Royally Seduced

chapter 6


LILY RESTED HER head against the seat in the rental car. They had arrived in the amazing steel-and-glass Avignon train station in less than four hours as promised. It left Jack enough time to show her the famous bridge of Avignon that only extended halfway into the Rhône River due to strong currents as well as the beautiful stone Papal Palace that was the home of several popes during the 1300s.

While they were grabbing a couple sandwiches for a late lunch, Jack had noticed a sign on a public bulletin board that a nearby town was hosting a lavender harvest festival. “Do you want to go?”

“Sure.”

He had consulted the board again. “There are several hotels and a hostel. It’s not a huge festival, so we should be able to find a couple beds at the hostel.”

“Sounds good.” A quiver ran through her stomach at the word beds. She’d been imagining Jack in a bed since last night. He’d given her nothing more than a couple sidelong glances but she could tell he was interested in her, too.

It had been so long since her last relationship, and the mild spark she’d had with her ex-boyfriend was nothing compared to the fiery sizzle she felt with Jack. She hadn’t come to France to jump in the sack with a Frenchman, and it probably would even be counterproductive to her writing efforts.

On the other hand, France was full of examples of artsy types who managed to combine sexual passion and their creations. Look at Van Gogh—no, not him. Creepy. Or the sculptor Rodin and his protégée Camille Claudel—but she wound up in a mental institute. There was a huge Rodin gallery in Philly and Lily remembered that poor woman’s story well.

Um, there had to be a happy ending there. Unfortunately, all she could think of were the artists who would have benefited from modern pharmaceutical therapy and the writers and poets who drank too much absinthe, the notoriously strong liquor that was banned in France about a hundred years ago.

Was that a blog post? See, she could combine her writing work and thoughts of him. A veritable romantic multitasker. “Jack, have you ever drunk absinthe?”

“Ah, they call that the green fairy for its color and supposed effects on the mind.” He went on to discuss the active herbal ingredients in absinthe while Lily scribbled rapidly. He finished, “But there is little evidence that it can cause hallucinations, and it’s now for sale in France again.”

She shook her head. “Geez, you know a lot about the medical side of it.”

He grinned. “And yes, I have tried it, but I don’t care for it. Licorice-flavored, you see.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Not a fan of that?”

“No, I prefer sweet things.” Was it her imagination or did his gaze flick down to her bare legs and then up to her breasts? He was subtle, though. If she hadn’t been so tuned in to him, she never would have noticed.

“If only they made lavender liqueur…” she teased him, wondering if he had meant her when he’d talked about sweet things.

“They do.”

“Okay, another blog post for me.” She started making notes again.

“You’ll have time for writing later.” He touched her knee to get her attention and quickly drew his hand back. “I want you to look around now so you can truly see what you’re writing about.”

She wanted his hand back on her knee, but it was firmly gripping the steering wheel. Instead, she looked out the window at the scenery. They’d just climbed a hill and the world was spread out before them.

Provence was beautiful—as if using that word was even a smidgen bit adequate to describe the land and the air, a crisp quality fragrant with floral perfume. Even better than perfume, because the flowers were alive and growing, putting out their scent with every touch of the breeze.

“It looks just like the paintings,” she told him. “I thought those flat orange-and-purple landscapes were stylistically flat. But that’s the way it actually looks.”

He smiled. “The orange fields are épautre, or spelt in English. An old, old grain from the wheat family. It’s been grown together with lavender for hundreds of years.”

“No wonder you wanted to get out of Paris. This is heaven compared to the city.”

“I agree. I’m glad you like it. This area is kind of a purple triangle of lavender growing. It’s bordered by the towns of Sault, Banon and Sederon. Different varieties are used for different products, but the best and most exclusive varieties have a special designation, like wine. We take our lavender very seriously here—it’s even called l’or bleu—blue gold.”

“I can see why.”

There was a small gravel pull-off area and Jack stopped the car there without asking. She hopped out to take pictures of the panoramic valley below.

He stood next to the front tire and stared out at the fields. Mindful of his privacy, she took a picture of him from the back, only the back of his head visible.

But even that was interesting. She lowered the camera. “Do you have a birthmark there, Jack?”

He rubbed the nape of his neck. “I suppose you can see that now that my hair is shorter. Yes, it’s what they call a stork bite. Babies often have them, but they often fade quickly—mine never did.”

“And what shape is that?” She came closer to see, her breath ruffling the tender skin.

A shiver seemed to run through him, and she fought the crazy urge to kiss the small red spot.

When he spoke, his voice was scratchy and he had to clear his throat. “I’ve only seen it in a mirror, but it looks like a heart.”

“How cute.” She rubbed her thumb over it and he turned, grabbing her hand.

“Sensitive spot.” He held her hand for a second and then let go.

Sensitive or arousing? Lily was getting aroused herself, imagining her mouth, her hands on his smooth skin, his strong fingers touching her in all sorts of sensitive spots.

“Enough photos?” He stood next to the driver’s door, obviously ready to get moving.

“For now, but I have plenty of camera memory and the will to use it.” She hopped in and he pulled out onto the road again.

“Provence is a photographer’s dream. In the summer, you can’t drive down a village street without seeing someone with a camera. Out in the country, not as much, but you still trip over backpackers and campers.”

“Did you grow up near here?”

“Not too far. My father unfortunately passed away when I was young and my mother now lives in Paris.”

She wrinkled her face in puzzlement. “Why didn’t you stay with her when you were in Paris? Is her apartment too small for the both of you?”

“No, she has a large enough place for me to stay, but she had many guests and I wanted to get away from the noise.”

“I can see that about you, Jack. You have a touch of the hermit about you.”

