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Her Mediterranean Makeover
Claire Baxter
I’m forty, in France, on a first date: HELP! I can’t believe I’m on the Côte d’Azur and being taught French…by an amazing man! Jacques is making me feel young, sexy and special again – taking me all over the coast from Nice to Monaco.I feel like a superstar, not a tired old mum, and I wouldn’t swap this feeling for the world. Now I just have to decide what to wear on our first proper date! Wow – maybe life can begin at forty?


‘I believe I was meant to meet you,’ Leonie said. ‘That you were meant to show me that I’m still alive.’
Jacques lifted his head and looked at Leonie the way no man had ever looked at her before. His gaze roamed all over her, making her feel exposed and desired.

He stepped forward, took hold of her shoulders, and lightly touched his lips to hers. He kissed her with all the passion she could have wanted. As his mouth drifted over hers all the questions she’d asked herself, all the debates she’d been having with herself, the constant back-and-forth, should-she-shouldn’t-she? ended in that one exhilarating moment.

He gathered her into his arms and she sank into him, savouring his taste, inhaling his warm, masculine scent, feeling the heat of his body and the strength of his arms encircling her. His kiss sparked into life parts of her that had been dormant for a very, very long time.
Like many authors, Claire Baxter tried several careers before finding the one she really wanted. She’s worked as a PA, a translator (French), a public relations consultant and a corporate communications manager. She took a break from corporate communications to complete a degree in journalism and, more importantly, to find out whether she could write a romance novel—a childhood dream. Now she can’t stop writing romance. Nor does she plan to give up her fabulous lifestyle for anything. While Claire grew up in Warwickshire, England, she now lives in the beautiful city of Adelaide in South Australia, with her husband, two sons and two dogs. When she’s not writing, she’s either reading or swimming in her backyard pool—another childhood dream—or even reading in the pool. She hasn’t tried writing in the pool yet, but it could happen. Claire loves to hear from readers. If you’d like to contact her, please visit www.clairebaxter.com

Her Mediterranean Makeover
by

Claire Baxter



www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/)
Dear Reader
If you’d had one sweetheart for your entire adult life—from high school to raising a family and building a business, through illness and finally his death—and you’d never had a moment’s doubt that he was the love of your life, what would you think were the chances of falling in love again?

No chance at all? That’s what Leonie thinks too.

Falling in love for the second time after thirty years with one man is scary. It’s like going skydiving again after crashing into the ground the first time. It takes courage, but it’s exciting, and it can be surprising…

Falling in love is fabulous—at any age.

Best wishes

Claire
For my mother, with love.

