Thanks to ten years of dance class, Stevie was extremely knowledgeable about ballet. Good thing she couldn’t see him tap dancing around her inquisitive nature. “But we went to the Parc Buttes-Chaumont.”
“How dreamy,” she sighed. “You met, swept her off her feet and then whisked her off to your ancestral home in Provence. Jack, sweetie pie, you are becoming quite the romantic. You sound like those novels I love to read.”
“Enough, enough.” His cheeks were heating.
“Well, whoever Lily is, she can’t be any worse than Nadine. Ugh.”
“Stefania…” he said in warning.
She grinned. “Again with the stern authoritarian tone. But I also wanted to let you know Dieter and I have set our wedding date. We met with the bishop and chose a date next June because I want all the roses blooming for me. That’s only eleven months away! And I want to give you enough time to make my perfume, right?”
“Of course. We will press the oil right after harvest and then you and the perfumer can create a blend and choose a bottle and packaging.”
“Great, Jack.” She blew kisses into the phone. “Take care of yourself,” she reminded him. “No more parasitic infections for you. You and Frank are ushers at my wedding, so I want you to look good in your tux.”
“It would be an honor.”
“Maybe you can come see me in New York when you feel better?”
“Of course.” They said their goodbyes and Jack hung up, staring thoughtfully across the purple valley of his farm.
Traveling to New York in a few weeks? Lily lived in New Jersey, a quick train ride from Manhattan. But did she want him to come visit her? He blew out a sigh of frustration. He hated uncertainty. As the old American saying went, failure to plan meant planning to fail.
What was his plan with Lily? He knew one thing, though—he didn’t want her to leave. Was that a plan? To keep her with him indefinitely. Or forever?
12
LILY LOOKED UP from her computer screen and rolled her neck to loosen the kinks. She would much rather be smooching with Jack in the big bed upstairs, but she’d already neglected her blog for the past couple days to do just that.
Traffic was increasing. Sarah, although pretty much confined to her recliner at home, was doing a champion job of cross-posting her blog to various travel sites, sites aimed at young single women and foodie websites. Lily hadn’t intended to be so food-oriented, but her photos of the Provence markets and descriptions of Madame Roussel’s late-night hors d’oeuvres proved popular, according to her blog traffic stats.
Lily had mentioned “Pierre” a few times in her blog posts. Not the sex parts, obviously, because it wasn’t that kind of a blog. Sarah was already anxious about Lily traveling with Jack. She didn’t need to get all the lurid details. Lily might tell her at some later date, but only when Lily was safely back home.
At this point, Lily would take all the traffic she could get. She got up and walked around the desk. Jack had set her up in the guesthouse study, which was a far cry from her makeshift “office” at her breakfast bar at home.
A wall of books stood behind the desk, which was a rustic-looking wooden plank several inches thick varnished and fastened to four heavy square legs. It matched the exposed beams in the ceiling and was big enough to spread out several reference books on Provence—cook-books with mouth-watering recipes, coffee-table photo books of breath-taking photography and of course an assortment of memoirs and travelogues describing falling-down farmhouses, weed-choked olive groves and robust peasant neighbors.
But all Lily had to do was look out the floor-to-ceiling picture windows to see Provence for herself. The study was tucked into the corner of the house where she could see the lavender fields and upright, skinny evergreens, and nary a weed or crumbling building in sight. Jack’s friends certainly had pride in their property.
Pride and lots of money. She’d grown up around it and could smell it, like a new dollar bill fresh from the mint.
Lily’s email program dinged and she found a new message. Ooh, from Margo, an editor at Fashionista Magazine. But why would she want to email her? She wasn’t writing about clothes, and her own fashion style on this trip had consisted of either hiking outfits or being buck naked.
She clicked on the icon and read the screen, stunned. The editor was interested in her blog and wanted her to write an online column on traveling in France from the point of view of a hip, single woman. Lily rolled her eyes. She didn’t know how hip she was, but, hey, she could fake it.
