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The other men exchanged glances. “I believe so,” Vincent said finally. “We’ve all agreed that she’s felt a spark with each of us thus far.”
I looked to Isiah. “Do you agree?” I asked.
Isiah nodded. “She was … extremely receptive to our kiss,” he said. “I got the feeling that she has a great deal of restrained passion inside her. I do not think it will be difficult to get her to unleash it.”
Raphael elbowed Vincent suggestively. “I don’t know, I kind of like the idea of restraints.” Vincent rolled his eyes affectionately.
“Maybe Bernard and I should try to move things along when we meet her,” I said.
Vincent nodded. “I think that’s a good idea.”
I looked to Bernard, who appeared to be lost in thought. “Bernard?” I prompted, and he started. “Are you ready to move forward?”
“I am,” Bernard said, though he looked none too sure.
“That settles it,” I said. “Bernard and I will meet our guest tomorrow and see just how receptive she is.”
10
Bernard
I tried to ignore my misgivings and rapidly beating heart as I approached Isabel’s bedchamber. Étienne believed in this plan, and I believed in Étienne. Besides, I was just meeting the girl. Nothing had to happen. I took a deep, steadying breath and knocked on the door.
Immediately, it swung open, revealing one of the most stunningly gorgeous women I had ever seen. The picture Étienne had shown us had hardly done her justice. She gazed up at me with wide eyes. “Hello?” she said, some hesitation in her voice.
I gave her my most charming smile. “Good afternoon, I just wanted to come by and introduce myself, since I wasn’t home to greet you yesterday. My name is Bernard, I’m the head waiter here in the castle.”
“Oh yes!” Isabel said, her face lighting up with her wide smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you from the others. Please, come in.” She stepped aside and gestured me into the room.
I glanced around. She had unpacked, leaving small personal touches around the room: a lipstick tube here, a hairbrush there. The room already smelled of her light, floral perfume. “These are for you,” I said, holding out a bouquet of roses from Alexandre’s garden. “Alexandre mentioned that you were particularly taken with the rose garden, so I thought you should have a bit of it in your room to help brighten it up.” I clamped my mouth shut suddenly, embarrassed that I had been rambling, but Isabel didn’t seem to notice.
“Oh, how thoughtful!” she exclaimed, taking the bouquet from my hands and inhaling its scent deeply. “I can’t remember the last time someone gave me flowers.”
“I find that hard to believe,” I said, before I could stop myself. “A woman as beautiful as you should have suitors lining up at her door.”
Isabel’s cheeks colored prettily, and I felt my body begin to respond. I wondered if she blushed all over her body. I wanted nothing more than to lay her on the bed and make her cry out, watch as her cheeks turned rosy with passion. Patience, I cautioned myself. I didn’t want to frighten her off by moving too fast. No, better to get to know her better, let her grow comfortable with me. Women didn’t like to be rushed. I knew that much.
“Please, sit down,” Isabel said. She retrieved an empty vase from the mantel and disappeared into the en suite bathroom to fill it with water. Carefully, she arranged the roses on her dresser, and I watched her, desire thrumming through my body.
Finally, she came to join me in front of the fireplace. “Tell me about yourself,” she said, “I understand that you’ve known Mr. Martin the longest of everyone here.” I remembered suddenly that she was a journalist, here on a job.
“I have,” I said. “We’ve known each other since childhood.”
Isabel shifted in her armchair. “He hasn’t agreed to meet with me yet, has he?” she asked.
“Not yet,” I admitted. “But he will.”
“How can you be sure?” she asked, and I heard anxiety in her voice. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be pushy, I just don’t want to disappoint my boss. She took a chance on me, sending me here.”
“I understand,” I assured her. “Jacques will come around. He just needs time to grow accustomed to change. He’s been that way since he was a boy.”
Isabel seemed to accept this. “What was he like, as a little boy?” she asked.
“Research for your article?” I teased. Isabel smiled, unabashed.
“Readers like to see the soft side of celebrities,” she said. “It helps to humanize them.”
I could understand the reasoning there. “Jacques’ story is his to tell,” I said. “But I can tell you he didn’t have an easy childhood. His parents were both addicts, and his father passed away when Jacques was very young.” Isabel nodded sympathetically, but said nothing. I remembered that she had once been a substance abuse counselor. Most likely, this story was one she’d heard many times before. “His mother couldn’t care for him, and eventually she left him in the care of an aunt. He didn’t see her again after that. Likely, she’s also dead by now.”