Chapter One
IT WAS so good to hear her daughter’s voice. Leonie cradled the phone against her ear and wondered what she’d been thinking when she’d enrolled in a course on the other side of the world.
Yes, her children were legally adults, but they still needed her. And she needed them too. She’d never been separated from them before. Not for this long. No longer than a school camp, really.
‘You could have sent me a text message, Mum. You didn’t have to ring me again.’
‘I just wanted to check that you’d worked out how to operate the washing machine. It’s tricky if you’re not used to it.’
‘Yes, Mum. Your instructions were spot on.’ Sam hesitated, then asked, ‘Is that the real reason you called, Mum?’
‘Of course!’ Leonie winced at the fib. Samantha had always been the sensitive one. Even as a toddler she’d had the ability to pick up on her mother’s moods. ‘Well, to be honest, darling, I just wanted to make sure you were all right.’
‘Yes, Mum, I’m all right. You don’t need to worry.’ Sam stressed the last few words.
‘And your brother?’
‘Kyle’s fine too. Well, he’s as obnoxious as ever, but we’ll manage till you get home. It’s only a matter of weeks, after all. This is your time, Mum, and you deserve it. Enjoy it.’
Easier said than done.
‘It’s not a matter of weeks, it’s nearly three months! That’s what a trimester means.’
‘And there’s only four weeks in a month,’ Sam said, laughing. ‘It will fly by. That’s what you used to tell me when I didn’t want to go back to school after the holidays, remember?’
She remembered. Oh, yes, she remembered. If only she could have that time over again. Fighting back tears as she said goodbye, Leonie clicked off the call, then went to the wide-open French doors that led to the single-person balcony of her oneroom apartment. She couldn’t see much of Nice, only the buildings across the narrow street. That was her fault for choosing to stay in the old town instead of a modern apartment in the city.
She’d rejected the idea of living in the residences at the language school just outside Nice, in favour of renting her own furnished apartment, figuring it would make for easy sightseeing. But she wasn’t sure now that she’d made the right choice.
The apartment was so much smaller than it had looked on the internet. She’d thought it would be quaint, and it was, but to someone who was used to a spacious family home on a generous block of land in suburban Australia this apartment, with its kitchenette in one corner and a tiny shower off the main room, was quite a shock. As was the local custom of hanging washing on poles outside the window. She wasn’t at all keen on displaying her underwear for passers-by to inspect.
There were times, like now, when this apartment made her feel claustrophobic, and she’d never experienced such a sensation in her life. Thank goodness for the balcony.
As usual, a petite old lady sat on the balcony that faced hers. She was always well groomed, and well dressed. Leonie wondered why she never went out. Was she waiting for someone who never came?
She’d tried smiling and waving at her, but received no reaction. Today she called out, ‘Bonjour, Madame.’
She received a cool nod. A slight advance on nothing.
Leonie looked along the street, wondering what to do to pass the time. She decided against sightseeing. Not that she didn’t want to see the city, but she wasn’t feeling up to doing it on her own. She’d tried to explore, but even with a guidebook she kept getting lost. Navigating had never been her strong point, but then she’d never really had to do it. On trips, her job had been to make sure every member of the family had enough to eat and drink, wore sunscreen and had a good time.
But now, her role had changed. Trouble was, when she did find the place she’d set out for, it brought home the realisation that she had nobody to share it with.
No husband and no kids. For so long, they’d been her whole life. It was disorientating to be alone like this.
Apart from missing her children like crazy, Leonie was not at all sure she’d done the right thing in taking on this language immersion course. It had seemed like a no-brainer when she’d first come up with the idea. She’d always wanted to improve her limited knowledge of French and she’d always wanted to travel, but what with marrying Shane straight out of high school, helping him build his business, then nursing him through his long illness while raising their children, she’d managed neither.
Now, three years after Shane’s death, with both children at university, she was finally ready to find out for herself what the wider world had to offer, and she could afford to do it too. Between Shane’s life insurance and the sale of his plumbing business, he’d left her very comfortably off. She’d never need to work.
Learning French in France…well, it had seemed like the perfect plan, but it hadn’t turned out quite as she’d expected. For one thing, this language was really hard to learn. Or maybe she was too old for it. That saying about old dogs and new tricks was probably a cliché because it was true.
Either way, she was having a tough time making sense of what people were saying. The other students didn’t seem to have the same problem, though, and she felt like a dill alongside them.
And that was another thing. She’d thought she’d make new friends on the course, but she hadn’t counted on all the other students being so young. They were friendly enough, but when they asked if she’d like to go for a drink with them, they were only being polite. She could tell by the way they looked over her shoulder, careful not to make eye contact when they invited her.
So she didn’t go. She didn’t really want to anyway. It would be like socialising with her kids’ friends, and wouldn’t feel right.
She’d found the French people she’d met so far to be very polite. Shopkeepers went out of their way to greet her when she entered a store, which was nice, but in general they didn’t seem to do conversation. Not with strangers anyway. Back home people would snatch any chance for a chat, but here, in her experience, the locals didn’t speak unless spoken to, and then only reluctantly.
Except for the man who ran the little café she’d found the week before. She’d been wandering the narrow streets of old Nice—alleys, really, they weren’t wide enough to be called streets—when an inconspicuous door had opened beside her, and the aroma that had poured out, combined with the sound of cheerful voices, had made her want to enter.
She’d looked up at the wall above the arched doorway but had seen no sign, only a brightly planted window box at a green-shuttered upstairs window. Still, the scent of strong coffee along with the sight of tiny round tables crammed into the small space had called to her like the Pied Piper’s flute, and she’d followed it obediently. Inside she’d found a little café, and a welcome that had revived her as much as the coffee.
Jean-Claude, the elderly man who’d served her, had been friendly, chatty and interested in her. That alone would have been sufficient to bring her back, but she’d also enjoyed the ambience of jazz music playing softly from unconcealed speakers on whitewashed walls alongside art that to her uneducated eyes, looked ancient.
All the French newspapers were provided for customers to read, and she’d enjoyed a lazy browse, lingering over the few stories that she could almost understand. If she was going to stay, she thought now, it would be a good idea to set herself the goal of figuring out more written French each day.
Within minutes, she was out of the apartment and heading for the café. She could go and buy the papers for herself, but this was much nicer. It allowed her the illusion that she was settling in.
Besides, it gave her something to do and she needed that. During all those years of caring for others, of being constantly busy, she’d dreamed of taking a holiday alone, of having the time to do nothing at all. But now that she had her wish, she really wasn’t sure that she liked it. Maybe she’d just grown used to being needed, and here no one needed her at all. It was an odd sensation.
The café was busy and Jean-Claude didn’t have time for chit-chat, and when she reached the newspaper rack only the most difficult one was left. Well, difficult for her, she admitted as she tucked it under her arm and carried her coffee to a table at the back of the room. Understanding one word in twenty did not make for an entertaining read.
Having spread the newspaper on the table, she took a sip of coffee and scanned the room, wondering if this was the norm and she’d just happened to turn up last week on the one day when the café was light on customers. As her gaze drifted from table to table she did a double take. A good-looking man was smiling at her. She glanced behind her, but no, there was no one standing there. Gosh, he really was smiling at her.
She smiled back. She’d seen him before. The first day she’d entered the café he’d been seated at the counter on one of the high stools. She couldn’t help noticing him. Well, he did stand out in his pristine white shirt and dark trousers when most of the other patrons wore smart-casual clothes; her guess was that he worked nearby. But it was more than that—there was something about him that made him stand out…a presence. Charisma, was that it?
Whatever it was, he was still watching her. Maybe he thought he knew her from somewhere. If so, he was mistaken. With a mental shrug, she put down her coffee, reached into her handbag for her reading glasses and tried to concentrate on the words in front of her.
