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Was she really so naive that she’d expected all she had to do was show up, and her mother would instinctively know her? So foolish as to think that, in the unlikely event such a miracle occurred, a woman who’d kept her baby’s birth a secret for over twenty-eight years would willingly reveal it now?
“You’re rushing into this, Diana,” Carol had warned. “You need to take a step back and consider the pitfalls, the most obvious being that you’re the world’s worst liar. What makes you think you can pull off such a monumental deception?”
She should have listened to her friend. Perhaps then, she wouldn’t have made a spectacle of herself with a man smart enough to recognize something fishy when it was staring him in the face.
And so accustomed to having his own way that he wouldn’t take “no” for an answer.
What had he threatened, before she fled to the sanctuary of her room? Be down here by the time the bouillabaisse is ready, or I’m coming up to get you, or words to that effect?
That he meant it was enough to have her changed into fresh clothes and on her way downstairs again in record time. If there was to be a confrontation, better it take place in public, than here in a room that was barely large enough for one. He was too pushy, too sure of himself—and, she admitted reluctantly, altogether too attractive for her to deal with him at close quarters.
She needed to keep her wits about her because, just when she’d been ready to concede defeat and admit Carol had been right all along, the one lead she’d hoped to find had fallen almost literally into her lap. Henri Molyneux, her host, might very well be the key to the mystery of who her birth mother was, and whether or not he knew it, Anton de Valois was going to help Diana unlock it.
Falling under his charming spell would undermine her resolve and might very well turn out to be a fatal mistake, because he struck her as a man of many layers; a classic example of the old saying that still waters run deep.
She must resist him at all costs.
CHAPTER THREE
A MAN likes to be seen with a woman who knows how to dress, Harvey used to say. That she cares enough about his opinion to want to make him proud when he takes her out in public, tells him he made the right choice in marrying her.
A belittling definition of a wife’s worth, Diana thought now, although she hadn’t said so at the time, and she was pretty sure Anton de Valois would see past such superficiality. Even so, she dressed with care, and from the way his glance swept over her in frank approval when she joined him again, knew she’d chosen well. Her sleeveless navy dress, deceptively simple but superbly cut, was enhanced only by a silver bracelet, lending just the right touch of low-key elegance for what, to all apparent intents and purposes, was supposed to be a low-key dinner.
“You took rather longer to return than you were supposed to, but it was well worth the wait,” he remarked, pulling out her chair. “You look quite lovely, Diana, and very much better than you did half an hour ago.”
“Thank you. I’m feeling better.” She took her seat, outwardly poised, but when his hand brushed against her bare skin, a shock of sensual heat flashed through her, and briefly—very briefly indeed!—she longed to lean into his touch and soak in his warmth.
This was a man put on earth to tempt a woman to stray from her intended course. He turned her thoughts to such nonsense as love at first sight, to happy-ever-after, when any person with a grain of sense knew there was no such thing. Yet for all that she tried to distance herself from him, his magnetism tugged at her, drawing her ever deeper into its aura.
Simply put, she found him both irresistible and intriguing. The cast of his mouth, the slow-burning fire in his eyes, spoke of a passion which, once aroused, be it from anger, pride or sexual desire, would not easily be quenched. The lean strength of his body betrayed a working familiarity with manual labor, yet cashmere, silk and fine leather were created with his particular brand of natural elegance in mind.
Why hadn’t she met him sooner, before she’d learned to be so wary, so disillusioned? she lamented. Before she’d married the wrong man and had all her womanly dreams turned to ashes?
Annoyed by her wandering thoughts, she stiffened her spine, both physically and mentally. She was here on a mission, and the handsome French Count resuming his seat across from her, merely the means to an end.
Blithely ignorant of her thoughts, the handsome French Count smiled winningly and said, “Enough to tolerate a glass of wine before we eat?”
“Perhaps not quite that much,” she said, deciding she needed to keep a clear head. So what if his voice was dark as midnight, his smile enough to melt the polar ice cap, and his face the envy of angels? She’d learned the hard way how easily sexual awareness could cloud other important issues between a man and a woman, and she wasn’t about to let it lead her astray again. “At least, not until I have some food in my stomach.”
