How shocking it must have been for the French people to see soldiers and tanks silhouetted against gentle slopes of sunflowers as they gouged their way through this peaceful, fertile river valley. Dana cringed to imagine the desecration of a landscape dotted with renaissance chateaux and vineyards of incomparable beauty.
A loud hunger pain resounded in the rental car. Between her empty stomach and the long shadows cast by a setting sun, it occurred to her she ought to have eaten dinner at the last village she’d passed and waited till morning to reach her destination. However, she wasn’t her father’s daughter for nothing and tended to ignore sensible restrictions in order to gratify certain impulses for which she often paid a price.
No matter. She wanted to see how the light played against the Château de Belles Fleurs as it faded into darkness. One look and she’d be able to tell if this place had that unique ambience her father demanded.
Following the map she’d printed off, Dana made a right at the second turn from the bridge and passed through an open grillwork gate. From there she proceeded to the bifurcation where she took the right fork. Suddenly she came upon the estate, but unlike the carefully groomed grounds of any number of chateaux she’d glimpsed en route, this was so overgrown she was put in mind of a bois sauvage. Without directions she would never have known of its existence, let alone stumbled on to it by accident.
A little farther now and a tour of the chateau’s bastion with its pointed cone appeared as if it were playing hide-and-seek behind the heavy foliage. Clumps of plum-colored wild roses had run rampant throughout, merging with a tall hedge that had long since grown wild and lost its shape.
She pulled to a stop and got out of the car, compelled to explore this ungovernable wood filled with wild daisies hidden in clumps of brush. Once she’d penetrated deeper on foot, she peeked through the tree leaves, but was unable to glimpse more.
A lonely feeling stole through her. No one had lived here for years. The estate had an untouched quality. Secrets. She knew in her bones these intangible elements would appeal to her father. If she’d combed the entire Loire valley, she couldn’t have found a more perfect spot. He demanded perfection.
“Puis-je vous aider, madame?” came the sound of a deep male voice.
Startled out of her wits, Dana spun around. “Oh—” she cried at the sight of the bronzed, dark-haired man who looked to be in his midthirties. “I didn’t know anyone was here.” Her tourist French was of no help in this situation, but judging by his next remark, she needn’t have worried.
“Nor did I.” His English sounded as authentic as his French, but she couldn’t place the pronunciation. His tone came off borderline aggressive.
His hands were thrust in the back pockets of well-worn, thigh-molding jeans. With those long, powerful legs and cut physique visible beneath a soil-stained white T-shirt, she estimated he was six-three and spent most of his time in the sun.
“The place looks deserted. Are you the caretaker here?”
He flashed her a faintly mocking smile. “In a manner of speaking. Are you lost?” She had the impression he was impatient to get on with what he’d been doing before she’d trespassed unannounced. Twilight was deepening into night, obscuring the details of his striking features.
“No. I planned to come here in the morning, but my curiosity wouldn’t let me wait that long to get a sneak preview.”
His dark-fringed eyes studied her with toe-curling intensity. For once she wished she were a tall, lovely brunette like her mom instead of your average Swedish blonde with generic blue eyes, her legacy from the Lofgren gene pool.
“If you’re a Realtor for an American client, I’m afraid the property isn’t for sale.”
She frowned. “I’m here for a different reason. This is the Château de Belles Fleurs, isn’t it?”
He gave an almost imperceptible nod, drawing her attention to his head of overly long dark hair with just enough curl she wagered her balding father would kill for.
“I’m anxious to meet the present owner, Monsieur Alexandre Fleury Martin.”
After an odd silence he said, “You’re speaking to him.”
“Oh—I’m sorry. I didn’t realize.”
He folded his strong arms, making her acutely aware of his stunning male aura. “How do you know my name?”
“I came across a French link to your advertisement on the Internet.”
At her explanation his hard-muscled body seemed to tauten. “Unfortunately too many tourists have seen it and decided to include a drop-in visit on their ‘see-France-in-seven-days’ itinerary.”
Uh-oh—Her uninvited presence had touched a nerve. She lifted her oval chin a trifle. “Perhaps you should get a guard dog, or lock the outer gate with a sign that says, No Trespassing.”
“Believe me, I’m considering both.”
She bit her lip. “Look—this has started off all wrong and it’s my fault.” When he didn’t respond she said, “My name is Dana Lofgren. If you’re a movie buff, you may have seen The Belgian Connection, one of the films my father directed.”
He rubbed his chest without seeming to be conscious of it. “I didn’t know Jan Lofgren had a daughter.”
Most people didn’t except for those in the industry who worked with her father. Of course if Dana had been born with a face and body to die for…
She smiled, long since resigned to being forgettable. “Why would you? I help my father behind the scenes. The moment I saw your ad, I flew from Los Angeles to check out your estate. He’s working on the film right now, but isn’t happy with the French locations available.”
Dana heard him take a deep breath. “You should have e-mailed me you were coming so I could have met you in Angers. It’s too late to see anything tonight.”
“I didn’t expect to meet you until tomorrow,” she said, aware she’d angered him without meaning to. “Forgive me for scouting around without your permission. I wanted to get a feel for the place in the fading light.”
“And did you?” he fired. It was no idle question.
“Yes.”
The silly tremor in her voice must have conveyed her emotion over the find because he said, “We’ll talk about it over dinner. I haven’t had mine yet. Where are you staying tonight?”
Considering her major faux pas for intruding on his privacy, she was surprised there was going to be one. “I made a reservation at the Hermitage in Chanzeaux.”
“Good. That’s not far from here. I’ll change my clothes and follow you there in my car. Wait for me in yours and lock the doors.”
The enigmatic owner accompanied her to the rental car. As he opened the door for her, their arms brushed, sending a surprising curl of warmth through her body.
“I won’t be long.”
She watched his tall, well-honed physique disappear around the end of the hedge. Obviously there was a path, but she hadn’t noticed. There’d been too much to take in.
Now an unexpected human element had been added. It troubled her that she was still reacting to the contact. She thought she’d already learned her lesson about men.
Alex signaled the waiter. “Bring us your best house wine, s’il vous plait.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
When he’d come up with his idea to rent out the estate to film studios in order to make a lot of money fast, he hadn’t expected a Hollywood company featuring a legendary director like Jan Lofgren to take an interest this soon, if ever.
He’d only been advertising the château