THE FOLLOWING EVENING at Issy-les-Moulineaux heliport, close to the Eiffel Tower, a helicopter stood awaiting their arrival.
As Bernard brought the car to a halt beside the impressive machine excitement bubbled in Aideen’s veins. ‘Where are we going?’
Patrick considered her mischievously as he contemplated her question. ‘Now, if I told you that it wouldn’t be much of a surprise, would it?’
‘The helicopter is enough of a surprise for me... Oh, please tell me! I hate being kept in suspense.’
‘No can do, I’m afraid. The good things in life come to those who wait.’
Bernard was waiting patiently at the door for her to exit, so she stepped out of the car. When Patrick joined her and they walked towards the helicopter she asked playfully, ‘So is that your philosophy on life?’
He brought them both to a stop and stepped closer. He leant down. His breath was warm against her ear when he spoke and her heart did a triple flip.
‘Sometimes the anticipation and the wait can be thrilling, don’t you agree?’
Heat erupted in her body and she drew back to meet his eyes, which blistered into hers. When she finally managed to speak it was in an embarrassingly squeaky voice. ‘I guess...’
His gaze changed to a look of amusement and, taking her hand in his, he led her to the helicopter, where the pilot was waiting for them with the rear door open.
As the pilot made the final checks for take-off her mind raced. Was he confirming what she suspected...that he would like more with her? She had read signals so wrongly in the past. Was she getting this wrong, too? But the way he looked at her said she wasn’t getting anything wrong. He looked at her as though he would like to bed her then and there.
For the entire forty-five-minute journey they played a game of ‘yes and no’ in which she tried to guess their destination. She was wrong on every count, and was rapidly running out of names. It was a good job she had listened in her geography lessons in school.
But when a baroque castle appeared in the distance, with its raked roof and tall chimney stacks, she whispered, ‘Oh, my...it’s Château de Chalant.’
Privately owned by the Forbin family, Château de Chalant was considered one of the most beautiful castles in France. It was never open to the public.
‘What are we doing here?’
‘Frédéric Forbin is a friend and business associate. I called him and arranged for us to visit the chateau.’
Flabbergasted, she could only stare at him, and then down at the manicured elegant grounds as the helicopter swept towards the chateau. As the helicopter landed, she saw a man waiting for them at the bottom of the steps leading up to a terrace that then led to double wooden front door.
‘Is that Frédéric?’
‘No, it’s the chateau director, who is expecting us. Frédéric is away travelling. The chateau is of such historical and architectural importance Frédéric employs a conservation team, headed by the director.’
As they exited the helicopter she tried to dampen down the enthusiasm fizzing in her blood. She had studied the historic textiles of Château de Chalant while at university. Now she was going to see them first-hand! She wanted to babble with excitement, but forced herself to shake the director’s hand calmly.
Then both men shook hands.
‘Monsieur Fitzsimon, it is a pleasure to have you back at Château de Chalant. It’s been a long time.’
‘Good to see you, too, Edouard.’
There was a slight catch to his voice, but despite that Patrick looked totally at ease and in no way fazed, as she was by the grandeur of the chateau. Once again she was struck by how different his life was from hers—how used he was to mixing in the world of wealth and power.
Edouard led them into the vast entrance hall of the chateau, where two sweeping marble stone staircases, one at either side, led up to a wooden gallery that encircled the hall. Historic tapestries hung from the walls.
Unable to help herself, she walked to a sixteenth-century oak chair and exclaimed, ‘Oh, wow! That chair is upholstered in Avalan fabric. I’ve never seen it in real life before; only in textbooks.’
The director looked at her in surprise. ‘Not many people would recognise this fabric—are you a historian?’
‘No, I’m a textile designer, but I have a passion for historical fabrics. I love how designs and patterns tell us so much about the period of history they were produced in, about the social norms and conditions.’
‘Well, you’re in for a treat this evening.’ The director turned to Patrick. ‘I will leave you and Mademoiselle Ryan to tour the chateau alone. If you need anything I shall be in my office.’
