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Her Mediterranean Makeover
Claire Baxter
I’m forty, in France, on a first date: HELP! I can’t believe I’m on the Côte d’Azur and being taught French…by an amazing man! Jacques is making me feel young, sexy and special again – taking me all over the coast from Nice to Monaco.I feel like a superstar, not a tired old mum, and I wouldn’t swap this feeling for the world. Now I just have to decide what to wear on our first proper date! Wow – maybe life can begin at forty?
‘I believe I was meant to meet you,’ Leonie said. ‘That you were meant to show me that I’m still alive.’
Jacques lifted his head and looked at Leonie the way no man had ever looked at her before. His gaze roamed all over her, making her feel exposed and desired.
He stepped forward, took hold of her shoulders, and lightly touched his lips to hers. He kissed her with all the passion she could have wanted. As his mouth drifted over hers all the questions she’d asked herself, all the debates she’d been having with herself, the constant back-and-forth, should-she-shouldn’t-she? ended in that one exhilarating moment.
He gathered her into his arms and she sank into him, savouring his taste, inhaling his warm, masculine scent, feeling the heat of his body and the strength of his arms encircling her. His kiss sparked into life parts of her that had been dormant for a very, very long time.
Like many authors, Claire Baxter tried several careers before finding the one she really wanted. She’s worked as a PA, a translator (French), a public relations consultant and a corporate communications manager. She took a break from corporate communications to complete a degree in journalism and, more importantly, to find out whether she could write a romance novel—a childhood dream. Now she can’t stop writing romance. Nor does she plan to give up her fabulous lifestyle for anything. While Claire grew up in Warwickshire, England, she now lives in the beautiful city of Adelaide in South Australia, with her husband, two sons and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she’s either reading or swimming in her backyard pool—another childhood dream—or even reading in the pool. She hasn’t tried writing in the pool yet, but it could happen. Claire loves to hear from readers. If you’d like to contact her, please visit www.clairebaxter.com
Her Mediterranean Makeover
by
Claire Baxter
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
Dear Reader
If you’d had one sweetheart for your entire adult life—from high school to raising a family and building a business, through illness and finally his death—and you’d never had a moment’s doubt that he was the love of your life, what would you think were the chances of falling in love again?
No chance at all? That’s what Leonie thinks too.
Falling in love for the second time after thirty years with one man is scary. It’s like going skydiving again after crashing into the ground the first time. It takes courage, but it’s exciting, and it can be surprising…
Falling in love is fabulous—at any age.
Best wishes
Claire
For my mother, with love.
Chapter One
IT WAS so good to hear her daughter’s voice. Leonie cradled the phone against her ear and wondered what she’d been thinking when she’d enrolled in a course on the other side of the world.
Yes, her children were legally adults, but they still needed her. And she needed them too. She’d never been separated from them before. Not for this long. No longer than a school camp, really.
‘You could have sent me a text message, Mum. You didn’t have to ring me again.’
‘I just wanted to check that you’d worked out how to operate the washing machine. It’s tricky if you’re not used to it.’
‘Yes, Mum. Your instructions were spot on.’ Sam hesitated, then asked, ‘Is that the real reason you called, Mum?’
‘Of course!’ Leonie winced at the fib. Samantha had always been the sensitive one. Even as a toddler she’d had the ability to pick up on her mother’s moods. ‘Well, to be honest, darling, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘Yes, Mum, I’m all right. You don’t need to worry.’ Sam stressed the last few words.
‘And your brother?’
‘Kyle’s fine too. Well, he’s as obnoxious as ever, but we’ll manage till you get home. It’s only a matter of weeks, after all. This is your time, Mum, and you deserve it. Enjoy it.’
Easier said than done.
‘It’s not a matter of weeks, it’s nearly three months! That’s what a trimester means.’
‘And there’s only four weeks in a month,’ Sam said, laughing. ‘It will fly by. That’s what you used to tell me when I didn’t want to go back to school after the holidays, remember?’