He indicated a basket containing a sliced baguette, and a shallow dish of black olives mashed to a paste with roasted garlic. “Try some of this, then. Henri bakes his own bread, and the olives are home grown on de Valois soil.”
“Ah! So you own olive groves. I was wondering how Counts earn their keep these days.”
She spoke lightly, hoping he wouldn’t discern such a nakedly transparent attempt to discover more about him. But knowledge was power, and the more she learned about Anton de Valois, the better prepared she’d be to withstand his appeal and deal with whatever it was that really motivated his interest in her. Because all his smooth Continental charm notwithstanding, the alert calculation in his gaze whenever it settled on her, betrayed him. For some reason she couldn’t begin to fathom, he didn’t trust her. And that, she reminded herself sternly, was ample reason for her not to trust him.
“Olives keep me busy enough,” he replied, bathing her in a singularly breathtaking smile, “but they’re by no means my chief obsession.”
She spread a little of the paste on a piece of bread and sampled it. “They should be. This is outstanding.”
“Then I insist you try at least a mouthful of the wine. My vineyards produced the grapes which my vintner blended to create this very fine Château de Valois Rouge.”
“Thanks anyway, but I’ll take your word for it. As I mentioned not five minutes ago, I don’t care for any wine right now.”
She might as well have saved her breath. “Mon dieu, Diana, relax and live a little!” he scoffed, pouring a small amount into her glass. “A sip or two won’t send you to hell in a hand cart, but I promise you, it will enhance your meal. In this part of Provence, a well-chilled red wine is, to bouillabaisse, what American beer is to pretzels.”
It was a pretty wine, she had to give him that. It glowed in her glass with all the fire of a ruby. Still, if getting her drunk was his aim, he was in for a disappointment. She found him intoxicating enough, without falling victim to his vin rouge. She’d wet her lips with the stuff, and that was all.
“Very pleasant,” she said, allowing a mere trickle to roll down her throat, and changed the subject before he decided she hadn’t tasted enough to know if it was wine or water. “So what else keeps you busy, apart from overseeing your vineyards and olive groves?”
“Doing the same for my lavender farm and distillery. I’m a hands-on kind of man and, given a choice, I’d prefer to be more actively involved in the actual operation of all three enterprises, but the administrative end of things is so time consuming that I frequently put in ten-hour days without once setting foot outside my office.”
“My goodness, you really are a working model of a Count! What do you do for relaxation?”
She realized at once her mistake. Without missing a beat, he lowered his long lashes in seductive slow motion, a move that aroused a disturbing response in the pit of her stomach. “Coerce beautiful Americans into having dinner with me. Speaking of which, here comes our bouillabaisse. Prepare to be impressed.”
Oh, she was already impressed, pathetically so, but not by Henri’s culinary skills! Anton de Valois, however, was a different matter altogether. She should be ashamed for falling victim to the practiced moves of the French equivalent of Don Juan!
Henri arrived at their table, wheeling a cart holding a thick pottery tureen on a matching platter, as well as bowls, plates and cutlery. With great pomp and ceremony, he removed the tureen lid and wafted his hand over the escaping steam, sending a mouthwatering aroma of slow-simmered tomatoes, garlic, saffron and herbs drifting her way.
Chunks of red mullet, monkfish, John Dory and conger eel, as well as mussels and various other shellfish, floated in the rich broth. “Bon appetit, mes amis!” he pronounced with a smile, and left them to it.
Anton ladled a generous helping of the stew into a bowl and passed it to Diana. “Try this and tell me what you think,” he coaxed.
What she privately thought was that simply feasting her eyes on him and drinking in his charm was sustenance enough. But since that route surely led to nothing but trouble, she wrenched her runaway emotions under control, obediently took a spoonful of the fish stew, savored it slowly, then closed her eyes and sighed with genuine pleasure. “Pure heaven!” she sighed.
“That’s pretty much the reaction Henri Molyneux always gets when his bouillabaisse is on the menu.”
She couldn’t have asked for a better reminder of the real reason she was supposed to be sharing a meal with him. Swallowing her food along with the lie she was about to fabricate, she said, “I don’t think I’ve come across that name before.”
Another mistake she quickly came to regret! “A woman with your fluency in French has never heard the name Henri?” Anton inquired with blatant disbelief. “Come now, Diana! You surely don’t expect me to swallow that!”
