Her Mediterranean Makeover

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.