She remembered. Oh, yes, she remembered. If only she could have that time over again. Fighting back tears as she said goodbye, Leonie clicked off the call, then went to the wide-open French doors that led to the single-person balcony of her oneroom apartment. She couldn’t see much of Nice, only the buildings across the narrow street. That was her fault for choosing to stay in the old town instead of a modern apartment in the city.
She’d rejected the idea of living in the residences at the language school just outside Nice, in favour of renting her own furnished apartment, figuring it would make for easy sightseeing. But she wasn’t sure now that she’d made the right choice.
The apartment was so much smaller than it had looked on the internet. She’d thought it would be quaint, and it was, but to someone who was used to a spacious family home on a generous block of land in suburban Australia this apartment, with its kitchenette in one corner and a tiny shower off the main room, was quite a shock. As was the local custom of hanging washing on poles outside the window. She wasn’t at all keen on displaying her underwear for passers-by to inspect.
There were times, like now, when this apartment made her feel claustrophobic, and she’d never experienced such a sensation in her life. Thank goodness for the balcony.
As usual, a petite old lady sat on the balcony that faced hers. She was always well groomed, and well dressed. Leonie wondered why she never went out. Was she waiting for someone who never came?
She’d tried smiling and waving at her, but received no reaction. Today she called out, ‘Bonjour, Madame.’
She received a cool nod. A slight advance on nothing.
Leonie looked along the street, wondering what to do to pass the time. She decided against sightseeing. Not that she didn’t want to see the city, but she wasn’t feeling up to doing it on her own. She’d tried to explore, but even with a guidebook she kept getting lost. Navigating had never been her strong point, but then she’d never really had to do it. On trips, her job had been to make sure every member of the family had enough to eat and drink, wore sunscreen and had a good time.
But now, her role had changed. Trouble was, when she did find the place she’d set out for, it brought home the realisation that she had nobody to share it with.
No husband and no kids. For so long, they’d been her whole life. It was disorientating to be alone like this.
Apart from missing her children like crazy, Leonie was not at all sure she’d done the right thing in taking on this language immersion course. It had seemed like a no-brainer when she’d first come up with the idea. She’d always wanted to improve her limited knowledge of French and she’d always wanted to travel, but what with marrying Shane straight out of high school, helping him build his business, then nursing him through his long illness while raising their children, she’d managed neither.
Now, three years after Shane’s death, with both children at university, she was finally ready to find out for herself what the wider world had to offer, and she could afford to do it too. Between Shane’s life insurance and the sale of his plumbing business, he’d left her very comfortably off. She’d never need to work.
Learning French in France…well, it had seemed like the perfect plan, but it hadn’t turned out quite as she’d expected. For one thing, this language was really hard to learn. Or maybe she was too old for it. That saying about old dogs and new tricks was probably a cliché because it was true.
Either way, she was having a tough time making sense of what people were saying. The other students didn’t seem to have the same problem, though, and she felt like a dill alongside them.
And that was another thing. She’d thought she’d make new friends on the course, but she hadn’t counted on all the other students being so young. They were friendly enough, but when they asked if she’d like to go for a drink with them, they were only being polite. She could tell by the way they looked over her shoulder, careful not to make eye contact when they invited her.
So she didn’t go. She didn’t really want to anyway. It would be like socialising with her kids’ friends, and wouldn’t feel right.
She’d found the French people she’d met so far to be very polite. Shopkeepers went out of their way to greet her when she entered a store, which was nice, but in general they didn’t seem to do conversation. Not with strangers anyway. Back home people would snatch any chance for a chat, but here, in her experience, the locals didn’t speak unless spoken to, and then only reluctantly.
Except for the man who ran the little café she’d found the week before. She’d been wandering the narrow streets of old Nice—alleys, really, they weren’t wide enough to be called streets—when an inconspicuous door had opened beside her, and the aroma that had poured out, combined with the sound of cheerful voices, had made her want to enter.