She was reasonably successful, despite being forced to glance up every few seconds to see whether he was still there. After a while, Leonie gave herself strict instructions not to look up for any reason at all until she’d read to the end of one full story. The shortest one would do.
Halfway through, though, she was interrupted by a male voice. When she looked over the top of her glasses, the man standing in front of her came into focus. The man who’d been smiling at her earlier. The same man she’d been unable to take her eyes off. And he was even better-looking close up.
Older than he’d appeared at first, he had just enough silver sprinkled through his hair to make him appear…safe. Same deal with the laughter lines around brown eyes that were so full of warmth and humour she found herself smiling even though she had no clue what he’d said.
She hurriedly shoved her glasses to the top of her head where they were anchored by her curly hair, then asked him to repeat his words. She watched his mouth closely as he spoke, trying her hardest to separate the sounds into individual words. Without much luck.
She shook her head and gave him an apologetic shrug.
Compassion filled his face and he leaned forward. ‘Vous êtes sourde?’ he enunciated clearly.
Sourde, sourde… Leonie searched her memory for the word.
He covered his ears with his hands, following the action with a questioning lift of his eyebrows.
Deaf! That was it.
‘Oh, my, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m from Australia.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, changing smoothly to English and smiling again. ‘I didn’t think of that. This café does not normally attract tourists.’
‘I’m not surprised. It was pure chance that I found it. There’s nothing outside to indicate that it is a café.’
‘No. That’s the way we like it.’ He grinned. ‘I’m sorry. I meant no offence.’
‘Oh, none taken. I’m not a tourist.’
‘Ah, bon? You live here?’
‘Well, temporarily. I’m here to study the language so I’m a student. I look far too old to be one of those, I know. Do you object to students as well?’ She smiled, sure that someone with eyes that gleamed with humour couldn’t possibly be serious about disliking any group of people.
‘Not at all. Nor do I object to tourists,’ he said firmly. ‘They are important to the economy, they create many jobs, so how could I?’ He indicated the chair opposite her. ‘May I?’
‘Oh, yes. Please do,’ she said quickly. Not that she was desperate for company or anything.
‘I have been to Australia. New Zealand too.’
‘Well, you’re one up on me, then. I haven’t seen New Zealand. In fact, I’d never been out of the country until I came here. Do you travel a lot?’
‘Not now. I have commitments now that make travelling difficult. But when I was a young man, I wanted to see the world, and I travelled cheaply.’
‘Ah. Backpacking?’
‘Staying in hostels or with people I met. I suppose you would call it backpacking. I learned English as I went, because it was essential. I did some grape-picking and other temporary jobs.’
And she’d bet he was a huge hit with the girls. Although his English was perfect, he spoke it with an accent that was unmistakably French, and in his younger days he must have been incredibly attractive. It would have been a lethal combination.
He tilted his head. ‘Are you here alone?’
‘Yes.’ For an instant Leonie wondered whether that was a smart admission, but then she dismissed the thought. Stranger or not, he didn’t seem the least bit dangerous. And it wasn’t as if he knew where she was staying. Sitting in this crowded café with Jean-Claude behind the counter, there was no risk at all.
As if he’d picked up on her hesitation, he said, ‘I did not mean to intrude.’
‘No, no, you’re not intruding.’ She hadn’t meant to give that impression.
‘I noticed that you preferred this newspaper last time.’ He held out the rolled-up publication that he’d been holding. ‘It is not as heavy-going as that one.’ Gesturing at the one on the table, he got to his feet. ‘Now, I will leave you to your reading.’
‘Oh, okay.’ Disappointed that their conversation was to be cut short, she said quickly, ‘I’m Leonie, by the way. Perhaps I’ll see you in here again?’
He smiled then, and Leonie felt the unfamiliar zing of…of appreciation, not attraction. It was just that she hadn’t seen such a good-looking man for a very long time. If ever. And his smile should come with a warning. If she’d been someone else—someone younger, someone…well, whatever—it would have knocked her off her feet. But she was a wife and mother. Well, she had been a wife, and was still a mother. She was well past all that.
Besides, she was sitting down.
‘I hope so. I come here often.’
But he was still a stranger, and had she really just suggested meeting him again when she knew nothing about him? What was she doing?
He held out his hand. ‘My name is Jacques Broussard. I am an old friend of the owner here,’ he said, nodding towards Jean-Claude. ‘Our families have known each other for years. If you want to check up on me, that is.’
Leonie grimaced. ‘Did you just read my mind?’
With a grin, he said, ‘Mind-reading is not one of my talents. But you seem like a sensible woman, and any sensible woman should take care when talking to strangers.’
‘Yes, well, I’m Leonie Winters. Pleased to meet you. And thank you for this.’ She tapped the newspaper he’d given her. ‘I was struggling with the other one.’
He nodded. ‘That’s understandable, and you’re welcome.’
After he’d gone, Leonie sat for a long moment. Jacques Broussard. What a name. Very…um, French. She could still feel his grasp on her hand as if he’d left an imprint. Glancing at her hand, she shook her head, dismissing the idea as ridiculous.
The last time anyone had shaken her hand was at Shane’s funeral. Before she could stop them, memories of that day flooded her mind, forcing out every other thought. Many of his former employees had approached her to shake her hand, to pay their respects. Tears filled her throat as she relived the emotional outpouring of admiration from people who’d known her husband. Shane had inspired the high opinion of everybody who had had meaningful contact with him, mainly through his work ethic and his one-hundred-percent commitment to anything he undertook.
He’d been committed to her. How lucky was she?
Not only had she married her high-school sweetheart, but they’d remained in love throughout twenty years of marriage. Not many couples could say that nowadays.
They’d been blessed by the arrival of two wonderful children who’d never caused them the anguish that she’d witnessed other families undergoing. Theirs had been a close and happy family unit.
That was why she’d never had a holiday without her family, and they’d shared some amazing experiences, albeit close to home in case Shane should have been called back to work to deal with an emergency. He’d enjoyed spending time with his family, but had never lost sight of his responsibilities. He’d taken them seriously; he’d taken everything seriously, actually, even his health. So it was unfair that, despite all his care, he’d still fallen ill.
She’d tried to make him well, and when it had become clear that he wouldn’t recover she’d done her best to make him happy, or, at the very least, comfortable. She’d tried hard, and he’d appreciated it. Never grumpy, never complaining, he’d thanked her every day for the sacrifices she was making.
Huh. As if she’d cared about what she was missing out on. Nothing had been as important as spending every moment with Shane, nursing him herself rather than hand over the chores to a paid carer.
What would Shane think of her now? She’d abandoned her children with the frivolous goal of learning another language. And what use would it be to her?
Once she left Nice for home, she’d probably never visit France again. Why should she, having got it out of her system?
What was she doing here? Just wasting time and money?
Or was she looking for something? Her own life?
The tears had gradually made their way from her throat to her eyes and one spilled over her lower lid onto the newspaper that Jacques had given her. She stared down at the absorbent paper as it made the teardrop look much worse than it was.
Which was exactly what she was doing.
She had to lighten up. It was three years since Shane had died and most of the time she was fine. It was only on odd occasions that memories set her off. She was incredibly lucky to be in the position she was in. How many women had the opportunity to do exactly what they’d always wanted to do?
Wiping away the remaining tears before they could fall, she remembered something that Jacques had said.
He’d noticed which newspaper she preferred last week.
He’d been watching her, taking notes—not literally, she assumed, but still…She didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned.
Perhaps she should do as he’d suggested and check his references. But a glance at the smiling Jean-Claude had her shaking her head. That wasn’t necessary. Just the fact that he’d suggested it was enough to tell her he had nothing to hide and, besides, what were they talking about here? A chat, that was all. Not a date.
So, he was observant. That wasn’t a bad thing. He probably noticed stuff about everyone who entered the café. It wouldn’t hurt her to be more aware of her surroundings. She’d been living in the very small world consisting of her immediate family for far too long.

