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“I meant it was too soon. I’m still trying to adjust to this whole marriage business.”
“I know.” Serious now, he laid down his fork. “But let’s clarify one matter. Things didn’t just spin out of control. I wanted you, Grace.”
Color tinted her cheeks. “I’ll concede that point, counselor. And it was obvious I wanted you.”
“I understand this is an adjustment period for you, however. For both of us. We’ve a lot yet to learn about each other.”
The deliberate reference to her hoard of secrets brought her chin up. “Exactly. Which is why we should avoid a repetition of what happened this afternoon until you’re comfortable with who I am and vice versa.”
What the hell would it take to get her to trust him? Irritation put a bite in Blake’s voice. “So we just revert back to cool and polite? You think it’ll be that easy?”
“No,” she admitted, “but necessary if this arrangement of ours is going to work.”
He swallowed the bitter aftertaste of anchovies and frustration. “All right. We’ll take hot, wild sex off the agenda. For now.”
* * *
Grace spent the second night of her honeymoon the same way she had her first, restless and conflicted and alone.
While moonlight streamed through windows left open to a soft night breeze, she punched the mounded pillow and replayed the scene in the kitchen. She’d been right to put the brakes on. The way she’d flamed in Blake’s arms, lost every ounce of rational thought… She’d never gone so mindless with hunger before. Never craved a man’s touch and the wild sensation of his hard, sculpted body crushing hers.
She’d had time to think while Blake dozed this afternoon, and the fact that she’d abandoned herself so completely had shaken her. Still shook her! She’d witnessed firsthand the misery her cousin endured, for God’s sake. Had helped Anne run, hide, struggle painfully to regain her confidence and self-respect. Grace couldn’t just throw off the brutal burden of those months and years. Nor could she dump it on Blake’s broad, willing shoulders—much as she ached to.
No, she was right to pull back. Revert to cool and polite, to use his phrase. They both needed time to adjust to this awkward marriage before they took the next step. Whatever the heck that was.
It took a severe exercise of will, but she managed to block the mental image of Blake pinning her to the tiles and drop into sleep.
* * *
She remained firm in her resolve to back things up a step when she went down for breakfast the next morning.
The villa’s staff had obviously reported for duty. The heavenly scent of fresh-baked bread wafted from the direction of the kitchen, and a maid in a pale blue uniform wielded a feather duster like a baton at the foot of the stairs. Her eyes lit with curiosity and a friendly welcome when she spotted Grace.
“Bonjour, Madame Dalton.”
“Bonjour.”
That much Grace could manage. The quick spate that followed had her offering an apology.
“I’m sorry. I don’t speak French.”
“Ah, excusez-moi. I am Marie. The downstairs maid, yes? I am most happy to meet you.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, too.”
She hesitated, not exactly embarrassed but not real eager to admit she didn’t have a clue where her husband of two days might be. Luckily, Blake had primed the staff with the necessary information.
“Monsieur Dalton said to tell you that he takes coffee on the east terrace,” Marie informed her cheerfully. “He waits for you to join him for breakfast.”
“And the east terrace is…?”
“Just there, madame.” She aimed the feather duster. “Through the petite salon.”
“Thanks.”
She crossed the salon’s exquisitely thick carpet and made for a set of open French doors that gave onto a flagstone terrace enclosed by ivy-drenched stone walls. A white wrought-iron table held a silver coffee service and a basket of brioche. Blake held his Blackberry and was working the keyboard one-handed while he sipped from a gold-rimmed china cup with the other.
Grace stopped just inside the French doors to drag in several deep breaths. She needed them. The sight of her husband in the clear, shimmering light of a Provencal morning was something to behold. A stray sunbeam snuck through the elms shading the patio to gild his hair. His crisp blue shirt was open at the neck and rolled at the cuffs. He looked calm and collected and too gorgeous for words, dammit!
She sucked in another breath and stepped out onto the patio. “Good morning.”
He set down both his coffee cup and the Blackberry and rose.
“Good morning.” The greeting was as courteous and impersonal as his smile. “Did you sleep well?”
Right. Okay. This was how she wanted it. What she’d insisted on.
“Very well,” she lied. “You?”
“As well as could be expected after yesterday afternoon.”
When she flashed a warning look, he shed his polite mask and hooked a brow.
“I zoned out for a good four hours on that lounge chair,” he reminded her. “As a consequence, I didn’t need much sleep last night.”
And if she bought that one, Blake thought sardonically, he had several more he could sell her.
He didn’t have to sell them. The swift way she broke eye contact told him she suspected he was stretching the truth until it damned near screamed.
She had to know she’d kept him awake most of the night. She, and her absurd insistence they ignore the wildfire they’d sparked yesterday. As if they could. The heat of it still singed Blake’s mind and burned in his gut.
In the small hours of the night he’d called himself every kind of an idiot for agreeing to this farcical facade. It made even less sense in the bright light of morning. They couldn’t shove yesterday in a box, stick it on the closet shelf and pretend it never happened. Yet he had agreed, and now he was stuck with it.