“Oh, not his first name,” she amended hastily, a telltale blush warming her face. “I was referring to Molyneux. Is it…very unusual?”
“Not in these parts,” he said, continuing to eye her suspiciously. “There are Molyneux’s everywhere.”
Her pulse gave an erratic leap. Struggling to sound as if she was merely making trivial dinner conversation when, in reality, her entire world hung on his reply, she asked lightly, “Don’t tell me they’re all related.”
“Not necessarily all, but quite a few, certainly. So many families are linked, either directly, or through marriage. As I said, it’s a very common name. Henri, for instance, is the eldest of seven children, and has three of his own, as well as two grandchildren.”
“He doesn’t look old enough to be a grandfather.”
Anton rolled his rather magnificent eyes. “Tell him that, and he’ll be your slave for life! He turns sixty next month. I know, because a big birthday bash is in the works, to which everyone within a fifty-mile radius is invited.”
Filing away that gem of information, Diana continued her inquisition with a casual, “What about his siblings? Are they married, as well?”
“Yes, and all but one with children and grandchildren of their own. At last count, there were thirty-eight Molyneux’s in his branch of the family alone. Multiply that a few times, and you’ll understand why I say the name is as thick on the ground in these parts, as plane tree leaves in autumn.”
Little pieces of her personal jigsaw puzzle were beginning to fall into place almost too neatly. Trying hard to contain her growing excitement, Diana said, “And Henri’s six siblings, are they all brothers?”
“The youngest is a sister, and just as well, according to Henri’s father. Gérard always said that if the seventh baby had been another boy, he’d have been kicked out of the house and made to spend the rest of his days with the cows in the barn. Not that anyone believed the story. He and his wife were devoted to each other, and to their sons. But from what I understand, there’s no doubt that Jeanne was special. Their whole family adored her.”
“Does she have children, too?”
“No,” he said coolly. “Tell me, Diana, why are we talking about people who can’t possibly be of interest to you, when we could be spending the time getting to know one another better?”
Back off! the voice of caution advised. You’re betraying too much interest in the Molyneux family and arousing his suspicion! But increasingly convinced she was finally onto something, Diana ignored the warning and leaned forward urgently. “I don’t agree. Even the lives of strangers are interesting, so please go on.”
“Go on?” The chill in his voice was more pronounced than ever. “Go on with what, exactly?”
She needed to stop. To dismiss the subject with a laugh, and turn the conversation to something light and inconsequential. And she would have, if it hadn’t been that so much of what he told her fit the profile of her birth mother. Henri was almost sixty and the eldest of seven. He had only one sister, the baby of the family, and the woman Diana had traveled halfway around the world to find was forty-five. Mental arithmetic might never have been her strong point, but even she could do the math on this one.
“With what you were telling me about Henri’s family,” she said, hard-pressed not to reach across the table and literally shake the words out of him. “The whole idea of seven children in one family fascinates me.”
“Really,” he said, with marked skepticism.
“Yes, really!”
He regarded her steadfastly over the rim of his glass, and took a slow sip of his wine. “Then I’m sorry to disappoint you but there’s nothing else to tell. The Molyneux’s are good people, and that’s about it.”
He was wrong. One ambiguity remained, and terrified though she was of what she might learn if she questioned it, the prospect of remaining in ignorance terrified her even more. She’d lived with enough uncertainty to last her a lifetime. She wouldn’t allow it to derail her now. So, clearing her throat, she plunged ahead. “But I notice you speak of Henri’s sister in the past tense. Is that because she died?”
Oh, how horribly blunt the words sounded, and Anton must have thought so, too, because he almost choked on his bouillabaisse. “Mon dieu, non!” he exclaimed. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“I’m not sure,” she said, fumbling for a plausible reply. “It was just the way you spoke of her, that’s all. It made me feel…sad.”
“But why? You don’t even know these people. Why do you care about them?”
“I don’t,” she whispered, blinking furiously to stem the sudden rush of tears welling in her eyes.
But he was too observant to be so easily fooled. “That simply isn’t true. Clearly you care very much—indeed, far more than the occasion warrants. Did my speaking of the Molyneux’s somehow revive unhappy memories of your own family?”
