The Chateau And The Vineyard? Remy Asked.
Im willing to part with them.
The wind howled. Amelia lifted her wine glass, and the pinot grigio slipped down her throat like cool silk.
Then I see no reason why we cant wrap up this negotiation tonight, he said.
I dont think so, she replied.
My family wants this property, he said. Very much. The price has always been negotiable. You say youll sell. So what will it take to make you a happy seller?
You, she said, staring at the flagstones like a shy schoolgirl instead of a wanton seductress. For a month.
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
When I began this book, I thought, wouldnt it be fun to inherit a vineyard in Provence and meet a handsome French comte who wants both the vineyard and me? Amelia, my heroine, comes from a family of women who are taught from birth to marry well. Shes a rebel. The book begins with her breaking up with a longtime boyfriend who didnt value her. Of course, its she who doesnt really value herself. When her favorite aunt dies and leaves her a vineyard, she goes to France. Who should show up to claim it but an incredibly sexy man who has ancient rights to it himself.
After a night with him, he made her feel so desirable she wants him to teach her about love. She makes him an offerif you make me your mistress for a month, Ill sell you the vineyard.'
This novel is about self-doubt and fantasy and adventure. Its about a woman who meets a man whos wealthy but whos lost his soul. Because of love and commitment both become much more than they ever imagined possible.
Enjoy.
Ann Major
Ann Major
Mistress for a Month
ANN MAJOR
lives in Texas with her husband of many years and is the mother of three grown children. She has a masters degree from Texas A&M at Kingsville, Texas, and is a former English teacher. She is a founding board member of the Romance Writers of America and a frequent speaker at writers groups.
Ann loves to write; she considers her ability to do so a gift. Her hobbies include hiking in the mountains, sailing, ocean kayaking, traveling and playing the piano. But most of all she enjoys her family.
To my aunt, Patricia Carson Major, because shes
so much fun and she adores all things French.
Unfortunately, she never married a French comte.
At least, not yet.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
One
North Shore
Oahu, Hawaii
Wild, zany Aunt Tate dead?
Amelia flipped her cell phone shut. Then her grip tightened on her steering wheel as she rounded a curve of green mountain, and the tall hotels of Waikiki vanished in her rearview mirror. Why couldnt her mother ever just answer the phone?
Amy punched in her mothers number once more, and again it rang and rang.
After Aunt Tates horrid French attorney had told her her aunt had died, Amy had stopped listening for a second or two. The next thing shed caught was, She left you everything.
Everything should have included only Château Serene and the vineyard in Provence where Amy had once shared sparkling summers with Aunt Tate and her haughty comte, but her aunt had not quite finished the process of donating her extremely valuable Matisse to a French museum before her death. Shed left a letter to Amy in her will stating her intentions regarding the painting, but technically the Matisse was hers, as well.
Im afraid the property is in a pitiable state of neglect. Luckily for you the young comte is ready to make you a generous offer. Naturally he would like to buy the painting back, as well. Surely it belongs on the wall in the home of the family whos owned it for nearly a century.
The comtes family disliked my aunt. Im not sure I want to sell to him!
But, mademoiselle, the château belonged to his family for nearly eight hundred years.
Well, apparently everything belongs to me now. Goodbye!
Shed immediately called Nan, her best friend, whod been in a sulk because she hadnt gotten to go on a retreat on Molokai with her sister Liz and had asked her to cover for her at Vintage, her resale shop, during the sale today. Then shed tried to call her mother to tell her about Tate and to ask her if shed work at Vintage so that she could fly to France to check on the château and vineyard.
Imagining her customers lined up outside Vintage, Amy pressed the accelerator, speeding through the mountains and then along the rugged coastline where waves exploded against the rocks. The shop didnt matter. Nothing mattered. Life was short. She wanted Fletcher, her longtime boyfriend. She wanted his arms around her. That was why she was driving as fast as she could to his beach house on the North Shore.
Aunt Tate was gone. On a day like this there should be a rogue wave hurtling toward the Hawaiian Islands or an earthquake about to topple the hotels in Waikiki.
Despite the wind pounding the hood of her Toyota and streaming past her windows, the North Shore of Oahu with its lush, green mountains and wide, white beaches and ocean was beautiful.
Amy felt sad and restless and increasingly nostalgic about Aunt Tate as she kept redialing her mother. If only she could reach her.
Ill never watch Aunt Tate put on one of her crazy getups again. Ill never hear her throaty laugh as she bows extravagantly and jokes about being a countess.
The bright blue sky misted. Amys eyes burned.
No! She wasnt crying!
She was driving too fast, and she never drove too fast. With a shaking hand she dialed her mother again, only this time she mashed her cell phone against her ear.
Sounding out of breath, her mother caught the phone on the eighth ring. Hello!
Mom! Finally! The most awful thing has happened! Ive been calling you and calling you. For hours. The last was an exaggeration, but her mother deserved it.
Do you need more money? Me to sign another mortgage paper on Vintage? Where are you, sweetie? Youre breaking up. Isnt today your big day? Hows the sale going?
Mom, Im not at Vintage. Im on the North Shore.
Amelia, I thought we agreed you werent going to chase Fletcher any more!
Do moms ever step out of the mom role? The last thing she needed was for her mom to start in on how irresponsible and indifferent Fletcher was. Why had she called her mom, of all people?
Because Carol, favorite daughter, her sister, had married wellan English lord, no less. Carol lived on an estate an hour out of London, and it was in the middle of the night over there. Because her best girl buddy, Liz, was in Molokai sitting cross-legged at a retreat. Because Fletchers phone was turned off as usual. Because Mom was Tates sister. Because she was her mom, for heavens sake. And if she had to go to France, who would take care of Vintage?
