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 16

Nine

When Grace came downstairs, Blake was pacing the sunny breakfast room with his phone to his ear. He speared a glance at her gauzy peasant skirt topped by a white lacy camisole, waggled his brows and gave a thumbs-up of approval.

She preened a little and returned the compliment. He’d gone casual this morning, too. Instead of his usual hand-tailored oxford shirt with the cuffs rolled up, he’d chosen a black, short-sleeved crew neck tucked into his tan slacks. The clingy fabric faithfully outlined the corded muscles of his shoulders and chest. Grace was enjoying the view when he finished one call and made a quick apology before taking the next.

“Sorry. We’ve just been notified of a possible nationwide transportation strike that could affect delivery from one of our subs here in France. I’ve got the plant manager on hold.”

She flapped a hand. “Go ahead.”

That discussion led to a third, this one a conference call with Alex and DI’s VP for manufacturing. Although it was still the middle of the night back in the States, both men were evidently working the problem hard. Grace caught snatches of their discussion while she scarfed down another of Auguste’s incredible breakfasts.

Blake apologized again when he finished the call. “Looks like I’ll have to hang close to the villa this morning while we refine our contingency plan. Alex said to tell you he’s sorry for butting into your honeymoon.”

Her honeymoon, she noted. Not his.

“No problem,” she replied, shrugging off the little sting. “I want to do some shopping. I’ll walk into town this morning.”

When she left the villa an hour later, she saw vehicles jammed into every available parking space along the tree-shaded road leading into the heart of town. They were her first clue something was happening. The bright red umbrellas and canvas-topped booths that now sprouted like mushrooms in every nook and cranny of the town provided the second.

Delighted, Grace discovered it was market day in Saint-Rémy. Busy sellers offered everything from books and antiques to fresh vegetables, strings of sausages and giant wheels of cheese. A good many of the stalls displayed the products in the dreamy colors of Provence—pale yellows and pinks and lavenders of the soaps, earthy reds and golds in the pottery and linens.

She wandered the crowded streets and lanes, sniffing the heady scents, eagerly accepting free samples when offered. She bought boxed soaps for friends back in San Antonio, a hand-sewn sundress and floppy-brimmed hat exploding with sunflowers for Molly, a small but exquisitely worked antique cameo brooch as a peace offering for Delilah.

She’d thanked the dealer and was turning away when a wooden case at the back of the umbrella-shaded stall caught her eye. It held what looked like antique man stuff—intricately worked silver shoe buckles, pearl stickpins, a gold-rimmed monocle with a black ribbon loop.

And one ring.

Compared with the other ornate pieces in the case, the ring was relatively plain. The only design on the wide yellow gold band was a fleur-de-lis set in onyx. At least, Grace assumed those glittering black stones were onyx. She learned her mistake when the dealer lifted the ring from the case to give her a closer look.

“Madame has a good eye,” he commented. “This piece is very old and very rare. From the seventeenth century. Those are black sapphires in the center.”

“I didn’t know there were black sapphires.”

“But yes! Hold the ring to the light. You will see the fineness of their cut.”

She did as instructed and couldn’t tell squat about the cut, but the stones threw back a black fire that made Grace gasp and gave the dealer the scent of a deal in the making. He added subtle pressure by dropping some of the ring’s history.

“It is rumored to have once belonged to the Count of Provence. But the last of the count’s descendants lost his head in the Revolution and the rabble sacked and burned his hôtel, so we have no written records of this ring. No—how do you call it? Certificate of authenticity. Only this rumor, you understand.”

Grace didn’t care. She’d walked out of Judge Honeywell’s office wearing a band of diamonds. Blake’s ring finger was still bare. She didn’t need a certificate to rectify the situation. Those shimmering black sparks were authentic enough for her.

“How much is it?”

He named a figure that made her gulp until she realized it was a starting point for further negotiations. She countered. He shook his head and came back with another price. She sighed and put the ring back in the case. He plucked it out again.

“But look at these stones, madame. This workmanship.”

“I don’t know if it will fit my husband,” she argued.

“It can always be resized.”

He dropped his glance to the sparkling gems circling her finger. His expression said she could certainly afford to have it fitted, but he cut the price by another fifty euros. Grace did the conversion to dollars in her head, gulped again and tried to remember the exact balance in her much-depleted bank account.

She could cover it. Barely. Squaring her shoulders, she took the plunge. “Do you take Visa?”

* * *

The velvet bag containing the ring remained tucked in her purse when she returned to the villa. A local official had delivered documents couriered in from some government source, and Blake had invited her to join them for lunch. The woman was lively company and was delighted to learn Blake intended to show his bride Saint-Rémy’s ancient Roman ruins. She also warned they must go that very afternoon, as the archeological site could be affected if the transportation unions went on strike the following day as they’d threatened.

Grace couldn’t see the connection but didn’t argue when Blake said he was satisfied with his review of the contingency plans and was free to roam for a few hours. Before they left the villa, though, he made sure his mobile phone was fully charged, then tucked it close at hand in the breast pocket of his shirt.