She’d looked up at the wall above the arched doorway but had seen no sign, only a brightly planted window box at a green-shuttered upstairs window. Still, the scent of strong coffee along with the sight of tiny round tables crammed into the small space had called to her like the Pied Piper’s flute, and she’d followed it obediently. Inside she’d found a little café, and a welcome that had revived her as much as the coffee.
Jean-Claude, the elderly man who’d served her, had been friendly, chatty and interested in her. That alone would have been sufficient to bring her back, but she’d also enjoyed the ambience of jazz music playing softly from unconcealed speakers on whitewashed walls alongside art that to her uneducated eyes, looked ancient.
All the French newspapers were provided for customers to read, and she’d enjoyed a lazy browse, lingering over the few stories that she could almost understand. If she was going to stay, she thought now, it would be a good idea to set herself the goal of figuring out more written French each day.
Within minutes, she was out of the apartment and heading for the café. She could go and buy the papers for herself, but this was much nicer. It allowed her the illusion that she was settling in.
Besides, it gave her something to do and she needed that. During all those years of caring for others, of being constantly busy, she’d dreamed of taking a holiday alone, of having the time to do nothing at all. But now that she had her wish, she really wasn’t sure that she liked it. Maybe she’d just grown used to being needed, and here no one needed her at all. It was an odd sensation.
The café was busy and Jean-Claude didn’t have time for chit-chat, and when she reached the newspaper rack only the most difficult one was left. Well, difficult for her, she admitted as she tucked it under her arm and carried her coffee to a table at the back of the room. Understanding one word in twenty did not make for an entertaining read.
Having spread the newspaper on the table, she took a sip of coffee and scanned the room, wondering if this was the norm and she’d just happened to turn up last week on the one day when the café was light on customers. As her gaze drifted from table to table she did a double take. A good-looking man was smiling at her. She glanced behind her, but no, there was no one standing there. Gosh, he really was smiling at her.
She smiled back. She’d seen him before. The first day she’d entered the café he’d been seated at the counter on one of the high stools. She couldn’t help noticing him. Well, he did stand out in his pristine white shirt and dark trousers when most of the other patrons wore smart-casual clothes; her guess was that he worked nearby. But it was more than that—there was something about him that made him stand out…a presence. Charisma, was that it?
Whatever it was, he was still watching her. Maybe he thought he knew her from somewhere. If so, he was mistaken. With a mental shrug, she put down her coffee, reached into her handbag for her reading glasses and tried to concentrate on the words in front of her.
She was reasonably successful, despite being forced to glance up every few seconds to see whether he was still there. After a while, Leonie gave herself strict instructions not to look up for any reason at all until she’d read to the end of one full story. The shortest one would do.
Halfway through, though, she was interrupted by a male voice. When she looked over the top of her glasses, the man standing in front of her came into focus. The man who’d been smiling at her earlier. The same man she’d been unable to take her eyes off. And he was even better-looking close up.
Older than he’d appeared at first, he had just enough silver sprinkled through his hair to make him appear…safe. Same deal with the laughter lines around brown eyes that were so full of warmth and humour she found herself smiling even though she had no clue what he’d said.
She hurriedly shoved her glasses to the top of her head where they were anchored by her curly hair, then asked him to repeat his words. She watched his mouth closely as he spoke, trying her hardest to separate the sounds into individual words. Without much luck.
She shook her head and gave him an apologetic shrug.
Compassion filled his face and he leaned forward. ‘Vous êtes sourde?’ he enunciated clearly.
Sourde, sourde… Leonie searched her memory for the word.
He covered his ears with his hands, following the action with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.
Deaf! That was it.
‘Oh, my, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m from Australia.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, changing smoothly to English and smiling again. ‘I didn’t think of that. This café does not normally attract tourists.’
‘I’m not surprised. It was pure chance that I found it. There’s nothing outside to indicate that it is a café.’
‘No. That’s the way we like it.’ He grinned. ‘I’m sorry. I meant no offence.’
‘Oh, none taken. I’m not a tourist.’
