Having the Frenchman's Baby

He put the bottle back on the table. “Luc Chartier. I understand you wanted to make an appointment with me.”

He was that Chartier?

Rachel sat up straighter in the chair. “I thought your secretary was going to phone. I had no idea you would take the trouble to come to the hotel this evening.”

He gave an elegant shrug of his broad shoulders covered in a light gray silk suit. “Why not? I was in the area when I received a call from my secretary, Philippe.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet a new wine buyer, especially one who has already sampled the goods with such uninhibited relish.”

His lips twitched again, rekindling her anger.

“Because of you, I almost missed the experience.”

He cocked his dark head. “What do you say we call a truce to the Hundred Years War and start over again? You’ve already admitted the Pinot Gris has no equal. I’d like to make up for the fright I caused you by giving you a personal tour of the domaine.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “In that rocket you call a car? No, thank you. I have little desire to end up as twisted wreckage around a bunch of grape vines.”

“I’ll make a concession and drive you in the estate Wagoneer,” he inserted. “That way we can go off road. I swear I’ve never had an accident with any of my prospective buyers.”

She believed him. Yet even if it weren’t true, Rachel imagined his charisma got him what he wanted no matter how audacious he was. But not this time.

“I’m afraid I’ve changed my mind about making an appointment.”

“I prefer to be spontaneous too,” he came back. “What are your plans after dinner?”

“Surely that’s not any of your business.”

He examined the shape of her oval face until her cheeks grew warm.

“The last thing I meant to do was frighten you on the road today. I’ll admit I had serious matters on my mind. Forgive me.”

Forgive him?

Where had that apology come from? It sounded a hundred percent genuine.

She could feel the ice cracking.

“Whether you do any business with me or not, I’d like to make it up to you, Ms Valentine.

“If you’ll give me half an hour, I’ll come back for you. While we talk wine, we’ll take a ride through the vineyard. Now that it’s in flower, it’s especially beautiful at dusk.”

Rachel sat back. “You’re making this very difficult for me. If I refuse to accept your apology, then I come off being the lesser person.” After a slight hesitation, “I suppose it’s possible I was so enthralled with the view, I forgot I wasn’t the only driver on the road.”

“An honest woman,” he murmured.

“A man who can say he’s sorry. I guess we’re even.”

“Pax?”

Rachel nodded. “Pax. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I’d enjoy seeing your vineyard. But only if you’re sure it’s all right with your wife.”

There was a distinct pause before he said, “If I weren’t divorced, my wife would be the one showing you around. As it is, you’re stuck with me.”

“Since you’re the owner of Chartier et Fils, I have no complaints,” she quipped to hide a myriad feelings she didn’t dare examine too closely.

Some unnamed emotion produced a glimmer in the dark recesses of his eyes. It caused her pulse to race for no good reason.

“In that case, I suggest you change into something casual. Lovely as your outfit is, you won’t find it suitable if you want to get out and do a little walking.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“Until you’re surrounded by the vines, you can’t fully appreciate what a miracle they are.”

He’d just expressed the thoughts she’d always held.

Whatever else went on inside him, she sensed he was a man who was in love with his work. Apology aside, not many vintners she’d met cared enough to go out of their way to this extent for a buyer.

“What color is your Wagoneer?

“Blue.”

“I’ll watch for you.”

“Bon. Enjoy the rest of your meal. A bientôt.”

As he walked away Rachel noticed that quite a few interested female eyes followed his progress from the room.

After eating a little more of the delicious vegetable entrée, she charged the bill to her room, then went upstairs to change. She took the wine bottle with her for a souvenir of her first day in Alsace.

Once she’d slipped into jeans and a plum-colored knit top, she put on a pair of well-used walking shoes she’d packed in her suitcase.

With twenty more minutes to wait until he returned, she decided to do something productive in order not to think too much.

Before she’d agreed to go with him, she’d been so furious, she’d actually shouted names at him. That was something she’d never done to anyone in her life.

Not wanting to think about how badly she’d lost control, or, worse, how easily he’d won her around, she decided now would be a good time to make a call to the UK.

Pulling out her cell phone, she punched in the digits. After three rings a familiar male voice answered.

“Grandfather? It’s Rachel.”

“How’s my Black Beauty this even—”

But before he could even finish the question, a coughing spell ensued. The doctor explained it was to be expected with a pulmonary embolism, yet it still alarmed her.

“Just a minute,” he said in a croaky voice.

“Take all the time you need.”