Royally Seduced - By Marie Donovan Page 0,16
turned up sexy and clean-shaven and she’d accidentally rubbed her thigh all over his.
She quickly opened a new document and began a blog post on travelling the TGV—Train à Grande Vitesse, the Train of Great Speediness. Like most things, it sounded better in French.
Like her name, Lily. Your average flower that showed up every Easter at the grocery store, like it or not. But it sounded better in French—Lee-lee. And even Jack’s full name, Jacques. Exotic and adventurous, or was she reminded of old Jacques Cousteau specials on the nature channel?
“Jacques,” she whispered his name, just to hear it from her own mouth.
He bolted upright, his eyes wide and staring. “Quoi? Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed his hand. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What?” He turned to her, his eyes coming back into focus. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” She patted his hand. “Go back to sleep. We still have a couple hours left.”
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “No, I’m awake now. I thought I heard someone calling me.”
Cringe. “I was chatting with this woman. Maybe you overheard us.”
“Maybe. Do you have anything to drink? My mouth is very dry.” She passed him a water bottle and he drained it.
“I’ll get another.” He stood and stretched, his shoulders filling out his thin pale green cotton T-shirt. “Do you need anything?”
Yeah, a cold shower for her libido and a bar of soap to wash her mouth out for lying. But since those weren’t options… “How about an orangeade?”
JACK STOOD IN a quiet corner of the train’s bar, sipping his own orangeade as he checked his voice mail. Four frantic messages from his maman, despite the fact he’d called her after leaving to apologize again for the ruins of her well-meaning, if not well-thought-out, party. He’d made it clear he and Nadine were permanently over, but her romantic soul probably thought they’d had a lovers’ tiff. Not one voice mail or text from Nadine. Good. She’d gotten his message, then.
A voicemail from Frank in Portugal and a text from George—who knew where George was? He was traveling frequently back and forth to New York to spend time with his fiancée, Renata, a wedding-dress designer who specialized in vintage styles. Apparently Stevie was wearing one of her creations, and that was how she and George had met.
He hadn’t talked to his friends for several days and called Frank first. His friend’s yelp of delight was a boost to his dysentery-shriveled ego. Good thing it hadn’t shriveled anything else—he hoped.
“Jack, you jerk, don’t you check your voice mails anymore?” Frank clucked. He always was a mother hen.
“Nice to talk to you too, mon ami.”
“Hold on, I’m talking to George on the other line. Let me see if I can conference call on this new phone of mine.” A couple clicks later, the three of them were conversing as if they were all in the same café.
After reassuring his friends that he was not on death’s doorstep any longer, he mentioned that he was on his way to Provence.
“Wonderful!” Frank enthused. He loved being in the country himself and disliked city life.
“A diet of that hearty peasant food will fatten you up in no time,” George added.
“Nadine called me a peasant the other day,” he admitted.
Frank made a choking sound and George groaned. “When did you see that puttana?” Not a nice Italian word, but unfortunately appropriate.
He quickly explained about the fiasco at his mother’s house.
“You did the right thing to get out of town as soon as possible. I know girls like her. They think the entire country is a wasteland between Paris and Nice. She’ll never follow you there,” Frank reassured him.
“From your lips to God’s ears,” Jack replied, having learned that most appropriate plea from one of his Jewish friends in New York.
“Amen,” George replied piously. “I have church on the mind, my friends. Stevie and her Teutonic knight have come up with a handful of possible dates, and we are all meeting with the Archbishop Wednesday.”
“Already,” Jack marveled.
George cleared his throat. “Stefania has a request for you and I promised to pass it along.”
“Anything,” he replied promptly.
“She has realized her wedding will bring much publicity and wants to use that for the benefit of others. Would you be willing to sell her part of your lavender crop to help make a commemorative perfume to sell for her charity?”
“Sell? I’ll give her anything she wants.” Jack thought out loud. “Much of the crop is already