As they walked away from the entrance hall she asked, intrigued, ‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘This is the most beautiful building I have ever visited. I thought you would enjoy it. But now I’m especially glad that I organised the trip. I hadn’t realised you were so passionate and knowledgeable about historical textiles.’
‘I have a lot of hidden talents you don’t know about.’
With a glint in his eye he said, ‘Is that right?’
She mumbled, ‘Yes...’ and turned away, heat flooding her cheeks. She felt as though she was floating on air between the excitement of being here and her desperation to feel his lips on hers again, to be encompassed by his size and strength.
He was right. Anticipation was thrilling. But what if that anticipation led to nothing?
The first room he took her to was the print room. As Aideen looked around the room in astonishment he explained, ‘It was a tradition for royalty and the gentry to collect expensive prints and paste them directly on to the walls.’
Some of the black and white prints illustrated faraway picturesque locations—the lakes of Northern Italy, Bavarian forests... Animal prints showed farmyard scenes of cows and sheep; another was of a spaniel, standing before a raging river.
She was blown away by the sheer extravagance of the room. Priceless print after print covered the entirety of the four walls. ‘They’re beautiful—what incredible detail.’
‘This room was created by Princess Isabella—it’s said Prince Henri of Chalant built this chateau as a symbol of his love for her, before they married.’
‘That’s so romantic.’
He didn’t respond, and when she turned to him the air was compressed in her lungs. He stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his pockets, gazing at her intently. He wore navy chinos and a white polo shirt. His bare arms were beautifully carved with taut muscle, the skin lightly tanned with a dusting of dark hair.
She even fancied his arms. Was there any hope for her?
An awareness passed between them and she suddenly grew shy, giving him a quick smile before walking away to inspect other prints.
But he made for the door and gestured her to follow. ‘If you think that’s romantic let me show you something else.’
She followed him down the corridor until he stopped at a closed door.
‘Close your eyes and I’ll lead you in.’
She eyed him suspiciously. ‘You’re not going to play a trick on me, are you? Lead me down into the dungeon or something like that?’
His head tilted and he gave her a sexy grin that sent her pulse into orbit. ‘As intriguing as that suggestion sounds...no, I’m not going to take you to the dungeon.’ Then he gave her an admonishing look and said, ‘Now, for once will you please try and trust me and close your eyes?’
She held her breath as his hand took hers. She heard the door open and then he slowly led her forward for about ten paces. She felt oddly vulnerable, and her hand tightened on his of its own accord.
All her senses were attuned to the solid strength of his hand, the smooth warmth of his skin, the torturous pleasure of being so physically close to him...
‘Open your eyes.’
She gasped in astonishment. It was the most dazzling room she’d ever seen. It was like something out of a fairytale. Or a room she imagined might have been in a Russian royal palace.
She twisted around in amazement, shaking her head. The double-height rectangular room was a feast of gilded Baroque plasterwork. It was opulent and outrageous in its beauty. And so much fun she couldn’t help but laugh.
‘It’s absolutely stunning! It’s like standing in the middle of an exquisite piece of twenty-four-carat gold jewellery’
‘It’s called the Gold Room. Prince Henri commissioned it to celebrate Isabella’s fiftieth birthday.’
She gave him a wistful smile. ‘He really was romantic, wasn’t he?’
He gave a light shrug and looked up at the intricate gilt stucco work on the ceiling. ‘I guess when you find the love of your life you just want to celebrate it.’
A rush of emotion tore through her body. ‘It must be nice to feel so loved.’
Their eyes met briefly and they both looked away at the same time.
She moved through the silent room, unexpected tears clouding her vision. The past year might have made her wary of others, but at the same time there was an emptiness in her heart. She wanted to be in love. Desperately.
With each passing day, as they got to know each other, things were changing between her and Patrick. They now shared an intimacy, an ease with one another that had her thinking maybe they had something between them...something significant. Patrick telling her last night about Orla had been particularly moving, and also momentous. It was as though he had finally allowed her to step fully into his life.
Behind her, he called, ‘Are you ready to see some more rooms?’