The monuments she’d spotted through the trees yesterday were even more impressive up close and personal. Blake parked in a dusty, unpaved lot filled with cars and what turned out to be school buses. Grace had to smile at the noisy, exuberant teens piling out of the buses.

“I’ve taken my classes on a few field trips like this one,” she commented. “It’s always tough to judge how much of what they’ll see actually sinks in.”

Not much, Blake guessed. At least for the young, would-be studs in the crowd. As both he and his brother could verify, the attention of boys that age centered a whole lot more on girls in tight jeans than ancient ruins.

Boys of any age, actually. Grace wasn’t in jeans, but she snagged more than one admiring look from the male students and their teachers as she and Blake joined the line straggling along the dirt path to Les Antiques.

The two monuments gleamed white in the afternoon sun. Blake couldn’t remember which triumph the massive arch was supposed to commemorate—the conquest of Marseille, he thought—but he knew the perfectly preserved marble tower beside the arch had served as a mausoleum for a prominent Roman family. Luckily, descriptive plaques alongside each monument provided the details in both French and English.

Blake wasn’t surprised that the teacher in Grace had to read every word, much as she had on the Van Gogh trail yesterday. Peering over the heads of the kids, she glanced from the plaque to the intricate pattern decorating the underside of the arch.

“This is interesting. Those flowers and vines represent the fertility of ‘the Roman Province,’ aka Provence. I didn’t know that’s where the region’s name came from.”

Two of the teens obviously thought she’d addressed the comment to them. One turned and pulled an earbud from his ear. The other tucked what looked like a sketchbook under his arm and asked politely, “Pardon, madame?”

“The name, Provence.” She gestured to the sign. “It’s from the Latin.”

“Ah, oui.”

Blake hid a smile as the boys looked her over with the instinctive appreciation of the male of the species. They obviously liked what they saw. And who wouldn’t? Her hair was a wind-tossed tangle of pale silk, and the skin displayed all too enticingly by the white lace camisole had been warmed to a golden tan by the hot Provencal sun. Not surprisingly, the boys lagged behind while the rest of their group posed and snapped pictures of each other under the watchful eyes of their teachers.

“You are from the U.S.?” the taller of the two asked.

“I am,” she confirmed. “From Texas.”

“Ahhh, Texas. Cowboys, yes? And cows with the horns like this.”

When he extended his arms, Grace grinned and spread hers as far as they would go. “More like this.”

“Oui?”

“Oui. And you? Where are you from?”

“Lyon, madame.”

The shorter kid was as eager as his pal to show off his English. “We study the Romans,” he informed Grace, his earbud dangling. “They were in Lyon, as in many other parts of Provence. You have seen the coliseum in Arles and the Pont du Gard?”

“Not yet.”

“But you must!” The taller kid whipped his sketchbook from under his arm, flipped up the lid and riffled through the pages. “Here is the Pont du Gard.”

Grace was impressed. So was Blake. He’d visited the famous aqueduct a number of times. The kid’s drawings captured both the incredible engineering and soaring beauty of its three tiers of arches.

One of the teachers came over at that point to see what his students were up to. When he discovered Grace was a teacher, he joined the kids in describing the Roman sites she should be sure to visit while in the south of France. He also provided her a list of the architectural and historical items of interest he’d tasked his students to search out at Les Antiques and the adjoining town of Glanum.

“What a good idea,” Grace exclaimed as she skimmed the Xeroxed four pages. “It’s like a treasure hunt.”

“The class searches in teams,” the teacher explained. “You should join us. You will gain a far better appreciation of this site.”

“I’d love to but…” She threw Blake a questioning glance. “Do we have time?”

“Sure.”

“We can team up.”

Blake gauged the boys’ reaction to that with a single glance. “You and these fellows do the hunting,” he said easily. “I’ll follow along.”

List in hand, she joined the search. Her unfeigned interest and ready smile made willing slaves of her two teammates. Preening like young gamecocks, they translated the background history of the first item on the list, and crowed with delight when they collectively spotted the chained captives at the base of the arch representing Rome’s might.

Blake found a shady spot and rested his hips against a fallen marble block, watching as Grace and her team searched out two additional items on the arch and three on the tall, pillared tower of the mausoleum. He wondered if the boys had any idea that she let them do the discovering. Or that her seemingly innocent questions about the translations forced them to delve much deeper into the history of the site than they otherwise would have. Those two, at least, were going home experts on Les Antiques.

The hunt took them across the street and down another hundred yards to the entrance to Glanum. Unlike the arch and mausoleum, access to the town itself was controlled and active excavations were under way at several spots along its broad main street. Despite the roped-off areas, there was still plenty to explore. The students poked into the thermal furnaces that heated the baths, clambered over the uneven stones of a Hellenistic temple and followed the narrow, twisty track through the ravine at the far end of town to the spring that had convinced Gauls to settle this site long before the Romans arrived.

Grace was right there with her team, carefully picking her way down a flight of broken marble steps to the pool fed by the sacred spring. The fact that she could translate the Latin inscription dedicating the pool to Valetudo, the Roman goddess of health, scored her considerable brownie points with the kids. The delight they took in her company scored even more with Blake.