Chapter Two
THE next day, when Leonie arrived back at the apartment at the end of her lessons, she didn’t wait for claustrophobia to hit, but immediately showered and changed her clothes before checking her reflection in the only mirror she had. A small one.
All the local women were well turned out, even when dressed in casual clothes. In comparison, she felt dowdy in her shorts and T-shirt. Sam had tried to convince her to shop for a whole new wardrobe before coming away, but she’d made do with popping to the local chain store and grabbing some basic items. She’d never been one for fashion. There had always been more important things to think about, family things, and no one had ever cared what she wore. As long as she was tidy, she’d figured fashion didn’t matter.
She looked at herself more critically than she ever had before. Maybe she should visit some of the local shops and see what she could come up with? It couldn’t hurt.
At least she was lucky that she hadn’t gained much weight over the years, especially as she hadn’t been skinny to start with. She’d always been a bit hippy and busty. Actually, she had gained quite a few kilos earlier on, but had lost them during the first months of Shane’s illness. Seeing him suffer had turned her right off food, and she’d never really regained her former appetite. So, no, she wasn’t fat, but that didn’t mean her body was in great condition. Far from it.
Her hair was okay, though. Well, her hairdresser had offered to touch up a few grey roots, but she hadn’t seen the point at the time, saying that they weren’t noticeable amongst her blond hair and her natural curls hid them anyway.
She chewed her lip, wishing she’d let the hairdresser work her magic on those roots.
But why? Did she see the point now? Was Jacques the reason for her out-of-character critical scrutiny?
No!
She hoped to see Jacques again, true enough, but only because he was someone to talk to. Someone friendly. So what if she looked her age? He did too.
Hmm, like there was any comparison. Men aged differently from women, and he looked great.
She sighed. If he was superficial enough to object to the way she looked, he wasn’t someone she wanted as a friend. She couldn’t help being over forty, and there was nothing wrong with that anyway.
Leonie pushed open the café door and was rewarded by the sight of Jacques, in another pristine white shirt, his dark suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. He rose to his feet and waved her over.
She sighed with relief. At least there would be no awkwardness such as deciding whether to go up to him or not.
‘Good afternoon, Leonie.’
He pronounced her name ‘Lay-o-nie’, with the emphasis on the first syllable. She was about to correct him, when she changed her mind. It sounded different, and she liked it. Different was good.
‘Hello, Jacques.’
Goodness, he was even more gorgeous than she’d remembered. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea?
But then he grinned, a grin so genuine and boyish it made her heart stand still. And she knew she couldn’t walk away.
He placed a chair next to his and held it for her. She gave him a questioning look. Why would she sit next to him like that?
He shrugged. As if he’d read her mind again, he said, ‘I thought we could read the newspaper at the same time. You can point out anything you have difficulty with and I can help you.’
‘Oh, but you don’t have to—’ She stopped, because it was thoughtful of him. She smiled. ‘Thank you. That’s a nice idea. I appreciate it.’
After she’d settled at the table and Jacques had fetched her a coffee, Leonie took her reading glasses from her bag and slipped them on. Then she watched Jacques reach into his jacket pocket and do the same thing.
Grinning, she said, ‘It’s a drag, isn’t it? A sign of old age creeping up on us.’
‘We have a lot of life in us yet.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ She shrugged. ‘Maybe you do, but my best years are well and truly gone.’
He frowned. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘It’s a fact. I’ve been married, had my children, now I’ve turned forty and I’m heading towards…’ With a pang, she realised she didn’t know what she was heading towards. ‘Well, grandchildren, I guess.’
He made a scoffing sound. ‘You are not old enough to be a grandmother.’
‘Well, technically I am, but, more to the point, I wouldn’t like either of my kids to have children yet. I hope they’ll get an education and live a little before they settle down to raising a family.’
She sighed, looking away.
‘You miss them?’
‘I do. I miss them so much. Yesterday, I was seriously considering going home. This…’ she waved a hand meant to encompass the café, the city, the course…everything ‘…this is so not me. I’m a mother first and foremost, and I can hardly believe I’ve left my children to fend for themselves while I’m here, pleasing myself.’
She shrugged, then took her phone from her bag, flipped it open and brought a photo of Sam to the screen. ‘This is my daughter, Samantha. She’s the elder of the two.’
He smiled. ‘She is very pretty. She takes after her mother.’
Leonie’s eyes widened, just for an instant, but then she reminded herself that it was the sort of thing people said to be polite. He was right about one thing, though. Sam was very pretty. But she was sweet too.
With a proud smile, she nodded. ‘She’s a lovely girl. She’s studying social work at university. It’s always been her ambition to help people.’
‘You must have raised her well.’
‘Oh, no. It’s all her own doing. Even as a toddler she was like that. At kindergarten she used to get terribly upset if one of the other children fell and scraped a knee. Empathy. That’s her strongest trait.’
It felt so good to talk about her kids. Her fellow students were barely older than Sam and Kyle and had no interest whatsoever in her maternal ramblings. But Jacques didn’t seem bored.
He gave her an encouraging nod as she brought up a picture of Kyle. She turned the phone to face him.
‘He does not look so much like you.’
‘He looks just like his father did at the same age.’
Shane had been just the opposite of Jacques. Taller, and lanky. His limbs had seemed too long for him at school and he’d never really grown into them. Blond, with a serious face. It was the seriousness that had attracted her to him in the first place. He was different from the other boys at school.
Jacques gave her a curious look. ‘You said you had been married? You are no longer…?’
‘I was married to Shane for twenty years. Till he died. Three years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She nodded. ‘He’d been ill for a long time.’ She took a sip of coffee.
After a pause, he said, ‘Three years is not such a long time. You must miss him still.’
‘Oh, I do.’ Yes, she missed Shane, and she always would, but she no longer woke during the night shocked to find he wasn’t there. She hadn’t done that for months now. She’d even taken her wedding ring off, and tucked it away safely in her jewellery box at home. She was getting used to being alone. ‘I do miss having him there to talk to about the kids, and to make plans with. Though, to be honest, we hadn’t really made any plans for a long time.’
She stopped for another sip of coffee.
‘Tell me about your son,’ Jacques said.
This brought a smile to her face again as she looked up, and she guessed that had been his intention.
‘He’s great too, but in a very different way from Samantha. He’s such a boy.’ Then, not sure that Jacques would understand what she meant, she went on. ‘He loves action movies and football and off-road driving with his mates. He drives Sam to distraction. When they were kids he used to torment her with creepy crawlies and the like, but he thinks the world of his sister and wouldn’t let anyone hurt her.’
Physically, at least, she thought. There was nothing Kyle or she could do to stop Sam being hurt by people who took advantage of her soft heart, as they’d discovered already.
Sighing, she lifted her head to look into Jacques’ brown eyes. ‘And what about you? Married? Children?’