She nodded, but was slow to turn around. Was he feeling the same intensity she was? This need to connect on a different level?
* * *
An hour later her head swam as she tried once again to orientate herself in the vastness of the chateau. They had passed through room after room, all full of sumptuous furniture and historically significant textiles and antiques. And yet, somewhat miraculously, Château Chalant retained an air of intimacy. Was it because it had been built to celebrate love?
Eventually they found themselves back in the entrance hall. For some reason she didn’t want their time here to end. She wanted to stay here with him a little longer.
With a heavy heart she said, as brightly as she could, ‘Thank you for bringing me here—it really is a magical place.’
‘The tour isn’t over yet. I have kept the best room for last.’
Intrigued, she followed him into a vast, empty room with marble flooring. A bow window overlooked the gardens to the rear of the chateau.
She looked around, perplexed, taking in the ornate plasterwork on the domed ceilings and alcoves. Painted a silvery white, the sunlit room was a sleeping silent oasis, even in the tranquillity of the chateau.
‘Why is there no furniture?’ She jumped to hear her own voice echoing noisily around the room.
He had remained standing close to the doorway, while she was now perched on the sill of the bow window.
‘It helps with the acoustics.’
What had been a whisper from Patrick echoed loudly across the room.
Trying it herself, she whispered, ‘This is amazing.’
Again her voice barrelled across the room in a loud echo.
‘It’s called the Whispering Room. In days gone by apparently it wasn’t accepted for courting couples to stand too close to one another, so young lovers would use this room to whisper messages to one another.’
‘That’s so sweet.’
‘I sometimes wonder what they would have said.’
As he stood and watched her something broke inside her, and she whispered from her heart. ‘They wished they could be together...they longed for the day they could be.’
For the longest while he stared at her. Had he heard her whisper? Maybe it would be better if he hadn’t.
But then he whispered back, ‘You’re lovely.’
He said it so gently and with such sincerity she thought her heart was going to break in two. ‘You’re pretty special, too.’
‘I like you, Aideen Ryan.’
Had she heard right? Had she imagined it? His smile said otherwise.
Through a throat thick with bittersweet happiness she whispered, ‘I like you, too, Patrick Fitzsimon.’
He walked slowly to her, and although she was leaning against the windowsill her legs began to wobble.
He came to a stop before her and she looked up into his dazzling blue eyes. His body shifted towards her. His hand twitched at his side and at the same time her body ached with the need for his touch.
His head moved slowly down, her heart speeding up with every inch closer he came, until his lips landed gently on hers. His mouth moved against hers, slowly and lightly, and she thought she might faint because it was so tender and right.
When he pulled away from the kiss he brought his forehead to lie against hers. His incredible blue gaze held hers. It felt as though he was spearing her heart with the silent communication of the need of a man for a woman.
‘Would you like a tour of the grounds?’
Dazed, she whispered, ‘Yes, please.’
They made their way through the extensive gardens surrounding the chateau and a silence fell between them. She tried to keep her distance from him, but invariably found herself swaying towards him. As she walked along the gravelled paths, the late-evening sun warm on her skin, she bumped against him and he pulled her towards him, wrapping his arm about her waist. They shared a quick look and her insides tumbled to see the desire in his hooded eyes.
She felt drunk with happiness just being there...being with him. And every cell in her body was electrified by being so close to him. A lazy, intoxicating tendril of physical desire coiled around her body. Her skin felt flushed and a deep pulse resonated in her lips.
But that nagging thought that this was not reality, that she did not belong here, continued to rumble at the back of her brain. Even as she tried her best to ignore it.
They didn’t stop walking until they reached an extensive lake with a small island in the centre. They stopped on the pebbled beach, where a rowing boat lay beached to one side.
He went immediately to it and pulled it towards the lake. Holding it in the water, he called, ‘Come on—what are you waiting for?’
She looked around doubtfully, wondering for a moment if it would be allowed. But then she rushed towards the water. She pulled off her ballet flats, held up her midi-skirt and jumped on board, giving a cry of laughter when the boat wobbled.
