Rachel arrived at the chateau early the next morning. The low, menacing shape of a vintage Aston Martin was parked in the shade under a tree. She sighed heavily with solemn recognition.
Alain’s.
Killing the engine, she remained seated in her vehicle, her mind heavy. Hot, humid air seemed to rush in and replace the cold air from the silenced air conditioner in seconds. It was not quite nine o’clock.
Her gaze drifted to the chateau’s open front door. I don’t have the energy for another encounter, she thought and closed her eyes. They were scratchy from little sleep. And here she was, confused and undecided, despite spending most of the evening tossing and turning in her bed. She unclipped the safety belt, but remained seated.
I’m divorced now — no longer married. So, should I tell him? Then doubt settled again. Will it even make a difference? In theory I was still married that night in Monaco. Does he even care? This is such a mess.
Suddenly annoyed, she spoke out loud, “Adultery. And I’ve been celibate for three years!”
Then, with a determined twist of her mouth, she snapped the vanity mirror down and checked her makeup. “I will tell him — I will tell him I’m not married anymore,” she muttered with false bravado. Gathering her energy, Rachel extracted herself from the vehicle, grabbed her handbag, and headed up the stairs toward the front door.
“Hello!” she greeted the empty house, and nervously ran a hand to straighten the lavender, cross-over dress she was wearing. Her voice was a trifle too cheerful.
“I’m in here!” His voice boomed from the west wing. A hollow feeling came to her stomach, but with a determined grip on her handbag, Rachel made her way to the library.
“Good morning,” he greeted her stiffly when she entered the large room. Alain was dressed in casual trousers, soft leather loafers, and a black linen shirt. He seemed distant, almost aloof. Cold even.
Bright light entered the library through a series of floor-to-ceiling paneled windows. Heavy bookshelves and rich cherry wood paneled walls created an atmosphere of warmth and luxury.
She turned her head to take in the vast collection of different materials displayed in front of her. Most of the room was filled with an organized assortment of sample materials, primarily from France, but she also noted some exquisite samples from Italy and Spain. In the far corner, a large pile of printed color brochures documented the latest features of a choice selection of expensive heavy appliances, sophisticated electronics, and alarm systems.
Rachel’s heeled sandals clicked on the worn oak parquet flooring as she slowly made her way through the room, her sweeping gaze taking in the materials.
She laid her hand lightly on the rich, creamy, veined marble sample on the table. “I see you’ve been busy.”
“And you’ve already made your selection.” His gaze briefly dropped to her hand on the marble sample.
So this is how we are going to play it. Civil, polite and strictly professional — how utterly boring. She frowned lightly and she scolded herself.
“Yes, this is probably my favorite color for the bathroom flooring, but in the end you will be the one living here. You will have to make the final decisions.” The tone of her voice was even and businesslike. With a sweeping motion of her hand, she included the vast selection of sample materials stacked across the room.
A slight smile played on his handsome face. With effort, she tore her eyes away from the debonair little scar on his upper lip. Surprised by the impulse to run her tongue over it, she clenched the sharp nails of her left hand deep into her palm in a warning to herself.
Behave, Rachel, she mused despondently.
Alain’s brow wrinkled in thought while he briefly pondered her words, his jaw cupped in his hand as his elbow rested on the table. He sat in silence for a moment, and then seemed to make a quick decision.
“I have an idea,” he suggested, raising his dark eyes to her. “Why don’t you pick all your favorites — floor tiles, bathroom tiles, hardware, paint color, trims, balustrades — the whole lot. Once you’ve done that, I can simply approve or reject your selections — add my own touch where I feel it is needed.”
Preoccupied, Rachel twirled a loose lock of hair in her fingers while she considered Alain’s unexpected suggestion. He was giving her complete freedom to finish the chateau to her taste, trusting her judgment in the selection of tiles, flooring, color, drapes, appliances — everything. Unusual, since he was going to be the one living with her selections. But what a thrill that would be.
“Sure, I can do that.” She made her decision, intrigued with the prospect of finishing the chateau to reflect her own style and taste.
“Great.” And with that, Alain grabbed one of the rickety bentwood chairs, propped it against the far wall, and planted himself on it. He crossed his long legs at the ankles and leaned back comfortably in the chair, busying himself with his iPhone.
“Now — you want me to make the selections now?”
“Sure, why not?” he replied with raised brows as if surprised by her hesitation.
Rachel stared at Alain for a moment. He was serious about this, she decided. Shaking her head, she removed the scarf from her hair to put it aside along with her purse.
Well, why not?
She completed a slow circle, taking in the vast array of materials and brochures in front of her, her eyes focused in concentration. Working her way meticulously through the materials, she started selecting her top three choices in each category, starting with the flooring. Flooring first — the base of everything that follows.
Soon Rachel had lost herself in a fantasy world of make-believe, flirting with choices in color, textures and materials. The options were vast, as Alain had arranged samples ranging from stone, wood, and steel, natural and engineered, hand-made, custom, and mass-produced, local and imported.
Her fingers darted from sample to sample, her mind creating first one theme, then ditching it all, only to start again. She was sensitive to maintain the authenticity of the period in which the chateau was built, but determined to find warmth and comfort as well. She wanted the finished chateau to offer its owner a place to live in comfort — a home.
A home — Alain’s home.
This would be the home where Alain and his wife would live one day, she realized with alarm. She risked a quick glance in Alain’s direction. He sat, his body relaxed in the chair, dark hair tumbling over his face, concentrating on reading his messages. Pain stabbed at her heart, and for a moment, she toiled with the thought of telling him that she was not married anymore. Tell him that she was separated from Stuart when they met that evening in Monaco. The words formed in her mind: Alain, just in case you wanted to know, I’m not married anymore. But that sounded desperate and feeble, and Alain’s aloofness discouraged her. What if is she was wrong? What if he didn’t feel the same way about her and she was rejected — again. Courage drained from her, and she shut her mind to the thought, concentrating on the task of selecting materials.
Alain watched her surreptitiously from where he sat against the wall, using his phone to catch up on his email and the latest financials. An excited glow radiated from her while she worked feverishly to select the appropriate materials for the flooring, bathrooms, kitchen, and walls.
Every so often, she would stop, her face drawn in concentration, contemplating the options spread out on the table in front of her. At these moments, he would hold his breath in anticipation, waiting for the instant when she would pinch her lower lip between her thumb and index finger, squeezing the firm, sensuous flesh, rolling it deliciously so that he almost groaned aloud in agony and lust. Then she would turn with a firm shake of her head, mumbling to herself to search her neatly stacked piles of samples for one to replace the one she’d just discarded.
A light sweat formed on his brow, but it couldn’t be entirely attributed to the oppressive humidity of the day. He wiped his brow, inhaled deeply and closed his mind to the swirls of passion waking in his loins. He’d made his decision, and would stick to it.
“You hungry?” he asked, his voice clear and sudden in the big room.
Rachel looked up, somewhat confused at Alain’s question. Then, glancing at her watch, opened her mouth in surprise at how fast the morning had slipped by. A hollow feeling from her stomach reminded her of the scant yogurt and coffee she enjoyed for breakfast, a long time ago.
She nodded.
“Care to join me for lunch in Cassis then?”
She pushed the samples she was arranging to one side and considered Alain’s invitation. A quick lunch. She was hungry; he was hungry. In London, she wouldn’t think twice about dining with a client. “Why not,” she replied. “Give me a minute to freshen up.”