Her hands tightened round the mug of coffee. After all these years, she really should be over it. But then again, how did you stop years and years of loving some-one? She’d fallen for Xavier Lefèvre the very first time she’d met him, when she was eight years old and he was eleven: he’d been the most beautiful boy she’d ever seen, like one of the Victorian angels in the stained-glass windows at school, but with dark hair and silver-green eyes. As a teen, she’d followed him round like an eager puppy, mooning over him and wondering what it would be like if he kissed her. She’d even practised kissing against the back of her hand so she’d be ready for the moment when he finally realised she was more than just the girl next door. For summer after summer, she’d wished and hoped; even though she must have driven him crazy, he’d been kind and treated her the same way that he treated everyone else, never teasing or rejecting her outright.
But, that very last summer, it had been a kind of awakening. Xav had finally seen her as a woman instead of an annoying little urchin trailing around behind him. They’d been inseparable. The best summer of her life. She’d honestly believed that he loved her as much as she loved him. That it didn’t matter that she was going to do her degree in London while he was starting a new job in Paris—she’d spend the holidays with him, and he’d maybe come and spend weekends with her in London when he could get the time off work, and then when she graduated they’d be together for the rest of their lives.
Granted, he hadn’t actually asked her to marry him, but she’d known he felt the same way she did. That he was as crazy about her as she was about him.
And then it had all disintegrated.
Bile filled her mouth and she swallowed hard. For pity’s sake. She was an adult, now, not a dream-filled teenager. A realist. Harry’s business partner was Jean-Paul Lefèvre—Xav’s father, not Xav himself. Xav wouldn’t be here; as far as she knew, he was still in Paris. She wouldn’t have to see him again.
‘Monsieur Lefèvre called,’ Hortense said coolly, walking into the kitchen. ‘He’s on his way back from the vines. He’s calling in to see you.’
Allegra frowned. Their meeting wasn’t until tomorrow. Then again, the French had impeccable manners. Jean-Paul was probably calling on her out of politeness, to welcome her to Les Trois Closes.
And then the kitchen door opened abruptly and Xavier sauntered in, as if he owned the place.
Allegra nearly dropped the mug she was holding. What the hell was he doing here? And why hadn’t he knocked? What made him think that he could just walk into Harry’s house—her house, she corrected herself mentally—whenever he pleased?
‘Xavier! Alors, sit down, sit down.’ Hortense greeted him with all the warmth she’d refused to bestow on Allegra, kissing him on the cheeks. She settled him opposite Allegra with a mug of coffee. ‘I’ll leave you to talk with Mademoiselle Beauchamp, chéri.’ And with that she swept out of the kitchen.
Allegra was too stunned to say a word. At twenty-one, Xavier Lefèvre had been a good-looking boy. At thirty-one, he was all man. A little taller, unless her memory deceived her, and his frame was broader—though his T-shirt showed that it was muscle rather than fat. His olive skin made his grey-green eyes seem even more piercing, and he had the beginnings of lines round his eyes, as if he smiled a lot or spent most of his time in the sun. His tousled dark hair was overlong; the style, she thought, was more in keeping with a rock star than a financial whiz-kid. And the fact that he hadn’t shaved made him look as if he’d just got out of bed, leaving his lover asleep and totally satiated.
Just the sight of him made Allegra feel as if the temperature in the room had soared by ten degrees—and she could still remember just how it had felt to fall asleep in Xav’s arms, warm and satiated in the sunshine after making love all afternoon.
Oh, hell. How was she supposed to think straight when the first thing that came into her mind where Xavier Lefèvre was concerned was sex—and the second thing was how much she still wanted him?
She needed her libido strapped into a straightjacket. Right now. Before it started wrestling with her common sense.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Beauchamp.’ Xavier gave her an enigmatic smile. ‘I thought I’d better come and say hello to my new business partner.’
She stared at him, shocked. ‘You were Harry’s business partner?’
His look told her just how stupid that question was.
‘But…’ Xavier was supposed to be a financier in a sharp suit, not a vigneron in faded denims and an ancient T-shirt. ‘I thought you were in Paris.’
‘No.’
‘Monsieur Robert said Harry’s partner was Monsieur Lefèvre.’
‘Indeed.’ Still seated, he pantomimed a half-bow. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. Xavier Lefèvre—at your service, mademoiselle.’
‘I know who you are.’ For pity’s sake. Of course she knew who he was. The man to whom she’d given her virginity—and her heart, only to have it thrown back in her face. ‘I thought he meant your father.’
‘You’re five years too late for that, I’m afraid.’
‘Your father’s…?’ She sucked in a shocked breath. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. Harry didn’t tell me, or I would’ve—’
‘Don’t tell me you would’ve come to my father’s funeral,’ Xavier cut in. ‘You didn’t even turn up to Harry’s.’
And he thought he had the right to call her on it? She lifted her chin. ‘I had my reasons.’
He said nothing. Waiting for her to fill the silence? Well, she didn’t have to explain herself to him. ‘So, what—you thought that as you’re his business partner Harry should have left the vineyard to you? Is that it?’
‘No, of course not. There’s no question of that. You inherit his possessions because you’re his closest family.’ He paused. ‘Not that anyone would have guessed, these last few years.’
‘That’s a cheap shot.’ And it had landed dead on target. Smack in the middle of her guilt, like a hard blow on an already spreading bruise.
‘Just stating the facts, chérie. When was the last time you came back to see him?’
‘I spoke to him every week on the phone.’
‘Which isn’t the same thing at all.’
She blew out a breath. ‘You probably know Harry and I fell out pretty badly after I went to London.’ Over Xavier—not that she was going to tell him that. ‘We made it up eventually, but I admit I was wrong not to come back and see him.’ Especially as half the reason had been the fear that she might have to see Xavier again. Not that she had any intention of admitting that to him, either. She didn’t want him to have a clue that she still had a weak spot where he was concerned. That seeing him again had knocked her for six and the old, old longing hadn’t died at all—it had just been sleeping, and now it was awake again and desperately hungry for him. ‘If I’d had any idea that he was so frail, I would’ve come back. He didn’t give me the faintest clue.’
‘Of course not. He was a proud man. But if you’d bothered visiting,’ Xavier said coolly, ‘you would’ve seen it for yourself.’
There was no answer to that.
‘You didn’t come back when he was ill,’ Xavier continued.
‘Because