“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 Louis XV might have slept here.”
“There’s no record the king ever made it down,” Blake returned with a grin, “but one of his mistresses reportedly entertained another of her lovers here on the sly.”
Grace couldn’t decide which hit with more of a wallop, that quick grin or the instant and totally erotic image his comment stirred. As vividly as any painting, she could picture a woman in white silk stockings, ribboned garters and an unlaced corset lolling against the four-poster’s mounds of pillows. A bare-chested courtier with Blake Dalton’s guinea-gold hair leaned over her. His blue eyes glinted with wicked promise as he slowly slid one of her garters from her thigh to her knee to her…
“…the adjoining suite.”
Blinking, she zoomed out of the eighteenth century. “Sorry. I was, uh, thinking of powdered wigs and silk knee breeches. What did you say?”
“I said I’ll be in the adjoining suite.”
The last of the delicious image fizzled as Grace watched her husband open a connecting door. The bedroom beyond wasn’t as large or as decadent as that of the Green Suite, but it did boast another four-poster and a marble fireplace big enough to roast an ox.
“It’s almost noon Saint-Rémy time,” Blake said after a quick glance at his watch. “If you’re not too jet-lagged, we could reconvene in a half hour and walk into town for lunch.”
“That works for me.”
Calling herself an idiot for staring at the door long after it closed behind him, Grace extracted her toiletries from her tote bag and carried them into a bathroom fit for a queen. Or at least a royal mistress.
* * *
Maybe it was the glorious sun that sucked away her sense of awkwardness. Or the lazy, protracted lunch she and Blake shared at a dime-size table cornered next to a bubbling fountain. Or the two glasses of perfectly chilled rosé produced by a vineyard right outside Saint-Rémy.
Then again, it might have been Blake’s obvious efforts to keep the conversation light and noncontroversial. He made no reference to the circumstances of their marriage or Grace’s adamant refusal to betray her cousin’s trust. As a consequence, she felt herself relaxing for the first time in longer than she could remember.
The still-raw ache of her cousin’s death shifted to a corner of her heart. Jack Petrie, Oklahoma City, even Molly moved off center stage. Not completely, and certainly not for long. Yet these hours in the sun provided a hiatus from the worry she’d carted around for so many months. That was the only excuse she could come up with later for the stupidity that followed.
It happened during the walk back to their hôtel. Blake indulged her with a stroll through the town’s pedestrian-only center, stopping repeatedly while she oooh’ed and aaaah’ed over shop windows displaying Provence’s wares. One window was filled with colorful baskets containing every imaginable spice and herb. Another specialized in soaps and scented oils. Hundreds of soaps and oils. Delighted, Grace went inside and sniffed at products made from apple pear, lemon, peony, vanilla, honey almond and, of course, lavender. A dazzling display of stoppered vials offered bath oils and lotions in a rainbow of hues.
The clerk obviously knew her business. She sized up the diamonds circling Grace’s finger in a single glance. With a knowing look, she produced a cut-crystal vial from a shelf behind the counter.
“Madame must try this. It is a special blend made only for our shop.”
When she removed the stopper, an exquisitely delicate aroma drifted across the counter. Lavender and something else that Grace couldn’t quite identify.
“The perfumers extract oil from the buds before they blossom. The fragrance is light, oui? So very light and yet, how do you say? So sensuelle.”
She waved the stopper in the air to release more of its bouquet. Grace leaned forward, breathing deeply. She knew then that whatever else happened in this marriage, she would always associate the scent of lavender with sunshine and brilliant skies and the smile crinkling the skin at the corners of Blake’s eyes as he watched her sniffing the air.
He didn’t remain an observer for long. Sensing a sale, the shopkeeper dipped the stopper again. “Here, monsieur, you must dab some on your wife’s wrist. The oil takes on a richer tone when applied to the skin.”
With a good-natured nod, Blake took the stopper in one hand and reached for Grace’s wrist with the other. His hold was loose, easy. As light as it was, though, the touch sent a ripple of pleasure along her nerves. The ripple swelled to a tidal wave when he raised her arm to a mere inch or so from his nose.
“She’s right,” he murmured. The blue in his eyes deepened as he caught Grace’s gaze. “The warmth of your skin deepens the scent.”
Warmth? Ha! She’d passed mere warmth the moment his fingers circled her wrist. And if he kept looking at her like that, she suspected she would spontaneously combust in the next five seconds.
Thankfully, the shop clerk claimed his attention. The distraction proved only temporary, however. Eager for a sale, the woman urged another test.
“Dab a little dab behind your wife’s ear, monsieur. It is of all places the most seductive.”
Grace’s internal alarm went off like a klaxon. Every scrap of common sense she possessed urged her to decline the second sample. The sun and the wine and this man’s touch were bringing her too close to the melting point. So she was damned if she knew why she just stood there and let Blake brush aside her hair.
The crystal stopper was cool and damp against the skin just below her earlobe. An instant later, her husband’s breath seared that same patch of skin. Their only physical contact point was the hand caging back her hair. If the shock that went though her was any indication, however, they might have been locked together at chest and