Patrick strengthened his grip on her elbow, and as she sat down he pushed the boat out further and in one fluid motion jumped on board himself. The boat wobbled even more, but as soon as he sat opposite her it steadied.
His oar strokes were long and even and they were quickly out in the middle of the lake. Other than evening birdsong and the swoosh of the oars in the water there wasn’t another sound.
‘This is my first time ever being out in a rowing boat.’
He looked at her incredulously. ‘Seriously? How did you get to be...?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘How did you get to be twenty-eight without ever being out in a rowing boat?’
‘Beats me.’
He continued to row and she tried not to stare at the way his biceps flexed with each pull of the oar.
‘You’ll have to have a go at rowing.’
‘Really?’
‘Climb over here into the centre. Try not to wobble the boat too much. I’ll move to your seat.’
As she moved down the boat it began to bob precariously. She gave a little shout of alarm and gratefully grabbed on to his outstretched arm. As she fell forward she twisted, and ended up landing in his arms, her bottom firmly wedged in his lap.
His hand came to rest just above her waist, its heat on the thin cotton of her blouse sending a shiver of pleasure through her. His thighs, his chest, as they pressed against her, felt as though they were made of steel. Electric blue eyes met hers. Her pulse leapt. It would be so easy to lean forward, to kiss those firm lips again. To inhale his scent.
He gave a low growl. ‘If you don’t climb off me in the next five seconds I won’t be responsible for what I do next.’
She leapt away—and instantly regretted doing so.
After he had moved to the stern of the boat she started rowing. The boat moved with ease and she thought with unjustified satisfaction that she had this rowing lark immediately sussed. But then they started going in circles, and she couldn’t get the boat to go in a straight line. The fits of giggles that accompanied her attempts weren’t much help.
Opposite her, he threw his head into his hands and then looked at her with amusement.
Time and time again he demonstrated the motion she should be using, but the boat still twisted. He suggested they swop places again but, determined, she refused to give up.
And finally she did it. The boat went in one direction. Straight back to shore. She didn’t try to alter their course in case she started circling again.
As they neared the small beach he moved confidently to the bow and jumped ashore. Then he hoisted the boat on to the stones. He held her hand as she leapt off. She knew she was grinning at him like a fool but couldn’t stop herself. She hadn’t laughed so much in a very long time.
He watched her with a smile, and for a while she looked at him happily, but her smile finally faded as his stare grew darker. He took a step closer. Shots of awareness flew through her.
An intensity swirled in the air between them. Everything had changed since Patrick had opened up to her last night. She felt trusted. Her heart drummed a slow beat of deep appreciation, wonder, and attraction to this man.
Closer and closer he came, his intense blue eyes transfixing her. Her breath grew more rapid. Her lips pulsed with the need to feel his mouth on hers again. Her legs grew weak.
When he was no more than an inch from her, she was the first to give in. Her body swayed and she fell against his hardness. Her hands curled around his biceps. Against her thumb, which rested at the side of his chest, she could feel his heartbeat, which was pounding even faster than hers.
‘I didn’t ask before, so I should this time round. Can I kiss you?’
Her heart stuttered at his question. It was the sweetest thing anyone had ever said to her. Even if she’d wanted to there was no way she could pull away from him—from his warm breath, the overwhelming pull of his hard body, the dizzying inhalation of his scent.
She placed her hands on his shoulders, closed her eyes, and gave a small sigh of assent as she pulled his lips down to hers.
Whereas their earlier kiss had been slow and sweet, tentative and testing, this kiss was instantly intense, wild. Their hands explored each other’s bodies with hunger. It was a kiss that might easily become a lot more.
She was quickly losing herself.
As one, they pulled away at the same time. As though they both knew it might quickly spiral into something neither wanted...yet.
She pressed a hand to her swollen lips and blushed. She had to hide how much he affected her. Because in truth she was close to tears...of happiness and despair.
‘I’ll tell you this much, Patrick Fitzsimon, you certainly haven’t forgotten how to kiss in all that time you’ve been locked away in your office.’
He looked at her with amusement. ‘Glad to hear it.’