Shells crunched under Amys tires as she braked in front of Fletchers unpainted house. As always the house and neighborhood looked so shabby they creeped her out.
Amelia! Tell me you didnt drive out to Fletchers alone!
Amy gritted her teeth.
You could do so much better.
Mother, Im grown.
Sometimes I wonder. Carol wouldnt have wasted her precious time
Dont start on Carol, either!
This is all your fathers fault. He was a loser, but you were his favorite. And you couldnt see through him. You feel comfortable with losers like him.
You married him.
Dont remind me.
Mother!
Not that Im glad he left me or thats hes dead, God rest his soul.
From her car Amy nervously scanned the broken-down cars and trucks in Fletchers front yard. Then she spotted Fletchers yellow longboard in the bed of his old blue pickup and felt a surge of relief.
Her mother sighed.
Amy had never liked the house hed bought and rented out to surfers or the communal lifestyle that went with it, but real-estate prices were high on Oahu. She was hardly in a position to criticize. Here, people of ordinary means had to compromise. Since the value of her mothers house had appreciated exponentially over the past two decades, Amy had had to move there to save on rent and to help her mom with the property taxes.
Amelia, are you still there?
Amys fingers traced the smooth leather of the steering wheel. Mom, listen. This lawyer from France with a snotty accent and way too much attitude called me.
What did he want?
Aunt Tate died in her sleep last week.
II cant believe this. II just talked to Tate. She said shed been to all those parties in Paris.
Mom, they already had a memorial service. Shes been cremated and put in a niche or something at Château de Fournier.
What? And nobody called her only sister? They stuck her in Château de Fournier? She hated that place!
Apparently they just found Tates address book today.
Her mother was silent, in shock, or more likely a sulk. Like a lot of sisters, she and Tate hadnt always been the best of pals. Tate had done what the women in their family were supposed to do. Shed married up, way, way up, landing a French count the third time around. And shed never let her family forget it. Shed sent newsy Christmas cards every year to brag about parties at châteaux after her glamorous stepsons Formula One races, trips to Monaco and round-the-world cruises on friends yachts. Her step-children were all celebrities in their own fields. But the main headline grabber had been Remy de Fournier, the handsome, womanizing Grand Prix driver. Not that Tate had boasted much about him lately. Apparently hed retired from the circuit rather suddenly last year.
After one of Tates bright cards or calls, her mother would sulk for days, blaming Amys deceased father for never having amounted to anything.
Youre not going to believe this, Mom, but Aunt Tate left me everything. Château Serene, the vineyard, even the Matisse.
What? That painting alone is worth a fortune.
Aunt Tate intended to donate it to a museum.
You cant afford to be so generous.
Mother! Your babys all grown-up. Im afraid I need to go over there to settle Aunt Tates affairs, pack her personal belongings and inspect the property. I hate to impose, but could you possibly watch Vintage?
I suppose. If it fails, wholl pay the mortgage? Ill need a day, maybe two. After that, Id be glad to. To tell you the truth, Ive been a little bored lately.
Which probably explained why her mother tried to run her life all the time.
Mom, could you help Nan handle the sale today? This question was met with silence. Just for an hour or two? Please! Just to make sure Nans not overwhelmed.
Her mother sighed.
Amy thanked her and hung up. Now all she needed was for Fletcher to hold her and make everything feel all right again.
When Amy opened her car door, the wind tore it from her grasp and whipped her long, brown hair back from her face. Her sandals sank deeply into the shell road, making each step so difficult she was almost happy to step into the high grass of Fletchers yard. With less annoyance than usual, she picked her way through scratchy weeds, beer cans, fluttering fast-food wrappers and plastic sacks. Usually she hated the flotsam and jetsam of Fletchers front lawn.
Lawn. If ever there was a euphemism.
Today she was too anxious to throw herself into his arms, inhale his salty male scent and cling to him forever, to obsess over her issues with his bachelor lifestyle.
He hadnt known Aunt Tate personally, but hed scribbled Amy a postcard or two when shed spent those months in France. One-liners, yes, but for Fletcher, that was a lot.
When Amy reached the rickety wooden stairs that climbed the fifteen feet to his deck, she noticed four triangular bits of red cloth flapping from the railing. She picked them up, fingering the damp strings and then the triangles of what appeared to be the tops of two miniscule bikinis. When she heard music, she frowned. Was Fletcher having a party without her?
A singer cried, Yeah, yeah, yeah. Then the sound of a steel-string guitar accompanied by the heavy thudding of drums.
Her throat tightened, and she flung the bits of fabric savagely into the grass. Avoiding the front door, which stood ajar, Amy put her hands on her hips and marched around to the back of the house by way of the deck. Rounding a corner too fast, she almost stumbled over a bloated male body. His beer gut moved up and down, so he had to be alive. But his shaggy hair was filthy, and his sunburned arms sported several tattoos. She didnt recognize the spider tattoos, so maybe he wasnt one of Fletchers regular roommates.
No sooner had she scooted around him when she saw six or seven more bodies sprawled on the deck, over the hoods of cars in the backyard and across the lawn furniture. A boom of deep male laughter accompanied by wild squeals in the Jacuzzi made her heart speed up.
Fletcher.
She turned slowly. Sunlight glinted in his tousled curls as he squirmed on the edge of the tub while balancing two topless blondes on his lap.
Amy dug her fingers into the railing so hard a splinter bit into her thumb.
When she cried his name, Fletcher bolted to his feet. He wasnt wearing a suit. To his credit his handsome face turned red. Aw, baby, you shouldve called.
The girls toppled into the Jacuzzi with a splash. Squealing, they grabbed at Fletchers bronzed legs.