He could guess the kind of dreams those boys would have tonight. He’d had the same kind at their age. Still had ’em, he admitted wryly, his gaze locked on his wife.

* * *

The hunt finished, Grace exchanged email addresses with her teammates and their teacher before walking back to the car with Blake.

“You were really good with those kids,” he commented.

“Thanks. I enjoy interacting with teens. Most of them have such lively minds, although the mood swings and raging hormones can be a pain at times.”

Their footsteps stirred the dust on the unpaved path. A car whizzed by on the road to the mountain village high up in the Alpilles. The scents of summer lingered on the still air. Blake grasped her elbow to guide her around a rough patch, then slid his hand down to take hers.

He saw her glance down at the fingers interlacing hers. A small line creased her forehead, but she didn’t ease her hand away until they reached the convertible. Blake chalked the frown up to the unsettled nature of their marriage and started to open the passenger door for her. She planted her hip against the door, stopping him.

“I bought you something while I was in town this morning.” She fished a small velvet bag out of her purse. “It’s not much. But I saw it and thought of you and our time here in France and… Well, I just wanted you to have it.”

When he untied the strings, a heavy gold ring rolled into his palm. The fleur-de-lis embedded in its center flashed a rainbow of sparks.

“The dealer said it’s an antique. He thinks it once belonged to the Count of Provence, but there’s no documentation to support that claim.” She looked from the ring to him with a mix of uncertainty and shyness. “Do you like it?”

“Very much. Thank you.”

The heartfelt thanks dissolved both the shyness and uncertainty. “You’re welcome.”

The inquiries Blake had run into her finances told him she must have maxed out her credit card to buy the ring, but he knew better than to ruin the moment by asking if she needed a quick infusion of funds. He showed his appreciation instead by tilting the design up to the light.

“The stones are brilliantly cut.”

“That’s what the dealer said.”

“He said right. You rarely find sapphires with so many facets.”

“How’d you guess they’re sapphires?”

Grinning, he lowered the ring. “Mother has me take care of insurance appraisals and certificates of authenticity for all her jewelry. She’s got more rare stones in her collection than the Smithsonian.”

“I don’t doubt it. Here,” she said when he started to slide it on. “Let me.”

She eased the ring onto his finger, then hesitated with the band just above the knuckle.

“With this ring…”

The soft words hit with a jolt, ricocheting around in Blake’s chest as she worked the ring over his knuckle. It was a tight fit, but the gold band finally slid on.

“…I thee wed.”

Grace finished in a whisper and folded her hand over his. Blake didn’t respond. He couldn’t. His throat was as tight as a drum.

“I can recall every minute in Judge Honeywell’s office,” she confessed on a shaky laugh. “I can hear the words, replay the entire scene in vivid Technicolor. Yet…”

She glanced around the dusty parking lot, brought her gaze back to his.

“This is the first time I feel as though it’s all for real.”

“It is real. More than I imagined it could be back there in the judge’s office.”

His hand tightened, crushing hers against the heavy gold band. She glanced down, startled, then met his gaze again.

“Let me take you home and show you just how real it’s become for me.”

* * *

Blake had no doubts. None at all. He made the short drive to the villa on a surge of adrenaline and desire so thick and heavy it clamped his fists on the steering wheel.

Uncertainty didn’t hit until he followed Grace up the stairs and into the cool confines of the Green Suite. When she turned to face him, he half expected her to retreat again, insist they go back to cool and polite.

He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted this one. Never loved one the way he did his bright, engaging, sun-kissed bride. The fierce acknowledgment rattled him almost as much as the hunger gnawing at his insides. He could slam on the brakes if he had to, though. It would damned near kill him, but he could do it. All she had to do was…

“Lock the door.”

It took a second or two for his brain to process the soft command. Another couple for him to click the old-fashioned latch into place. When he turned back, she reached for the top button on her camisole.

His uncharacteristic doubts went up in a blaze of heat. With a low growl, he brushed her hands aside. “I’ve been fantasizing about popping these buttons since you came downstairs this morning.”

He forced himself to undo them slowly. He wanted the pleasure of baring the slopes of her breasts inch by tantalizing inch. But his greedy pleasure splintered into something close to pain when he peeled back the cottony fabric and revealed the half bra underneath. With a concentration that popped sweat on his brow, he slid the camisole off her shoulders.

Damn! He was as jerky and eager as any of the adolescents they’d encountered this afternoon. Grace was the steady one. She displayed no hint of embarrassment or shyness when the camisole slithered down her arms and dropped to the carpet.

She reached back and unhooked her bra. The movement was so essentially female, so erotic and arousing. Blake ached for the feel of her smooth, firm flesh against his. But when he dragged his shirt free of his slacks, she copied his earlier move and brushed his hands aside.

“My turn.”

Just as he had, she took her time. Her palms edged under the shirt, flattened on his stomach, glided upward. Blake bent so she could get it off over his head. His breath razored in, then out when her hands slid south again. A smile played in her eyes when she found his belt buckle.

“I’ve been fantasizing about this since I came downstairs this morning.”

“Okay, that’s it!”

He had her in his arms in one swoop and marched to the bed.