He hesitated, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet. After opening it, he gazed at it for a moment before turning it so that Leonie could see two photos. ‘My son. Antoine.’
She leaned forward to get a better look, and saw a boy who obviously had Jacques’ genes. ‘Oh, gosh, he looks just like you.’
And being in his father’s arms made it that much more obvious. But as she had the thought she also registered that he was kind of big to be carried by his father.
Shifting her eyes to the second picture, she saw the reason. In this one, Antoine was on his own, and in a wheelchair.
She looked up. ‘He’s cute. How old is he?’
‘Ten. These photos were taken a year ago.’
She nodded. ‘And the wheelchair?’ She could have ignored it, but that wasn’t in her nature. Her question was straightforward because she wanted to know the answer.
‘Spina bifida. He has no feeling in his legs.’
‘I see.’
‘And to answer your other question…’ Jacques paused, and put his wallet away before continuing ‘…I was married. Antoine’s mother left while he was still very young. We were divorced twelve months later.’
Leonie’s jaw dropped and for a moment she stared at him. ‘She left?’
He nodded. ‘She couldn’t cope.’
‘Couldn’t cope? But surely you could have got help?’
‘Yes, yes.’ He waved a hand. ‘It wasn’t the work involved, it was…’ He paused and cleared his throat. ‘She was a perfectionist. Everything in her life had to be one-hundred-per-cent perfect. In her eyes, Antoine was…defective.’
‘Defective?’ She spluttered the word, then pursed her lips for a moment. ‘Oh, my, I think it was better that she did leave if that was her attitude.’
‘Exactly.’
Leonie blew out a breath. ‘So, is it just you and him now?’
‘We live with my mother and my brother. It wouldn’t be practical for the two of us to live alone. Some aspects of Antoine’s care require more than one pair of hands, especially now that he is growing older and heavier. I couldn’t manage him on my own, and, besides, I have to work.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘At the risk of sounding…what is the word? Soppy. He is the most important thing in my life.’
‘It’s not soppy. I mean, yes, that’s the right word, but I understand completely. Like I said, I came very close to going home because I miss my two so much.’
‘What stopped you?’
Would he be shocked to hear that he had? Probably, but it was true. Not because she had any silly ideas about him, just because it had done her heaps of good to make a connection, however small, with another human being. It was such a relief to know that she didn’t have to spend her entire stay feeling lonely.
‘I didn’t want to give up on the course.’ That was true too. ‘I might not be very good at it, but I do want to improve. It’s supposed to be a really good course. It uses all the latest audio-visual methods, and language labs and so on, but I just feel left behind.’
He made a sympathetic sound.
‘Maybe it’s an age-related thing. If I was younger, I might be more receptive to it. I studied French at high school and I did quite well there, so I thought I’d be able to pick it up quickly. But that was a long time ago, and I was wrong.’
She sighed. ‘I wish I could speak it as well as you speak English.’
‘I’m sure you will, but it takes real-life practice.’ He drank some coffee and watched her over the rim of his cup. ‘Anything worth doing takes practice. Lots of it.’
Now, what had made her read a double meaning into his perfectly innocent words?
The fact that he’d maintained eye contact a little longer than necessary?
She dismissed the nonsensical thought, quite sure he hadn’t meant anything beyond what he’d said. And he was right. ‘I shouldn’t be speaking English now, should I? I should make an effort to talk to you in your own language. That’s the only way to get practice, isn’t it?
‘The thing is, whenever I try to speak to anyone here in French, they smile indulgently and proceed to speak in English. It’s…humbling. I’m obviously very bad at it.’
‘Don’t think of it as humbling, think of it as a compliment.’
She gave him a sceptical look.
‘No, really. They are pleased that you have made the attempt, so they are returning the compliment by saving you the trouble.’
‘Oh.’ She laughed. ‘I’ll never get any practice, then, will I?’
‘You can practise on me.’
She tilted her head. ‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘Are you sure I’m not keeping you from anything?’
‘Not at all. I would have been here anyway.’
‘But you would have been reading your newspaper and I’m stopping you from doing that.’ She flapped a hand at it. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. I have enjoyed hearing about your family.’
‘Really?’
His lips twitched. ‘Really.’ He waved a hand to bring her attention to the newspaper in front of them. ‘Eh bien, let’s begin. Look, there is an interesting story here on page two.’ He pointed it out. ‘What do you think of that? Tell me in French, if you will.’
She smiled before bending her head. ‘Sure, but it will take me a while to read it.’
‘I can wait.’
They read in silence for some time, then discussed the story. With Jacques’ encouragement and lots of laughter, Leonie stopped feeling embarrassed about her mistakes—and there were plenty of them—and started to enjoy herself, certainly a lot more than she’d enjoyed the lessons at the school.
They went on to discuss more stories, partly in one language, partly the other. An hour had gone by when Jacques announced that he had to leave.
Disappointed but determined not to show it, Leonie asked brightly, ‘Back to work?’
He nodded as he rose to his feet.
‘Do you mind if I ask where you work?’
Smiling, he said, ‘Do you know the restaurant La Bergamote?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Are you the chef?’
He shook his head. ‘The owner.’
‘Oh. But if you own a restaurant, why do you come here for coffee? That’s a coals-to-Newcastle thing, isn’t it?’
‘A what?’
She shook her head. ‘Figure of speech. It just seems a strange thing to do.’
‘It’s a tradition. I enjoy the walk and I like to see my friend.’ He glanced towards Jean-Claude. ‘Also, it’s good to get away from tourists, just for an hour or so between lunch and dinner.’
‘And today you’ve had to put up with me,’ she said with a rueful grimace. ‘I won’t bother you again. I’ll let you enjoy your coffee in peace in future.’ She meant what she said, but she was already imagining how lonely she’d be without their conversation to look forward to.
‘No.’ He frowned. ‘Please don’t. I will look forward to seeing you here again.’
Was he just saying that to humour her? She gave him a direct look and he returned her gaze steadily. Either he was telling the truth or he had a very good poker face.
‘Tomorrow afternoon, yes?’
‘I guess so.’
‘I will be devastated if you are not here.’
‘Devastated.’ She laughed. ‘Yeah, right.’ But she appreciated his kindness. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
He smiled. ‘Good.’ With a nod at her and a wave for his friend behind the counter, he swung his jacket over his shoulder. She couldn’t help noticing that he was quite solid, masculine. Not big, but even through his white shirt she could tell that he was well defined, strong-looking.
By the time he’d left, Leonie was feeling happier and more relaxed than she had since she’d arrived in France.
Jacques walked away, wondering whether he’d gone mad. He usually had to know people quite well before he told them about Antoine. He certainly never discussed his ex-wife. So, why had he opened up to Leonie that way?
Leonie had been surprisingly easy to talk to. His intention at the start of the conversation had been to make her feel comfortable so that she would relax and talk to him, but she had been the one who’d made him talk.
Well, in fact, they had both talked, and he now knew about her husband. He wasn’t sure whether she was over him yet. And he’d learned about her children. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her he enjoyed hearing about them, but it was what her words told him about her that he’d enjoyed most. Her pride in them had been tangible, and pleasing.