She read on. Oh. They wanted her to write about Frenchmen in general, “Pierre” in particular. She’d never shown Jack’s face in any photos she’d posted, but perhaps the element of mystery had intrigued the editor, who had left her number with an invitation to call her for more details.
Ten minutes later after calling New York, Lily had agreed to posts every other day, which would be linked on the magazine site’s home page. And Margo had hinted there would be more work for her, maybe even feature articles in the print version of the magazine. Lily didn’t know exactly what her topics might be, since she wasn’t going to travel around Europe dating more men just so she could write about them. Professional dating was not to her liking.
She and Margo had agreed on some boundaries for her blogs. The editor, of course, was interested in as much juicy detail as Lily would offer, but Jack had a vested interest in not becoming the latest internet heartthrob.
She’d have to double-check with him about being a semifictional character in her blog—names and details changed to protect the innocent, as they said on TV.
Jack came into the study. “Bonjour, chérie.” He leaned over the desk and kissed her.
“Guess what, Jack?” She told him about her new writing job.
“I am not surprised at your success, Lily. Your sincere interest in my country comes through in your work.”
She took a deep breath. “The editor wants me to write about you, as well.”
“Me?” His eyebrows shot up. “But you have hardly mentioned me and you aren’t even using my real name.”
“She says American women are fascinated by Frenchmen and wants more detail about dating and romance in France. But I don’t want to put any of our own personal situation online,” she added hastily.
He rubbed his chin. “Dating and romance in France is much the same as anywhere else, but I’m sure you and I can think of something that editor might like. But again, I have to ask you not to post any photos that show my face.”
“I won’t,” she promised.
“What would you like to do this afternoon? Research French romance?”
Lily pressed her lips together and thought. The view out the window caught her eye again. “Get a tour of the manor house.”
He blinked in surprise.
“That is, if your friends don’t mind,” she amended, not wanting to be a bad guest.
“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Marthe-Louise would be delighted to show us around.”
“Great.” Lily shut down her computer and grabbed her camera. “Let’s go.”
DELIGHTED WAS AN understatement—the plump woman in her fifties was ecstatic to see Jack. If she’d been any younger, Lily would have been jealous. “Jacques, oh, mon petit Jacque
s!” She spotted them at the kitchen door and wiped her hands on her apron before dragging Jack inside.
“Marthe-Louise is the housekeeper here,” he called, as the older woman plastered his cheeks in teary kisses.
“She certainly remembers you fondly.”
He grinned ruefully and said something soothing to Marthe-Louise, patting her shoulder. “Okay, Marthe-Louise, this is Lily. Lily, this is Marthe-Louise.”
“Lee-Lee!” Marthe-Louise released Jack and seized Lily, kissing her vigorously twice on each cheek. She unleashed a torrent of excited French. “Ah, belle, belle, si belle!”
“She says you are very beautiful.”
Lily blushed and Marthe-Louise cooed and pinched her reddening cheek before asking Jack a question.
He nodded and replied at length. The housekeeper gave him an exasperated look but finally nodded her head.
“Merci.” Jack blew the older woman a kiss and she giggled. “She will give us a tour of the house but needs to straighten up a bit first.”
“Oh, okay.” The house looked immaculate, but there was probably a pile of mail here and a newspaper there that would take away from the manorial splendor.
The housekeeper darted out and returned in a couple minutes.
The house was impressive, with a huge salon and dining area for hosting large soirées, several sitting rooms, a giant library filled with books that Lily itched to read and a glass-enclosed conservatory, or orangerie, where they grew potted orange and lemon trees for fresh fruit during the winter.
It was a massive building, but with few personal touches and no family portraits. Probably those were upstairs in the living quarters, which weren’t part of the tour.
They returned to the kitchen, easily twice the size of the kitchen at the guesthouse. “Ongree?” Marthe-Louise asked.
“What?” Lily asked politely.
“You ongree?” she asked her.
“Oh, hungry.” Her stomach growled and they all laughed. “Yes, I am hungry.”
The housekeeper flew into action and quickly had a platter of crusty sliced bread with a variety of spreads in little ceramic pots.
Royally Seduced Page 12
