accommodations—displays a very soggy drapeau français, or French tricolour, from its flagpole. In the centre of the square stands an ancient water feature, the kind that was, at one time in a very distant past, functional rather than decorative. We cross the lamp-lit square and turn left into a vaulted alleyway where two rows of narrow houses snake up ahead. Despite the obvious aging of the buildings, the immaculately kept doors to these little houses have trailing bougainvillea and neatly trimmed greenery.
“I hope you know where you’re going,” I pant out, wondering if I should summon the energy to be suspicious of his answering nod. If he’s in the habit of kidnapping women, his choice of lair leaves a lot to be desired. The people who live here must have the stamina of mountain goats, and this coming from a woman who runs Hiit, Barrecore, spinning, and all manner of torturous exercise classes for a living.
We turn a corner, the village’s second most imposing building looming ahead. Stucco paintwork and sash windows framed by niçoises style louvered shutters, the hand-painted signage boasting:
La Belle Auberge
Hôtel. Restaurant. Salon de thé.
Thank the Lord! Though they can keep the thé, or tea. This girl needs a roof, a towel, and a bucket of wine, stat!
We burst into a tiny foyer, our laughter and exuberance filling the space.
“Man, the weather is ridiculous.”
“So bad,” I agree, slicking the rain from my bare arms with my hands. I shiver as I twist my hair over my shoulder, wringing it out over the fibrous doormat. A scarred wooden reception desk faces the doorway with an old-fashioned mail cubby hanging on the wall behind it, a half dozen or so old-fashioned keys occupying the brass hooks. My chilled skin registers the heat of an open flame and the stone fireplace at the far side of the room. A pair of leather wingback chairs stand like sentinels guarding the one other occupant of the room, a basset hound lying prone on the well-worn hearth rug.
“Someone paid attention to the weather forecast,” I say, drawn like a moth to the proverbial flame. “Come and warm up.” I throw the invitation over my shoulder as my companion presses the troublesome door closed, pivoting to face me.
I’m very suddenly no longer moving. Or cold, come to think of it. In fact, I’m very much the opposite, rain probably turning to steam on my skin. I suppose you could say I’m having a moment—a TV adaptation Mr Darcy wet from the pond kind of moment—as I stare at the way his pale shirt clings to his torso and all its deliciousness. Pectorals, shoulders, and biceps, and so, so much more. Droplets of water slap the terracotta floor as he slides his hand through his wet hair, the action painting his shirt to the ladder of his abdominals.
A ladder to the kind of heaven my fingers twitch to find.
“Are you okay?”
I swallow before mumbling something about being thirsty. Suddenly, very thirsty.
He doesn’t answer. Not with words, at least, as his lips curve into a shamelessly wide smile. A smile that is the kind of perfect only enhanced by sharp bicuspids, canine teeth providing him with an air of wolfishness.
“How about you put those cheap thoughts on hold until I find the guy to take care of your car?”
“Should I come with you?” My offer is half-hearted, not only because my bum is now warming nicely by the fire but also because I keep making a fool of myself. There’s every chance I might turn into my mother and insist he gets out of those wet things. Though not necessarily because I worry he might catch a chill.
“You should stay here.” Stalking across the space, he comes to stand in front of me, his gaze heated as it dips. My eyes follow his to find he’s not the only one suffering a wardrobe malfunction, the rain having rendered my dress almost transparent but for the camouflage of the floral pattern.
I fold my fingers under my elbows, which does nothing to hide the hardened points of my nipples. Regular old Fee would never have the nerve to be so audacious and would probably apologise for looking like something that the cat dragged in, even if the way he’s looking at me makes me feel more like a queen than a bedraggled kitty.
“At least it didn’t shrink.”
“No, it did not,” he answers, his tone suggesting it didn’t need to.
“Do you think I should take it off?”
With an amused