He was going to take pleasure in helping Leonie to learn his language.
On Saturday, Jacques strode towards the café. He’d met Leonie each afternoon for the past three days, but today he was late. He lengthened his stride a little more. He did not want to miss her.
Just as he’d had the thought the café came into view and he saw Leonie walking away from it, in the opposite direction.
He called out to her, breaking into a jog. When she looked back and saw him, she didn’t appear angry or irritated as he’d worried she might. Instead, she gave him a broad smile.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said when he reached her, more pleased to see her than he had any right to be. ‘I couldn’t get here sooner.’
He stopped to draw breath and Leonie touched his forearm in concern. ‘What happened? Is everything all right now?’
Her sincere expression touched him too, but inside, throwing him off balance.
‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ he said, recovering his equilibrium. ‘Did you get my message?’
She nodded. ‘Jean-Claude told me you’d been held up. That was thoughtful of you, to call the café. When it got so late, I decided you weren’t coming at all today.’
‘I wasn’t sure I’d get here in time. Where are you going? Back to your apartment?’
‘No. I’m staying over there.’ She gestured vaguely. ‘Not far from Place Garibaldi, in Rue Saint Augustin.’
It struck him that they’d come a long way in a few days. At the beginning, she wouldn’t have told him where she lived, which was good—he didn’t like to think of her being vulnerable to unscrupulous people who might take advantage of her kindness. She didn’t deserve to be ripped off. But today, she hadn’t hesitated to reveal her address…as if she trusted him.
The thought gave him a jolt.
‘I was just going for a walk,’ she said. ‘Nowhere in particular.’
‘May I join you?’
‘Yes, of course, but are you certain you wouldn’t rather go back?’ She pointed to the café. ‘Don’t you want a coffee?’
He shook his head and turned in the direction she’d been walking, adjusting his steps to match her shorter ones as they set off.
‘It was one of my kitchen staff,’ he said. ‘She has been having problems with her husband and she made the decision to leave him.’
‘Oh?’
For the first time, a look of disapproval crossed her face. Perhaps she found it hard to accept that not all marriages were as long and happy as hers had been. But it was a sad fact of life that some marriages were not made in heaven. His own included.
He shook off the bad memory before it could spoil this pleasant moment with Leonie.
‘He was violent,’ he said. ‘She made the right choice.’
‘Oh, I see. Of course she did. That’s awful.’ Her forehead creased. ‘But how were you involved?’
He shrugged. ‘She needed someone to help move her belongings out of the house while her husband was at work. She needed to find a safe place for her children and herself to stay where he is unlikely to find them.’
‘She has children?’ Biting her lip, she frowned. ‘Did she find somewhere to stay?’
‘Yes. She’s safe now.’
‘Oh, good.’ She blew out a breath. ‘You helped her do all this?’
He nodded. ‘Someone had to. It took a little longer than I expected.’
‘For what it’s worth, I think you did absolutely the right thing.’ After a hesitation, she said, ‘Is she your girlfriend?’
‘No! Of course not. I told you, she is married.’
‘I don’t think that would stop everyone.’
‘It would stop me.’
She gave him a doubtful glance.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘Of course I do. But I don’t understand why you felt obliged to help.’
He shrugged. ‘She has no one else.’
Smiling, she shook her head. ‘You’re a nice man, Jacques.’
‘Let’s go this way.’ He touched her elbow with one hand as he pointed with the other. Embarrassed, he drew her attention to the baroque architecture of the church in front of them.
He watched her as she looked up at the building. She might be over forty, but she was quite beautiful, and not at all aware of the fact.
He’d noticed her as soon as she’d entered Jean-Claude’s café that first day with the light from the door shining through her blond curls and making a striking picture. Then she’d turned her gaze on him and it was so direct, so frank, that he’d been taken aback for a second or two.
Hers wasn’t the classical beauty he’d always preferred, but she had a charming, expressive face, a genuine smile and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean, eyes that warmed at the slightest mention of her children.
She seemed surprised to find herself here playing truant from her role as a mother. Leonie, it seemed, had never taken time for herself and was long overdue for a break. As they moved on she stared up at the pastel-coloured façades of the buildings they were passing.
‘Why did you choose to stay in Vieux Nice?’
‘The old town? Well, I thought it would be full of character. And it is. These buildings…they’re so tall and thin and so close together. It’s as if they’re reaching up for the sun.’
Jacques chuckled. ‘You have a point.’
‘But they’re so pretty too. I love all the shutters on the windows. They’re like eyelids.’
‘Eyelids?’ He frowned, wondering whether he’d misunderstood the meaning of the English word, but then he realised what she meant. ‘Eyelids. That’s different.’
‘It’s colourful and cheerful.’
He nodded. ‘It’s a popular area now. At one time it was crime-infested and poverty-stricken, but it’s changed. There has been a lot of restoration work to preserve its architecture, and urban regeneration has encouraged the young, trendy people to move in. In fact, the further east you go in Nice, the younger the population becomes.’
‘Oh.’ Leonie laughed. ‘I didn’t know that. Perhaps I should have chosen the other end of town.’
‘I didn’t say it for that reason. You are not old, Leonie. You have to stop talking of yourself that way.’
‘Why? It doesn’t bother me.’
It bothered him. She was a vibrant, beautiful woman, and her age was an irrelevant number. ‘Besides, it’s not all young people. There are some lifelong residents here too.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen some older people. There’s a lady who always sits at the window opposite mine.’
They continued walking through the labyrinth of streets packed with shops, galleries and bistros. Leonie stopped to look into a store selling handmade toys and puppets, then they made their way to the Quai des États-Unis where they stopped to gaze at the glimmering sea.
‘That ferry is going to Corsica,’ he said, pointing at a yellow ship.
She nodded, shading her eyes from the high afternoon sun as she followed its progress. ‘Do you have to get back to the restaurant now?’
He frowned at his watch, wishing it would slow down. ‘Soon. I have time to walk back with you, though.’
‘Don’t let me delay you.’ She turned to him with a smile. ‘I can find my own way back. Sort of. Well, I might take a detour or two, but I’ll get there eventually.’
He watched her for a moment, the wind blowing her curls into a chaotic mess, then shook his head. ‘I’d like to walk back with you, if you’re ready to go.’
‘Sure.’ She gave him one of her beaming smiles.
‘Have you visited the flower market?’ he asked as they turned.
‘No. I’ve heard about it, but apparently you have to be there early and I’m at the school every morning.’
‘Sunday too?’
She shook her head. ‘There are no classes on Sunday.’
‘Then you should see it. The best time is around six o’clock while the tourists are still in their hotel rooms.’
‘Six! All right, I’ll set my alarm and make sure I do.’
‘I could collect you, if you like.’
‘Really? Would you?’
‘Of course.’ The idea of spending the morning with her appealed, and her happy smile warmed him.
‘What a lovely idea. I’d really like that.’
He nodded. ‘I would too.’
And he meant it. It had been a long time since he’d found a woman’s company so enjoyable. It had been a long time since he’d known a woman like Leonie. If he ever had.