It didn’t improve his mood to discover she’d dabbed on some of the perfumed oil he’d bought her yesterday. The provocative scent tugged at his senses as he pulled out one of the heavy wrought-iron chairs for her.
“Why don’t you pour yourself some coffee and I’ll tell Auguste we’re ready for… Ah, here he is.”
At first glance few people would tag the individual who appeared in the open French doors as a graduate of Le Cordon Bleu and two-time winner of the Coupe du Monde de la Patisserie—the World Cup of pastry. He sported stooped shoulders, sparse gray hair and a hound-dog face with dewlaps that hung in mournful folds. If he’d cracked a smile anytime in the past two years, Blake sure hadn’t seen it.
The great Auguste had been retired for a decade and, according to Delilah, going out of his gourd with boredom when she’d hunted him down. After subjecting the poor man to the full force of her personality, she’d convinced him to take over the kitchen of Hôtel des Elmes.
Blake had made his way to the kitchen earlier to say hello. He now introduced the chef to Grace. Auguste bowed over her hand and greeted her in tones of infinite sadness.
“I welcome you to Saint-Rémy.”
Gulping, she threw Blake a what-in-the-world-did-I-do look? He stepped in smoothly.
“I’ve told Grace about your scallops au gratin, Auguste. Perhaps you’ll prepare them for us one evening.”
“But of course.” He heaved a long-suffering sigh and turned his doleful gaze back to Grace. “Tonight, if you wish it, madame.”
“That would be wonderful. Thank you.”
“And now I shall prepare the eggs Benedict for you and monsieur, yes?”
“Er, yes. Please.”
He bowed again and retreated, shoulders drooping. Grace followed his exit with awed eyes.
“Did someone close to him just die?” she whispered to Blake.
The question broke the ice that had crusted between them. Laughing, Blake went back to his own seat.
“Not that I know of. In fact, you’re seeing him in one of his more cheerful moods.”
“Riiight.”
With a doubtful glance at the French doors, she spread her napkin across her lap. He waited until she’d filled a cup with rich, dark brew to offer the basket of fresh-baked brioche.
“We’ve got dinner taken care of,” he said as she slathered on butter and thick strawberry jam. “What would you like to do until then?”
She sent him a quick look, saw he hadn’t packed some hidden meaning into the suggestion, and relaxed into her first genuine smile of the morning.
“You mentioned a Van Gogh trail. I’d love to explore that, if you’re up for it.”
Resolutely, Blake suppressed the memory of his mother ruthlessly dragging Alex and him along every step of the route commemorating Saint-Rémy’s most famous artist.
“I’m up for it.”
Eight (#ulink_158a5f0c-c8c1-5d7e-8b68-94b3d818aa02)
Grace couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day to explore. Sometime while they’d been over the Atlantic, August had rolled into September. The absolute best time to enjoy Provence’s balmy breezes and dazzling sunshine, Blake assured her as the sporty red convertible crunched down the front drive. It was still warm enough for her to be glad she’d opted for linen slacks and a cap-sleeved black T-shirt with I ♥ Texas picked out in sparkly rhinestones. She’d caught her hair back in a similarly adorned ball cap to keep the ends from whipping her face.
Blake hadn’t bothered with a hat, but his mirrored aviation sunglasses protected his eyes from the glare. With his blue shirt open at the neck and the cuffs rolled up on his forearms, he looked cool and comfortable and too damned sexy for his own or Grace’s good.
“I wasn’t sure how much you know about Vincent van Gogh,” he said with a sideways glance, “so I printed off a short bio while you were getting ready.”
“Thanks.” She gratefully accepted the folded page he pulled out of his shirt pocket. “I went to a traveling exhibit at the San Antonio Museum of Art that featured several of his sketches a few years ago. I don’t know much about the man himself, though, except that he was Dutch and disturbed enough to cut off his left ear.”
“He was certainly disturbed, but there’s some dispute over whether he deliberately hacked off his ear or lost it in the scuffle when he went after his pal Gauguin with a straight razor.”
While Blake navigated shaded streets toward the outskirts of Saint-Rémy, Grace absorbed the details in the life of the brilliant, tormented artist who killed himself at the age of thirty-seven.
“It says here Van Gogh only sold one painting during his lifetime and died thinking himself a failure. How sad.”
“Very sad,” Blake agreed.
“Especially since his self-portrait is listed here as one of the ten most expensive paintings ever sold,” Grace read, her eyes widening. “It went for $71 million in 1998.”
“Which would equate to about $90 million today, adjusted for inflation.”
“Good grief!”
She couldn’t imagine paying that kind of money for anything short of a supersonic jet transport. Then she remembered the painting of the irises at the villa, and Blake’s casual comment that his mother had donated the original to the Smithsonian.
She’d known the Daltons operated in a rarified financial atmosphere, of course. She’d lived in Delilah’s rambling Oklahoma City mansion for several months and assisted her with some of her pet charity projects. She’d also picked up bits and pieces about the various megadeals Alex and Blake had in the works at DI. And she’d certainly gotten a firsthand taste of the luxury she’d married into during the flight across the Atlantic and at the Hôtel des Elmes. But for some reason the idea of forking over eighty or ninety million for a painting made it all seem surreal.