But then dark need flared in his eyes and her insides melted.
‘I want you, Aideen.’
Her heart felt as if it was going to burst right out of her chest. She so desperately wanted to say Yes, please and not give a thought to the consequences. But it wasn’t that simple.
‘Are you sure? Won’t it...complicate things?’
His hand came to rest on her cheek and he gazed at her solemnly while his thumb stroked her skin. ‘I like you. A lot. It doesn’t have to be complicated. I promise you, no game playing. But if this is not right for you I’ll back off.’
No! She didn’t want that.
His touch, his scent, the magnetic pull of his body might be making her head reel so much that she could barely formulate a thought, but she knew that much. She didn’t want this to end.
When he had whispered ‘I like you’ in the Whispering Room, he had looked at her with such intense integrity and honour it had been like a bomb detonating in her brain. And just like that she’d realised she was in love with this kind, generous, strong man. And, God help her, she knew she would happily take a few days in his arms over the alternative: never knowing what it would be like to be held by him.
Right now, to have loved and lost was definitely better than never to have loved at all. She didn’t want to think about the future. Living in the present was all that mattered.
She scrunched her eyes shut for a moment, and when she opened them again she said, with a huge smile, ‘Okay.’
It was as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She had never felt so exhilarated in her entire life. To feel this good it must mean it was the right decision. Mustn’t it?
* * *
All the way back to Paris she regaled him with stories of her encounters with fashion designers. He held her hand throughout, his thumb caressing the soft smoothness of her palm, and every now and again she would stutter and lose her train of thought as his fingers lightly traced along her inner arm.
Each time she shivered and her eyes grew heavy he wondered if her entire body was that sensitive. And his pulse moved up another notch.
When the helicopter landed Bernard was waiting to take them to his private club, close to the Eiffel Tower.
She gasped beside him when the maître d’ of the club’s restaurant directed them to their table in the rooftop terrace restaurant. And he totally understood why. Because, no matter how many times he came here himself, the sheer size and beauty of the Eiffel Tower this close up was truly impressive.
Their table, as he’d requested, was beside the low-level redbrick wall of the terrace, with her chair facing out towards the tower, he sitting to her side.
Once the maître d’ had gone she stared at him, her huge chocolate eyes dancing in merriment, and then she put a hand over her mouth in disbelief. ‘Oh, my God, I can’t believe this place. It’s incredible.’
‘The club is one of the closest buildings to the tower.’
Their waiter arrived with the champagne he had pre-ordered and opened the bottle with a satisfying pop. He filled the flute glasses that already sat on the white-linen-topped table and retreated once he had placed the bottle in an ice bucket to the side.
She took a sip of champagne. And then another. ‘Wow! That’s the nicest champagne I have ever tasted. It’s sharp, but with a gorgeous biscuit undertone.’ She turned again to the tower and reached her hand out towards it. ‘I feel like I can almost touch it.’
Then, as she looked around the rest of the terrace, he saw her expression grow even more radiant.
‘This club is so impressive—’ She stopped and blushed, and dropped her chin on to her cupped hand. ‘Oh, dear. I must sound like the most uncultured date you’ve ever had.’
‘You make a refreshing change from some of the jaded dates I’ve had in the past.’
She gave him a suspicious look. ‘That’s good... I think.’
If only she knew how many times in the past he had been left speechless by the cynicism and sense of entitlement of some of his previous conquests. ‘That’s very good.’
As they both leant forward to place their glasses on the table their arms touched and a silent energy bound them together. He moved closer and her lips parted ever so slightly. Hunger powered through him. He inhaled her scent. The scent that now lingered in the air of the chateau and one he looked forward to inhaling each day when he returned from his meetings.
Slowly their heads moved towards one another. Her head tilted to the side and passion flared in her eyes. Inch by inch they drew closer, and he had to stifle a groan when his lips met the soft fullness of hers.
When he pulled away he was amused by how dazed she looked, and said, ‘You’re the best date I’ve ever had.’
She blushed furiously and waved away his words, but her wide smile told of her delight.