Chapter Three
LEONIE was watching from her little balcony when Jacques turned into the Rue Saint Augustin just before six o’clock. With a smile at her earlyrising neighbour across the street, who surprised her by smiling back, she closed the doors and hurried downstairs to meet him.
‘Bonjour, Leonie.’
A little thrill ran through her at the way he said her name and she grinned at him. ‘Bonjour, Jacques.’
She slipped on her sunglasses, and felt a lot younger than her years as they made their way to the market, chatting about all sorts of things. There was an ease between them that was reassuring, but at the same time amazing. On the one hand, it felt as if she’d known him for ages, but, on the other, everything she learned about him was new and intriguing.
She learned that he liked art—a lot—and was very proud of French artists whom she only knew by name, and vaguely at that.
‘French people like to look at beautiful things,’ he said.
‘But that’s a generalisation. I mean, you can’t say that other nationalities don’t like to look at beautiful things. How are the French different?’
His face twisted in thought. ‘I don’t know how to explain it, but we are different.’
She laughed. She could well believe it. ‘I know nothing about art.’
‘But you must know whether you like a painting, or not?’
‘I suppose I would know, but I’ve never really looked at any.’
His horrified expression made her laugh again. It was going to be fun learning all the differences between them. Like turning to page one of a new book, so much to discover.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so excited about a new friend. At one point she caught herself practically skipping with childish enthusiasm, and shook her head, smiling.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just that I haven’t been out so early before, and it feels good. I like it.’
And she liked not being alone, she added silently. She had to be careful not to take advantage of Jacques’ good nature. It would be very tempting to hint at other sights she wanted to see. But putting him in that position wouldn’t be fair.
When they reached the cours, the streetlamps were still on, but a pink glow above the buildings promised that the sun would soon be with them. Market awnings stretched in front of Leonie. Stripes everywhere. Yellow and white, blue and white, yellow and green.
Cut flowers perfumed the fresh morning air, but it was the beautifully presented fruit and vegetables, and the herbs and spices, that surprised Leonie.
‘I thought it was only flowers.’ She pointed at one of the stalls. ‘Look at the way that fruit has been arranged. Now, that’s like a work of art.’
They walked the entire length of the market, a hundred stalls or more, seeing everything from golfball-sized stuffed olives to live chickens.
Her stomach jumped when he touched her back to steer her out of the way of flailing elbows, and towards an item he wanted her to see.
Leonie tried to put her reaction out of her mind. She’d been taken by surprise, that was all. She took her time over choosing a mixed bunch of flowers to brighten her apartment. Dominated by yellow lilies and white daisies with touches of orange and purple, it made her smile as she joined Jacques, who was waiting without any sign of impatience.
‘Isn’t it gorgeous? It will look lovely on my little table.’
She strolled at his side, acutely aware of him despite the mingling scents, the noise and jostle of the market.
She wanted him to touch her again so she could see if she’d imagined the electricity that had zipped through her. But at the same time, she didn’t want him to touch her because she hadn’t reacted like this to a man in…well, in for ever, and it was scary.
She couldn’t even remember feeling such a strong response to Shane in the early days. But maybe it was her memory that was the problem. It had been a very long time, after all, since she and Shane had gone from classmates to boyfriend and girlfriend.
Yes, a long, long time.
And Jacques would probably be horrified. He was being friendly to her because…well, just because he was a nice man. Not because he saw her as anything other than a middle-aged woman who was trying to learn his language.
She tried to jolt herself out of her disturbing awareness of him, because there was no way she was going to let Jacques see what his presence was doing to her.
When they’d finally seen enough, they stood for a moment in front of the tall, washed-out yellow house where Jacques said the artist Henri Matisse had lived early in the previous century, then he pointed and said, ‘What do you think about climbing la colline du château?’
‘Hmm?’ She turned around to see the hill that rose from the edge of the old town. ‘There’s a château up there?’
‘No. There was, once, a long time ago. There’s a waterfall, and a park.’
‘I like waterfalls.’
‘There are lots of steps. We can use the lift, if you prefer.’
‘One minute you’re telling me not to say I’m old, and the next you’re implying that I’m elderly and infirm.’
‘I did not.’ He frowned. ‘That was not what I meant.’
She laughed at his consternation. ‘I’m only teasing. Come on, let’s go. But we’ll walk.’
As they weaved their way slowly up the side of the hill, Leonie took in the increasingly breathtaking views of Nice below. At the top, they made their way straight to the viewing platforms.
‘Oh, my word,’ Leonie gasped. It was the first time she’d seen the harbour, and the number of three-storey yachts, millionaires’ toys, moored in the neat rectangular harbour stunned her. For the first time since her arrival it sank in that this was the Riviera, the playground of the rich and famous.
Turning a hundred and eighty degrees, she gazed across the red roofs of the old town to the city and the more distant mountains. After a long, spellbound moment, Leonie sighed. ‘I’m glad we made the hike. It was worth it.’
She looked back at the harbour, then turned away. ‘Even if there is no château, which is a pity because I would love to see a real French château.’
‘Then you need to go for a drive,’ Jacques said as they walked away from the platform and wandered through the park.
‘I know.’ She shrugged. ‘Never mind.’
‘What do you mean?’
Leonie had stopped to watch some children on the playground, their laughter carrying to her as they scrambled up a rope climbing frame. She looked over her shoulder. ‘What do I mean?’
‘I don’t understand. Don’t you want to visit anywhere else?’
‘Oh, well, yes, of course I’d like to, but I’m not going to drive a car on the wrong side of the road, and I have no sense of direction, and besides…’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t enjoy sightseeing on my own.’ Rolling her eyes, she said, ‘Now I sound pathetic.’
‘No, you don’t. I can understand that.’ He hesitated, then said, ‘I could take you.’
‘What? No.’ She flapped her hands at him. ‘You’re too busy. You can’t do that.’
‘I can. My staff can manage on their own for a day. I’ve left them before, occasionally, when I’ve needed to take Antoine to an appointment, for instance.’
‘But that’s different. I don’t want to put you to so much trouble just for me.’
He nodded. ‘I’d like to take you for a drive, but it’s your choice.’ He lifted his shoulders, his eyes glinting in the sun. ‘If you don’t want me to, I’ll understand.’
‘Well, of course it’s not that I don’t want you to…it’s just…Are you sure?’
He shrugged. ‘Of course. Why would I have said it if I wasn’t sure?’
She tilted her head to the side as excitement bubbled inside her. ‘Would you really take me to see a château?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then, I’d love to. It won’t matter if I miss a day’s lessons tomorrow.’
‘Not tomorrow.’ He grimaced. ‘I should have said. Tomorrow I’ll be with Antoine. I’m sorry, he’s expecting me. I don’t like to disappoint him.’
‘Oh.’ Leonie smiled brightly to hide the fact that she was ridiculously disappointed. ‘No, of course you don’t. No problem.’
He put one hand on his hip and pushed the other through his hair. ‘You’re disappointed.’
‘No. Goodness, I’m not a child. Whenever you can spare the time will be fine.’
She took a deep breath. She wasn’t sure whether her disappointment came from having the trip postponed, or from the thought of not seeing Jacques for a couple of days. But, either way, she certainly didn’t begrudge him the chance to spend a day with his son. Not at all.
They walked on through the park, saw a museum that had been built to resemble a Roman ruin, and the impressive waterfall, but best of all Leonie loved the stepping stones with intricate mosaics which Jacques told her depicted scenes from Homer’s Odyssey.
‘Sam and Kyle would have loved these when they were kids,’ she said, stepping from one to another.
He smiled, sadly, she thought. Then she remembered that his son would never have been able to use them as stepping stones. Her heart hammered and her stomach rolled at her insensitivity. She made a mental note to think before she spoke in future, because the last thing she wanted was to be hurtful to Jacques.
Half of the morning had gone by when they stopped at a lawned area where Leonie sat on the ground, put her flowers down beside her and stretched out her legs. She wasn’t used to so much exercise. ‘Cripes, I feel unfit.’
She watched Jacques as he sat down near her. He had such a smooth, fluid way of moving, nothing awkward or clumsy about him. She enjoyed herself for a moment, just watching him, then looked away, embarrassed that she’d been staring.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jacques check his watch, and guessed he’d soon have to be making tracks.
‘Come to La Bergamote for lunch,’ he said suddenly.
She blinked. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Do you have other plans?’
‘No.’
‘It’s Sunday. You shouldn’t eat Sunday lunch alone.’
Sunday had always been a family day. Shane had loved his Sunday roast, and the kids had always made sure they were home for this one, even if they didn’t make it for all the other meals she cooked during the week. She wondered if Sam and Kyle would eat together while she was away. She hoped so.
