Having the Frenchman's Baby. Rebecca Winters
analogy, one I’ll have to pass on to my staff.”
He sounded genuinely amused, as if his thoughts had been far away, yet somehow her comment had managed to penetrate his consciousness.
When they reached the convent, he kept on going. In a few minutes he made a left onto a dirt road that bisected part of the vineyard.
Twilight had descended over Thann. She lowered the window. A gentle breeze filled the interior with warm air still rising from the sun-soaked soil.
He brought their vehicle to a stop and turned off the motor.
“We’ll go on foot from here. Maybe if we listen closely, we’ll hear growing pains.”
Rachel let out a gentle laugh before climbing down without his help. She didn’t want to risk an accidental touch. Already her thoughts about him had grown out of proportion to the occasion.
She followed his lead as they worked their way down two rows of vines in flower on either side of them.
Like her father and grandfather, he was tall, yet he moved with a certain masculine litheness. In fact he seemed part of this fusion of man to nature, as if neither could be separated from the other.
While she reflected on how in tune he was with his ancestral roots, he stopped long enough to scoop up a handful of earth.
Turning to her, he held out his hand.
“Like the seed a man plants in a woman’s womb that brings life from God, so the seed of the Riesling grape lies cocooned in this particular blend of soil found nowhere else on earth.”
The analogy shook her to the core.
“What are the components?”
“You really want to know?” His question was straightforward, yet tinged with a hint of mockery.
She couldn’t blame him if he thought she was a typical female buyer whose attraction to him was strong enough that she would say or do anything to prolong their time together.
Rachel was guilty of having feelings that had nothing to do with grapes or wine-making. In truth, now that she’d gotten over being angry, she found herself intrigued by him, not just his life’s work.
“I wouldn’t have asked otherwise,” she came back, striving for a steady voice. “The more I learn, the more I find out I don’t know, but I want to learn as much as I can.”
“Then you’re a rare species.”
She held his enigmatic gaze. “Since I’m fortunate enough to be in the presence of a master vintner, I realize my good fortune. So let me warn you that I’m prepared to pick your brains for as long as you’re willing to indulge me.”
The second those words came out of her mouth, she couldn’t believe she’d said them. He probably thought she was flirting with him. Maybe subconsciously she was. What on earth was wrong with her?
In the fading light she couldn’t see the expression in his eyes, but she felt them studying her intently before he answered her question.
“Limestone, granite, clay, marl—”
“Marl?”
“A crumbly mixture of clays, carbonates, shells and magnesium. Each vineyard’s soil is different and suitable for a certain kind of grape.
“Did you know, for instance, that wild grape vines grew here before the Romans domesticated them?”
“How fascinating! Even then the conditions were perfect,” she said in awe.
“Yes. The aroma you enjoyed from the Tokay grape earlier this evening came from the soil at St Hippolyte.”
“It was wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I detected woodsmoke, a touch of honey and something else I still can’t identify.”
“Licorice?”
“Yes!” she cried softly.
His eyes gleamed. “I have to admit I’m impressed, mademoiselle.”
Evidently she’d passed some sort of initial test or he wouldn’t have said anything.
He shifted his weight. It threw his profile into relief, drawing her attention to the lines bracketing his mouth.
Whatever his experiences of life, which included the grief of divorce, they lent him a brooding demeanor. Yet his sensual appeal was so compelling, she had to tear her eyes away.
“It would take more than a lifetime to learn everything you know, monsieur, so don’t mind me if I hang on to every word.”
His eyes smiled. “In that case I’ll tell you the most important thing to remember. You won’t ever detect that same aroma again if it comes from a different terroir.”
A wry smile broke out on her face. “I’m going to hold you to that claim and sample every type of wine from your various vineyards.”
After a slight pause, “That could take some time.”
“How many wines do you produce?”
“Sixteen.”
A higher figure than she’d presumed. He’d just provided her with an excuse to linger in his kingdom a little longer. But if she were wise, she wouldn’t give in to that temptation or he would know she’d lost sight of her professional objective because of her growing attraction to him.
“Now I’m the one impressed,” she declared. “What days are your wine cellars open? I know tomorrow you’re closed.”
He let the soil fall from his hand. “Nevertheless I’ll ask my manager, Giles Lambert, to phone you and make himself available in the morning.
“The old man’s a walking encyclopedia of information. He’ll be delighted to brainwash you into making Domaine Chartier your exclusive white wine source.”
With those words, Monsieur Chartier had just brought this unexpected interlude to a close. Knowing he wouldn’t be around tomorrow should have eased her mind, yet she felt a strong sense of disappointment, which was ridiculous.
Hopefully her expression didn’t give her away. “If it won’t be an imposition for him.”
“He lives to talk about our precious vines.”
Her mouth curved upward. “Then I assure you I’ll be a captive audience. The Tokay I was served at dinner convinced me I don’t need to look elsewhere this trip.
“One thing I’ve learned about wine—I don’t like being overwhelmed by too many choices. I’d rather concentrate on your Pinot Gris and Riesling while I’m here.”
“You’re very wise,” he muttered, sounding as if her comment had surprised him. “If you’re ready, I’ll take you back to the hotel.”
Unable to help it, she found herself examining his firm jaw and the slight cleft in his chin. Her gaze wandered higher to his straight nose. He had well-shaped brows. All in all the arrangement in such a patently masculine face made him irresistible.
Rachel didn’t want to leave the vineyard yet, but he’d given her no choice. He had some place else to go.
Walking ahead of him, she reached the Wagoneer first and got inside before he could assist her.
He didn’t seem inclined to talk. When she thought about it, she realized he hadn’t asked her one personal question. There’d been no show of curiosity on his part, not even about the kind of restaurants she represented.
Rachel on the other hand was the one guilty of so many unanswered personal questions about him, she was ready to burst.
Yet she realized that a man like him didn’t come along often. To imagine he might be available to her, let alone interested, was absurd.
Any woman who misread the signals and tried to step over