A group of waiters arrived with the food he had also pre-ordered, earlier in the day. The surprise and glee with which she eyed the food had him smiling to himself in pleasure.
Once the waiters had departed she looked mischievously from the tiers of mouth-watering cakes to him. ‘It’s a bit late in the evening for afternoon tea, I would have thought.’
‘You said you loved millefeuille.’
Shaking her head, she bent to inspect the three-tier stand. ‘All the cakes I used to dream of when I was a student: opera cake, éclairs, macarons...even miniature tarte Tatin.’ She looked at him, her throat working. ‘Thank you.’ She stopped as tears filled her eyes. ‘This is so considerate of you...’ And then she laughed. ‘I’m actually lost for words.’
He gave her a smile. ‘Then don’t speak. Just eat.’
He poured her some tea while she selected a millefeuille. He chose a raspberry macaron, filled with fresh raspberries and raspberry cream.
She closed her eyes as she ate the first forkful of millefeuille. And he almost choked on his macaron. She looked incredibly sensual, with her head tilted back, pleasure written all over her face. He glared at a man sitting at a nearby table who was also captivated by her, a powerful surge of possessiveness taking him by surprise.
Her happiness was increasingly becoming everything to him. It was as though he was plugged into her emotions and felt them as keenly as she did. When she was happy he was elated. When she was sad or upset his heart plummeted. He had never before felt so attuned to another person.
It was both incredible and awful at the same time. Incredible that he could be so close to another person that he felt her emotions. Awful because it would make saying goodbye all the more difficult.
As they ate they spoke about their past experiences in Paris, with the tower lighting up before them as the sun set. They both looked towards its graceful night-time beauty, but he quickly looked back at her.
Her eyes shone with happiness. She was curled into her seat so that her body was directed towards him, even though her gaze was still on the tower. Her lipstick had faded from brilliant red to a faint blush.
Unable to stop himself, he leant towards her and said her name gently. She turned to face him fully with a smile and his hand reached forward to brush a flake of pastry from her lips. At least that was what he intended to do. He removed the pastry, all right, but his finger lingered on her lips, desire coiling in his stomach.
At first she stared at him in surprise, but then her gaze darkened. He lowered his finger but moved forward in his chair, wanting to be closer to her...
* * *
Awareness of his masculinity, of his raw power, flooded Aideen’s body and her head began to swim at the heat and scent of his skin.
‘I want you.’
It was the barest of whispers and she drew back a little, needing to search his eyes, to see if she had heard right. The hooded intensity there told her she had heard correctly.
Her throat was too dry to speak so she mouthed the words me, too.
His eyes darkened even more as they traced the movement of her lips.
Immediately he stood and held out his hand to her. Her insides had gone all funny and she worried that her legs wouldn’t carry her.
Just as they were about to leave, the tower started its hourly light show, and as she stood watching the twinkling lights, enraptured, he held her from behind, his hands encircling her waist, his thumbs drawing lazy sensual patterns up and over her ribs.
In the back of the car she tried not to tremble as he held her hand. Silent, powerful restraint pulsated from his rigid body.
Once home, he threw open the front door and pulled her into the darkness, backed her against the wall.
He stood so close the heat from his body curled around her, and she gasped when his fingers moved to undo the top buttons of her blouse. Once open, he pulled it down to expose both shoulders. Slowly he left a trail of soft, knee-weakening kisses along her collarbone and the sensitive ridge of her neck, his fingers dragging down the apricot-coloured lace straps of her bra, leaving a burning trail of heat on her skin.
A deep moan of pleasure ricocheted from deep inside her. Her fingers scratched against the cool wall at her back, desperate to cling to anything.
‘I want to make love to you.’
For the longest while she fought to answer him, her mind distracted as he continued to caress her earlobe, her neck.
The absolute gorgeousness of inhaling him... The bone-melting thrill of his large, muscular body being so close... The desperate need to touch every inch of him... To have his body crushed against hers. To have him make love to her.
Her hands clasped his face and drew him up to face her. Her breath hitched as his burning gaze met hers.
‘I want you, too.’