Читать книгу Rags To Riches: A Desire To Serve: The Paternity Promise / Stolen Kiss From a Prince / The Maid's Daughter - Джанис Мейнард, Merline Lovelace - Страница 15

Eight

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.

“I know you must have visited here several times during your stays in Saint-Rémy. Thanks for making another trek with me. I’m gaining a real appreciation for an artist I knew so little about before.”

He masked his thoughts behind his customary calm. “You’re welcome, but we’re still at the beginning of the Van Gogh trail. You’ll discover a good deal more about him as we go.”

She made a sweeping gesture toward the far corner of the cloister. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

* * *

They spent another half hour at Saint-Paul’s. The windows in the two austere rooms where Van Gogh had lived and painted for more than a year gave narrow views of the gardens at the rear of the asylum and the rolling wheat fields beyond, both of which the artist had captured in numerous paintings. The garden’s long rows of lavender had shed their purple blossoms, but the scent lingered in the air as Grace compared the scene with the plaques mounted along the garden’s wall.

At the exit she lingered for a good five minutes in the spot reputedly depicted in Starry Night, arguably one of the artist’s most celebrated canvases. The glowing golden balls flung across a dark cobalt sky utterly fascinated her and prompted Blake to purchase a framed print of the work at the gift shop. She started to protest that it was too expensive but bit back the words, knowing the stiff price wouldn’t deter him any more than the price of the perfumed oil he’d purchased yesterday.

* * *

They stopped at the villa to drop off the purchase, then spent a leisurely two hours following the rest of the trail as it wound through the fields and narrow lanes Van Gogh painted when he was allowed to spend time away from the asylum. The trail ended in the center of town at the elegant eighteenth-century hôtel that had been converted to a museum and study center dedicated to the artist’s life and unique style.

After another hour spent at the museum, Blake suggested lunch in town at a popular restaurant with more tables outside than in. Grace declared the location on one of Saint-Rémy’s pedestrians-only streets perfect for people watching. Chin propped in both hands, she did just that while Blake scoped out the wine list. He went with a light, fruity local white and a melted ham-and-cheese sandwich, followed by a dessert of paper-thin crepes dribbling caramel sauce and powdered sugar. Grace opted for a crock of bouillabaisse brimming with carrots, peppers, tomatoes and celery in addition to five varieties of fresh fish, half-shelled oysters, shrimp and lobster. She passed on dessert after that feast, but couldn’t resist sneaking a couple of bites of Blake’s crepes.

They lingered at the restaurant, enjoying the wine and shade. Grace was sated and languid when they left, and distinctly sleepy-eyed when she settled into the sun-warmed leather of the convertible’s passenger seat.

The crunch of tires on the villa’s crushed-shell driveway woke her. She sat up, blinking, and laughed an apology.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to doze off on you.”

“No problem.” He braked to a halt just beyond the fountain of leaping, pawing horses. “At least you didn’t go totally unconscious, like I did yesterday.”

A hint of color rose in her cheeks. Blake sincerely hoped she was remembering the wild activity that had preceded yesterday’s lengthy snooze. He certainly was. The color deepened when he asked with totally spurious nonchalance if she felt like a swim.

“I think I’ll clean up a bit and see what’s in the library. You go ahead if you want.”

“I’ll take a pass, too. I’ve got some emails I need to attend to.”

“Okay. I’ll, uh, see you later.” She swung away, turned back. “Thanks again for sharing Van Gogh with me. I really enjoyed it.”

“So did I.”

* * *

This was what she’d wanted. What she’d insisted on. Grace muttered the mantra several times under her breath as she climbed the stairs to the second floor. Tugging off her ball cap, she freed her wind-tangled hair and tried a futile finger comb. When she opened the door to the Green Suite, she took two steps inside and stopped dead.

“Omigosh!”

Starry Night held a place of honor above the marble fireplace, all but obscuring the faint outline of whatever painting had hung there before. The print’s cool, dark colors seemed to add depth to the silk wall coverings. The swirling stars and crescent moon blazed luminescent trails across the night sky, while the slumbering village below created a sense of quiet and peace. The dark, irregular, almost brooding shape dominating the left side of the print might seem a little sinister to some, but to Grace it was one of the cypress trees Van Gogh had captured in so many of his other works.

She walked into the suite, took a few steps to the side and marveled at how the stars seemed to follow her movements. Then she just stood for long moments, drinking in the print’s vibrant colors and thinking of the man who’d obviously instructed it be hung where she could enjoy it during her stay.

Okay, no sense denying the truth when it was there, right in front of her eyes. Blake Dalton was pretty much everything she’d ever dreamed of in a husband. Smart, considerate, fun to be with, too handsome for words. And soooooo good with his hands and mouth and that hard, honed body of his.