‘Ah, bon? You live here?’
‘Well, temporarily. I’m here to study the language so I’m a student. I look far too old to be one of those, I know. Do you object to students as well?’ She smiled, sure that someone with eyes that gleamed with humour couldn’t possibly be serious about disliking any group of people.
‘Not at all. Nor do I object to tourists,’ he said firmly. ‘They are important to the economy, they create many jobs, so how could I?’ He indicated the chair opposite her. ‘May I?’
‘Oh, yes. Please do,’ she said quickly. Not that she was desperate for company or anything.
‘I have been to Australia. New Zealand too.’
‘Well, you’re one up on me, then. I haven’t seen New Zealand. In fact, I’d never been out of the country until I came here. Do you travel a lot?’
‘Not now. I have commitments now that make travelling difficult. But when I was a young man, I wanted to see the world, and I travelled cheaply.’
‘Ah. Backpacking?’
‘Staying in hostels or with people I met. I suppose you would call it backpacking. I learned English as I went, because it was essential. I did some grape-picking and other temporary jobs.’
And she’d bet he was a huge hit with the girls. Although his English was perfect, he spoke it with an accent that was unmistakably French, and in his younger days he must have been incredibly attractive. It would have been a lethal combination.
He tilted his head. ‘Are you here alone?’
‘Yes.’ For an instant Leonie wondered whether that was a smart admission, but then she dismissed the thought. Stranger or not, he didn’t seem the least bit dangerous. And it wasn’t as if he knew where she was staying. Sitting in this crowded café with Jean-Claude behind the counter, there was no risk at all.
As if he’d picked up on her hesitation, he said, ‘I did not mean to intrude.’
‘No, no, you’re not intruding.’ She hadn’t meant to give that impression.
‘I noticed that you preferred this newspaper last time.’ He held out the rolled-up publication that he’d been holding. ‘It is not as heavy-going as that one.’ Gesturing at the one on the table, he got to his feet. ‘Now, I will leave you to your reading.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Disappointed that their conversation was to be cut short, she said quickly, ‘I’m Leonie, by the way. Perhaps I’ll see you in here again?’
He smiled then, and Leonie felt the unfamiliar zing of…of appreciation, not attraction. It was just that she hadn’t seen such a good-looking man for a very long time. If ever. And his smile should come with a warning. If she’d been someone else—someone younger, someone…well, whatever—it would have knocked her off her feet. But she was a wife and mother. Well, she had been a wife, and was still a mother. She was well past all that.
Besides, she was sitting down.
‘I hope so. I come here often.’
But he was still a stranger, and had she really just suggested meeting him again when she knew nothing about him? What was she doing?
He held out his hand. ‘My name is Jacques Broussard. I am an old friend of the owner here,’ he said, nodding towards Jean-Claude. ‘Our families have known each other for years. If you want to check up on me, that is.’
Leonie grimaced. ‘Did you just read my mind?’
With a grin, he said, ‘Mind-reading is not one of my talents. But you seem like a sensible woman, and any sensible woman should take care when talking to strangers.’
‘Yes, well, I’m Leonie Winters. Pleased to meet you. And thank you for this.’ She tapped the newspaper he’d given her. ‘I was struggling with the other one.’
He nodded. ‘That’s understandable, and you’re welcome.’
After he’d gone, Leonie sat for a long moment. Jacques Broussard. What a name. Very…um, French. She could still feel his grasp on her hand as if he’d left an imprint. Glancing at her hand, she shook her head, dismissing the idea as ridiculous.
The last time anyone had shaken her hand was at Shane’s funeral. Before she could stop them, memories of that day flooded her mind, forcing out every other thought. Many of his former employees had approached her to shake her hand, to pay their respects. Tears filled her throat as she relived the emotional outpouring of admiration from people who’d known her husband. Shane had inspired the high opinion of everybody who had had meaningful contact with him, mainly through his work ethic and his one-hundred-percent commitment to anything he undertook.
