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“How did it go in London…with her?” the comtesse asked.
An image of Amelia’s soft body coiled in a tangle of sheets that smelled of sex in a bedroom filled with moon-beams and shadow slammed into his mind so vividly his heart jumped into his throat and beat madly.
He’d felt an overwhelming desire to sink back into that bed and bury his face in her perfumed hair and hold her warm body tightly. And never let her go. Instead, he’d run. Even now when he saw his actions as reckless and selfish, he still longed for her warmth and kindness. He knew that peace could only be an illusion for a man like him, but he’d felt something awfully like it when he’d lain in her arms.
“Meeting her was a mistake. Nothing was accomplished.” Deliberately he kept his tone flat and low to indicate he had zero interest in the subject. “I would prefer to forget about it.”
“What happened?”
“I never found the right opening to bring up the vineyard. She didn’t seem to want to talk about it. Since I didn’t introduce myself, nothing happened.”
Watching him closely, she lifted her wineglass to her lips. Instead of drinking, she swirled the wine so that it flashed like liquid gold.
“Something happened.” Her laserlike gaze seared him.
He snapped his menu open and sank lower behind it. “I wish you were right. So…have you had time to look at the menu? Have they told you the specials?” He signaled for one of the hovering waiters.
“We can’t possibly order yet.” His mother closed her menu when the waiter came. “We’re waiting for a third party. Perhaps my son would like a glass of wine to calm his nerves.”
Seething, Remy spent far more time than necessary in his selection of wine. When the waiter vanished, Remy launched into a new topic. “I’ve been on the phone all morning with the engineer overseeing the foundation repairs for our villa in Cannes. I need to go down there, so I won’t be able to return to the château until Mademoiselle Weatherbee is gone.”
His mother’s eyebrows rose ever so slightly as she continued to study him in silence.
“This is serious,” she said at last.
“What?”
“You. You’re deliberately avoiding her.” His mother leaned down and pulled the same French tabloid from her purse that the reporter had shoved in his face.
A single glance at Amelia’s grainy profile made Remy stiffen.
“You slept with her.”
Since he was not going to discuss that relationship with his mother, he gripped his menu and studied it, even though the words were a blur and he no longer gave a damn what he ate. Fortunately, before she could continue to pry, a tall, slim blonde dressed in a black suit and pearls caught his eye and that of every other man as she glided into the dining room.
“Céline!”
Smiling, he jumped up and hurried toward her.
She was thinner since her husband’s death, and there was a new sadness in her blue eyes that made her seem both fierce and fragile. On the whole, though, she was much more hauntingly beautiful than she’d been as a girl when he’d dated her in Paris. He brushed his lips across her hand, which was warm and satin soft. She’d been a sweet young thing in Paris. He’d always remembered her fondly.
She smiled as if she were very glad to see him. Suddenly he was genuinely pleased his mother had invited her. At least now, with his mother distracted by her match-making project, he would be safe from more questions about Amelia.
His mother’s eyes were triumphant when he pulled out Céline’s chair. No doubt she saw in the lovely, tragic Céline everything she most desired in a daughter-in-law—beauty, breeding, brains, style and old money.
An image of Amelia with her childish braid and faded cotton sundress arose in his mind’s eye. Could his mother be so pleased if such an unpretentious girl were his choice?
Lunch was long and pleasant. How could it be otherwise in Les Ambassadeurs with the musky perfume of white Italian truffles, butter, garlic and fresh herbs drifting in the air? And with two such charming companions ready to shower him with their undivided attention?
Still, at least for Remy, something was missing. Despite Céline’s efforts at flirtation, he was constantly distracted by visions and memories of Amelia’s sweet face and of her intimate caresses. Why couldn’t he forget how hot and silky she’d felt when she’d been naked underneath his body? Or how sweet and responsive she’d been? Or how utterly trusting? She’d been gentle and kind and sexy as hell.
Suddenly he wanted to forget about Cannes and rush down to Château Serene. What was she doing down there all by herself? Did she miss her aunt terribly? He wanted to put his arms around her and console her. He wanted to hold her naked and make love to her again.