Her glance dropped to the diamonds banding her finger. They were certainly real enough. A whole lot more real than the union they supposedly symbolized. Although yesterday, at the pool…
No! Better not go there! She’d just get all confused and conflicted again. Best just to enjoy the sun and the company of the intriguing man she’d married.
A flash of white diverted her attention to the right side of the road. Eyes popping, she stared at a massive arch and white marble tower spearing up toward the sky. “What are those?”
“They’re called Les Antiques. They’re the most visible remnants of the Roman town of Glanum that once occupied this site. The rest of the ruins are a little farther down the road. We’ll save exploring them for another day.”
He turned left instead of right and drove down a tree-shaded lane bordered on one side by a vacant field and on the other by tall cypresses and the twisted trunks of an olive grove. Beyond the grove the rocky spine of the Alpilles slashed across the horizon.
“Here we are.”
“Here,” Grace discovered, was the Saint-Paul de Mausole Asylum, which Van Gogh had voluntarily entered in May 1889. Behind its ivy-covered gray stone walls she glimpsed a church tower and a two- or three-story rectangular building.
“Saint-Paul’s was originally an Augustine monastery,” Blake explained as he maneuvered into a parking space next to two tour buses. “Built in the eleventh or twelfth century, I think. It was converted to an asylum in the 1800s and is still used as a psychiatric hospital. The hospital is off-limits, of course, but the church, the cloister and the rooms where Van Gogh lived and painted are open to the public.”
A very interested public, it turned out. The tour buses had evidently just disgorged their passengers. Guides shepherded their charges through the gates and up to the ticket booth. After the chattering tourists clicked through the turnstile single file, Blake paid for two entries and picked up an informational brochure but caught Grace’s elbow once they’d passed through the turnstile.
“Let them get a little way ahead. You’ll want to experience some of the tranquility Van Gogh did when he was allowed outside to paint.”
She had no problem dawdling. The path leading to the church and other buildings was long and shady and lined on both sides by glossy rhododendron and colorful flowers. Adding to her delight, plaques spaced along the walk highlighted a particular view and contrasted it with Van Gogh’s interpretation of that same scene.
A depiction of one of his famous sunflower paintings was displayed above a row of almost identical bright yellow flowers nodding in the sun. A low point in the wall provided a sweeping view of silvery-leafed olive trees dominated by the razor-backed mountain peaks in the distance. Van Gogh’s version of that scene was done with his signature intense colors and short, bold brushstrokes. Fascinated, Grace stood before the plaque and glanced repeatedly from the trees’ gnarled, twisted trunks to the artist’s interpretation.
“This is amazing!” she breathed. “It’s like stepping into a painting and seeing everything that went into it through different eyes.”
She lingered at that plaque for several moments before meandering down the shady path to the next. Blake followed, far more interested in her reaction to Van Gogh’s masterpieces than the compositions themselves.
She was like one of the scenes the artist had painted, he mused. She’d come into his life shortly after Molly had, but he’d been so absorbed with the baby it had taken weeks for him to see her as something more than a quietly efficient nanny. The attraction had come slowly and built steadily, but the shock of learning that she’d deceived him—deceived them all—had altered the picture considerably. As had the annoying realization that he’d missed her as much as Molly had when she’d left Oklahoma City.
Yet every time he thought he had a handle on the woman, she added more layers, more bold brushstrokes to the composite. Her fierce loyalty to her cousin and refusal to betray Anne’s trust irritated Blake to no end but he reluctantly, grudgingly respected her for it.
And Christ almighty! Yesterday’s heat. That searing desire. He knew where his had sprung from. His hunger had been building since… Hell, he couldn’t fix the exact point. He only knew that yesterday had stoked the need instead of satisfying it.
Now he’d found another layer to add to the mix—a woman in a black T-shirt and ball cap thoroughly enjoying the view of familiar images from a completely different perspective, just as Blake was viewing her. How many variations of her were there left to discover?
The question both intrigued and concerned him as he walked with her into the round-towered church that formed part of the original monastery. In keeping with the canons of poverty, chastity and obedience embraced by the Augustinian monks, the chapel was small and not overly ornate. The enclosed cloister beside it was also small, maybe thirty yards on each of its four sides. The cloister’s outer walls were solid gray stone. Arched pillars framed the inner courtyard and formed a cool, shady colonnade. Sunlight angled through the intricately carved pillars to illuminate a stone sundial set amid a profusion of herbs and plants.
“Oooh,” Grace murmured, her admiring gaze on the colonnade’s intricately carved pillars. “I can almost see the monks walking two by two here, meditating or fingering their wooden rosaries. And Van Gogh aching to capture this juxtaposition of sunlight and shadow.”
The artist couldn’t have hurt any more than Blake did at the moment. The same intermingling of sun and shadow played across Grace’s expressive face. The warm smile she tipped his way didn’t help, either.