No, she didn’t want to eat alone, and it would be very interesting to see Jacques’ restaurant, she thought as she moistened her wind-dried lips. ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
‘Good.’ He smiled and her stomach twisted itself into a knot.
‘I need to put these in water, though,’ she said, gesturing at the flowers. And she needed to change her clothes, she thought, looking down at her navy shorts and T-shirt. The white denim jacket she’d worn over the top, since it had been chilly at six in the morning, was now on the ground beside her. She didn’t know how classy Jacques’ restaurant would be, but she would bet on it requiring something dressier than this outfit.
‘No problem. I can wait for you.’
La Bergamote was intimate and crowded and buzzing with conversation. Leonie enjoyed watching the smart clientele who were clearly there for both the good food and the sense of being somewhere special.
What she didn’t enjoy so much was feeling unstylish and out of her league. She’d changed into a tiered cotton skirt with a plain white, closefitting T-shirt, which was about as dressy as she could manage. She made a decision right then that she would spend Monday afternoon shopping for clothes. The next time she came to eat at La Bergamote, she intended to fit right in. If there was a next time, of course. This could turn out to be a one-off invitation, but she hoped not, it was such a great place.
Located just off the Promenade des Anglais, which ran the length of the seafront, the restaurant was a long, narrow room, lit by old-fashioned sconce lamps even though it was the middle of the day, with plum-coloured banquettes along the walls and dark wood tables and chairs. It was elegant and refined, but also gave the impression of solidity. Much like Jacques, she thought with a smile.
She watched as he moved about the restaurant, looking absolutely fantastic in his dark suit, which he must have changed into in one of the back rooms. She sighed. Suit, jeans, it didn’t seem to matter…
She might as well admit it to herself. She was attracted to Jacques in a way she’d never been attracted to a man. Ever. All this heat and tingling and electricity business was new to her. But she had no intention of getting involved with another man. She’d been married to Shane for twenty years. He was the love of her life. Even if he was no longer here, she had her memories, and they would be enough to keep her warm for the rest of her life.
Still, it was a revelation to meet someone like Jacques and discover that, even now, she possessed hormones. That was where these feelings came from. Hormones doing their stuff to her nerve endings. She knew that much, but she’d thought they were a thing of her past; it was many years since she’d felt them stir, and even then…
Well, she could and would ignore them because hormones weren’t real, or, at least, their effects were only transitory. What she’d had with Shane was real. They’d had a family. And that family was waiting for her back in Australia.
This new friendship with Jacques was important to her, and she wanted it to continue because it was making her time here in Nice so much more enjoyable. A visit to the flower market would have been interesting on her own, but not nearly as interesting as it had been with Jacques. And he’d promised to take her to see a château, which was a treat she hadn’t expected to experience.
So, yes, she wanted to continue to be friends with Jacques, but from now on she was going to ignore her attraction to him. Friendship was going to be the only thing on her mind. She wouldn’t allow those silly hormones to dictate how she felt about being in his company.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Leonie,’ Jacques said when he finally approached the small table.
‘No problem. I can see that you’re busy.’ She hesitated, head tilted, while he sat down, then said, ‘What do you actually do? I mean, I know you’re the owner, but there’s a chef and a maître d’…’
He laughed. ‘You make me sound superfluous.’
‘No, no…’ She shook her head. ‘I’m interested, that’s all.’
He gave a small shrug. ‘A restaurant is a business. It needs managing. Someone has to worry about recruiting the right people to maintain a standard, about keeping the dining room full, about paying the bills.’
‘Of course. I never thought about it. I’ve never known anyone who owned a restaurant before.’
‘Also, I like to meet the customers. We have regulars—some have been coming here for many years. It is only polite to greet them personally and assure them that they are welcome, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, absolutely, but you said many years…How long have you owned the restaurant?’
‘It has been in the Broussard family for a long time. My grandfather started it, and he left it to me when he died. It’s one of the most popular restaurants in the region.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. You must be very proud of it.’
He smiled and gave a single nod. ‘I am. And now, what are you going to eat?’
She slipped on her reading glasses. She’d already looked at the menu, which was in both French and English, but she still didn’t know what to choose. ‘It all sounds so lovely. I was hoping you might recommend something.’
He pointed out a few recommendations, then leaned back and made a subtle sign to the head waiter, who hurried over to them.
Leonie smiled at the immaculately dressed waiter and carefully pronounced her selections in French.
Jacques nodded his encouragement. ‘Would you like me to order the wine?’
‘Yes, please.’
Jacques spoke rapidly to his employee, who inclined his head in agreement before collecting the menus and hurrying off.
‘So,’ Leonie said, ‘why hasn’t a nice man like you been snapped up?’
He turned a puzzled gaze on her. ‘Snapped up?’
‘Why haven’t you remarried?’
‘Ah.’
He said no more and his silence made her stomach tighten. ‘Or have you?’
Not that she should care. Hadn’t she just told herself there was nothing between them but friendship?
‘No. No, I have not.’ He lifted his eyes to meet hers. ‘But I came close. It was a bad time, and I haven’t told anyone else about this.’
She could believe it. In her experience, men didn’t talk about personal stuff, especially where pain was involved. She sat up a little straighter, conscious of an intense curiosity. ‘How long ago?’
His eyes flickered away, then returned to her face. ‘Around four years ago.’
Ridiculous to think he wouldn’t have been tempted to marry again. And, of course, he would have had plenty of opportunity, a man as goodlooking as him, a man who, as far as she could see, had everything going for him.
He looked down at his place setting and moved his cutlery a millimetre or so. ‘It didn’t work out.’
‘Can I ask why?’
He met her eyes. ‘Antoine.’
With a little shake of her head, she frowned. ‘He didn’t like her?’
He gave her a crooked smile. ‘On the contrary, he adored her.’ He shrugged. ‘What can I say? My son has inherited my poor taste.’
‘Then…?’
‘She, it turned out, saw me as…’ he looked up, frowning, and seemed to be searching for words ‘…a meal ticket is the expression, if I remember correctly.’
Leonie nodded, then bit her lip as she waited for him to go on.
‘When I explained to her that I would want Antoine to move in with us after our marriage, and live here in Nice, just the three of us, she decided I wasn’t such a good bargain. I think she’d expected that he would stay with his grandmother while we lived the life of a childless couple here in Nice.’
‘Oh, Jacques.’ She couldn’t help herself; she reached for his hand where it lay on the table.
‘For me, I suppose I was lucky to find out what she was like before it became too late, but for Antoine it was heartbreaking.’
Her heart ached for both him and his son. ‘But surely he didn’t know the reason—’
‘No, no,’ he said quickly, his expression horrified. ‘But even so, he took her rejection personally. He was already attached to her, and believed she would be his stepmother.’
Leonie pursed her lips. ‘Poor darling.’
‘I can’t let that happen again. He is a very sensitive boy.’
After lifting his empty wine glass and examining it, he said, ‘Well, there’s no chance of it happening again anyway. I’m too old to think about marriage now. I’ve been single for too long. Any relationships I have will be…casual.’ He shrugged. ‘No need for Antoine to know about them.’
The glass made a small thud on the tablecloth as he put it down. Like a full stop for the conversation. And with perfect timing, the wine waiter arrived.
After tasting the sauvignon blanc, Jacques nodded his approval and both glasses were filled.
Leonie took a sip from hers and smiled. ‘It’s lovely. Good choice.’
Jacques smiled back. ‘I thought you would like it.’
Casual relationships were a mystery to her; she didn’t understand why anyone would embark on one. But then, she’d been lucky.
Jacques had his reasons, the main one being his belief that he was doing the right thing for his son, but she wasn’t sure it was the right thing for him. It did seem sad that he’d never know the contentment of marriage. His first marriage didn’t count. She shouldn’t judge his ex-wife without knowing her, but it was hard not to assume that she was a horrible person. What kind of mother would leave her child like that, and for such a reason?
Her entrée turned up then. The endive in the tarte tatin had been caramelised until it was as sweet as an apple, but there was a lingering sharpness that contrasted with some creamy goat’s cheese.
She wasn’t a bad cook herself. She recalled the repertoire of nutritious meals she’d prepared from scratch, never failing to have a hot plate of food ready for the table when the family came home.
But when Shane had become sick, cooking had slipped down her list of priorities, especially as Sam and Kyle were happy to grab something while they were out, and she’d made do with a sandwich. She’d started cooking in earnest again over the last year or so. The kids might be fully grown, but they still needed a good, homemade meal to help them do their best in their studies, and she’d been determined to make up for any lack of maternal care while she’d been distracted looking after Shane.

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