She could fall in love with him so easily. Already had, a little. All right, more than a little. She wouldn’t let herself tumble all the way, though. Not with her cousin’s memory hanging between them like a thin, dark curtain. As fragile as that curtain was, it formed an impenetrable barrier. Grace couldn’t tell him the truth, and he couldn’t trust her until she did.

Sighing, she turned away from the print and headed for the shower.

* * *

The curtain seemed even more impenetrable when she joined Blake for dinner that evening. As promised, Auguste had prepared his version of coquilles St. Jacques. It would be served, she’d been informed, in the small dining room. Small being a relative term, of course. Compared with the formal dining hall, which could seat thirty-six with elbow room to spare, this one was used for intimate dinners for ten or twelve. Silver candelabra anchored each end of the gleaming parquet-wood table. Between them sat a silver bowl containing a ginormous arrangement of white lilies and pink roses.

Blake had dressed for the occasion, Grace saw when she entered the room. She felt a funny pang when she recognized the suit he’d worn at their wedding. He’d opted for no tie and left his white shirt open at the neck, though. That quieted her sudden jitters and let her appreciate his casual elegance.

He in turn appeared to approve of the sapphire-colored jersey sundress that had thankfully emerged from her suitcase wrinkle-free. Its slightly gathered skirt fell from a strapless, elasticized bodice. Earrings and a necklace of bright, chunky beads picked up the dress’s color and added touches of purple and green, as well.

“Nice dress,” Blake commented. “You look good in that shade of blue.”

Hell, she looked good in any dress, any shade. Even better out of one. Manfully, he redirected his thoughts from the soft elastic gathers and refused to contemplate on how one small tug could bring them down.

“Would you care for a drink before dinner?” He nodded to the silver ice bucket on its stand. “There’s champagne chilling.”

“Who can say no to champagne?”

The wine was bottled exclusively for The Elms by the small vintner just outside Epernay Delilah had stumbled across a few years ago. She got such a kick out of presenting her friends and acquaintances with a gift of the private label that her sons had given up trying to convince her not everyone appreciated their champagne ultra brut.

With that in mind, he filled two crystal flutes, angled them to let the bubbles fizz and handed one to Grace.

“What shall we drink to?”

“How about starry nights, as depicted so beautifully by the print you had hung in my bedroom? Thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome.” He chinked his flute to hers. “Here’s to many, many starry nights.”

He savored the wine’s sharp, clean purity but wasn’t surprised when Grace wrinkled her nose and regarded her glass with something less than a connoisseur’s eye.

“It’s, uh…”

“Very dry?”

“Very something.”

“They make it with absolutely no sugar,” Blake explained, smiling. “It’s the latest trend in champagne.”

“If you say so.”

“Try another sip. Mireille Guiliano highly recommends it in her book French Women Don’t Get Fat,” he tacked on as additional inducement.

“Well, in that case…” She tipped her flute. The nose scrunch came a moment later. “Guess it takes some getting used to.”

“Like our marriage,” he agreed solemnly, then smiled as he relieved her of the drink. “We’re learning to be nothing if not flexible, right? So I had another bottle put on ice just in case.”

He made a serious dent in the ultra brut over dinner. Grace limited herself to one glass of the semi-sec but didn’t debate or hesitate to accept a second serving of Auguste’s decadent scallops au gratin. The chef himself presided over the serving tray and forked three shell-shaped ramekins onto her plate. Blake derived almost as much pleasure from her low, reverent groans of delight as he did from the succulent morsels and sinfully rich sauce.

The awkward moment came after dessert and coffee. Blake could think of a number of ways to fill the rest of the evening. Unfortunately, he’d agreed to take wild, hot sex off the agenda. He had not agreed to table slow and sweet, but he gritted his teeth and decided to keep that as his ace in the hole.

“I think there are some playing cards in the library. Want to try your hand at gin rummy?”

“We could. Or…” Her eyes telegraphed a challenge. “We could check out the video room upstairs. I saw it had a Wii console. I’m pretty good at Ubongo, if I do say so myself.”

“What’s Ubongo?”

“Ahhhh.” She crooked a finger, batted her lashes and laid on a heavy French accent. “Come avec moi, monsieur, and I will show you, yes?”

* * *

A month, even a week ago, Blake would never have imagined he’d spend the second night of his honeymoon frantically jabbing red buttons with his thumbs while jungle critters duked it out on a flat-screen TV and his bride snorted with derision at each miss…or that each snort would only make him want her more.

He fell asleep long after midnight still trying to decide how getting his butt kicked at Ubongo could put such a fierce lock on his heart. But he didn’t realize just how fierce until the next afternoon.