The candle flame bloomed into a multihued disc, perforated at its rim with pinpricks of brilliance. She blinked to clear her vision and a tear rolled down her face. “In a way. Hearing you talk about families and marriage brought home to me that I don’t have either anymore.”
“Your parents—?”
“Died within six months of each other, two years ago.”
“And you were an only child?”
I don’t know for sure, she cried inwardly. That’s what I’m trying to find out. “Yes.”
“Then we have even more in common than I first supposed,” he said, with more kindness and compassion than Harvey had ever shown, “because I, too, was an only child. My parents died in a train derailment when I was seven, and I was left in the care of my two aunts who live with me still.”
“Oh, Anton!” she cried, mortified. “You must think I’m incredibly self-absorbed, to be wailing on about my own woes, when you had a much tougher time of it.”
“Not at all. My aunts are exceptional people and came as close as anyone could to taking the place of my mother and father. Of course, I grieved, but I never felt alone or abandoned, because those two women, who never married or bore children of their own, stepped into the role of parents as naturally and wholeheartedly as if they’d been preparing for it their entire lives. They loved me unconditionally, gave me the gift of laughter, instilled in me a respect for others, taught me the meaning of integrity and never once lied to me.”
He paused a moment, seeming lost in thought, then suddenly lifted his gaze and stared at Diana. The absolute candor in his eyes, the utter integrity shining through, struck her with such force that, with a sudden sense of shock, she found herself wishing he’d been the man she’d married.
Yes, he was a stranger, and yes, he made her uneasy with his probing gaze, but she knew instinctively that he’d never have cheated on her. Never have lied so cruelly.
“At the end of the day, they’re the qualities that define us as human beings. Without them, we’re not worth very much at all,” he finished soberly. “Don’t you agree?”
Shame flooded through her. How was she supposed to reply, knowing as she did that she was deliberately misleading him about herself and her reason for being there? Yet he was too astute not to notice if she tried to evade his question.
“In principle, yes,” she finally allowed, steering as clear of outright deceit as possible. “Unfortunately no one’s perfect, and even the best of us sometimes fall short.”
He continued his close observation a few unnerving seconds longer, then dropped his gaze to her hands, playing nervously with the stem of her wineglass. “I appear to have a talent for making you uncomfortable, ma chère.”
“Whatever makes you think that?”
“You keep fidgeting with your glass.”
“Well, if you must know,” she said, somehow managing to meet his unwavering gaze without flinching, “I think I might like a little more wine, after all.”
“As you wish.” He poured an inch into the bowl of her glass. “This is a Syrah and something of an experiment for us. Take a decent taste, this time, and save your dainty sipping for afternoon tea with English royalty.”
Add “insufferably arrogant” to his list of qualities, she told herself, bristling at his tone, and just to let him know she wasn’t a complete ignoramus, she took her time going through the ritual of sniffing, swirling and tasting the wine.
“Well?” he demanded imperiously. “Will it do?”
Still playing for time, she let the mouthful she’d taken linger on her tongue a moment longer, swallowed, then closed her eyes and did that weird little trick of exhaling down the back of her throat to catch a final bouquet—the mark of a true oenophile, according to Harvey, who’d always made an exorbitantly big deal of conferring approval on the wine, when they entertained or dined out.
“Delightfully complex, with a remarkable nose,” she conceded.
Harvey would have been tickled pink by her performance. Anton, on the other hand, didn’t seem at all impressed. He simply poured more wine into both their glasses and returned to a subject she’d hoped he’d forgotten about. “You mentioned earlier that you came here looking for a little peace.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve always seen peace as a state of mind, not a place on the map.”
“Normally I’d agree with you, but I needed a change of scene, as well.”
“Why is that?”
“Because running into my ex-husband all the time wasn’t helping me recover from the breakup of my marriage.”
“You live in a small town where that sort of thing happened often, do you?”
“No. I live in Seattle.”
“Ah, the Space Needle city.” He raised his elegant eyebrows derisively. “Large enough, I’d have thought, that you could easily avoid one another, unless, of course, you work together.”
“Hardly! He’s a surgeon.”
“And what are you, Diana?” he inquired, imbuing the question with unspoken skepticism.
“Nothing,” she said, rattled as much by his questions as the cool disbelief with which he received her answers. “I was his wife, and now I’m nothing. Why are you giving me the third degree like this?”