He gave a startled laugh. “Hermit? But I am hardly ever alone in my line of work.”

Lily smiled. “And that wears you down, doesn’t it?”

Jack slowly nodded. “Oui, I suppose it does. Sometimes I would bribe my tentmates to go to the mess hall for an extra hour so I could be alone.”

“And you came down here for some vine-ripened aromatherapy. All you have to do is open your window and you get a snootful of soothing lavender scent.”

He laughed. “But Lily, this is not true lavender here. This is lavandin, a hybrid that is more suited to homemade candles and laundry soap. In fact, the word lavender comes from the Latin word ‘to wash.’ I will show you the true lavender, like I am showing you the true France.”

“And I appreciate you doing this for me, Jack.”

But he was already shaking his head. “No, no appreciation necessary for me. If you see the real country, your articles will be strong and authentic, better for your career.”

“How nice.” He was thinking of her writing career? That was even more touching. On one hand, she was an open book, but Jack was still a bit of a mystery. “What did your father do before he passed away?”

“Many things, but his favorite was working in the lavender fields. Everyone works all day, every day, until the harvest comes in and the lavender goes to the distillery.”

“A lavender farmer?” Lily gasped in delight. “No wonder you know so much about it.”

He gave her a rueful look. “I was not spared due to my tender age. As soon as I was useful, I was in the fields with the men. And before the age of cell phones, I was the messenger boy, running from the fields back to the house to get supplies, check the weather report and most importantly, learn when lunch would be ready. Harvesters eat a lot. Probably over four or five thousand calories a day because the lavender is picked by hand.”

“Your mother must have been busy cooking for them.”

He choked back a laugh and gave her an incredulous look. “My mother wasn’t much of a cook. One of the other local women was in charge of meals. Even now, Maman prefers parties to farming.”

“But this is lavender. It’s not exactly pig farming. I’ve been out in the Pennsylvania Amish country and, believe me, there are much smellier farms there.”

“And that was her favorite part of the lavender. Being from the farm, not on the farm. She could give gifts of lavender perfume or sachets and pretend she pressed the blossoms with her own hands.”

Lily laughed. “Your mother sounds like…” She didn’t want to mention growing up in the servants’ quarters. It sounded so archaic, and she didn’t know if Jack was as egalitarian as he seemed. Some of the French were firmly steeped in the class system and regarded upwardly mobile women as peasant upstarts. “She sounds like a woman my mother knew. She would hire the best party planners, caterers, florists, musicians for her party and then act as if she’d done all the cooking and decorating herself.”

Lily herself had served at dozens of Mrs. Wyndham’s high-powered functions where local celebrities and politicians were frequent guests. Her mother had often roped her into waitressing if the caterers needed an extra pair of hands. Talk about humiliating—serving hors d’oeuvres to your classmates’ parents and cleaning up broken glass and spilled booze when they’d had too much to drink. Worst of all was when her classmates were invited and she had to serve them. She wished more than once that she could wear a wig and sunglasses to those parties.

“Parties here in Provence are more casual. As long as you have plenty of good food and wine, everyone is happy.” He turned a corner leading down into the town and they quickly came to a standstill in traffic.

Lily looked around. “I thought you said this wasn’t a huge festival. When was the last time you were here for it?”

He grimaced. “Ten years ago.”

“Looks like the world has discovered your sleepy little village.”

“I suppose they welcome the increased tourist money.” But he didn’t look thrilled about it.

“Of course. Everyone has to make a living.”

Jack nodded. “And times can be hard when you depend solely on the land. Many people here live mostly on what they grow in the garden and hunt in the forests.”

“That’s the trendy thing to do now—eat locally. And you can’t get much more local than your backyard.”

“We French are well-known trendsetters.” He laughed. “And wild rabbits and wild boar are delicious if cooked for several hours in red wine.” He deftly negotiated the narrow cobblestone streets, avoiding pedestrians with a death wish and other cars intent on fulfilling their desires.

“That sounds wonderful. Maybe I could try that this week.”

He shook his head. “Eating locally means eating in season, and those are traditional fall dishes. You would have to be here in October or November when the weather cools.”

“I’ll be long gone by then.”

“Ah, yes.” They both sat in silence as the cars in front of them inched along. “But since you are here now, you get to see the lavender.” He spotted a parking slot and shoehorned the rental car into it. Lily wouldn’t have had the nerve to even try.

“That’s true, but I bet every season has something wonderful to see.”

“I think so, but of course I am a native son.” He turned to smile at her. It was such a sweet smile that impulsively, she grabbed his right hand where it sat on his knee.

His smile faded but he immediately tightened his fingers around hers. “Lily, I am supposed to be a gentleman around you.” His voice was low and gritty. “I would not break a promise to you or Madame Finch.”

“You are a gentleman, but maybe I’m not much of a lady.”

His breath hissed out in anger. “Don’t say that about yourself. You are more of a lady than those born to the title.”

“And how would you know about titled ladies?” she teased, leaning into him.

His amber brown eyes searched her face, his face taut as if he were in the middle of a great conflict. He seemed to come to a decision and sighed.

She was going to ask him if he were all right, but then he closed his eyes and lowered his mouth to hers.

Her breath caught in her throat as their lips touched. Her eyes fluttered shut and she practically swooned at the soft, gentle pressure of his mouth. He lightly pressed a kiss to her and then, realizing her eager response, deepened it so her mouth was open and moist under his.

Jack groaned in satisfaction, murmuring her name. She grew brave enough to flick the tender inner margins of his mouth with her tongue, and his fingers tightened almost painfully on hers.

He caught her tongue and sucked on it, and she cupped the back of his neck to keep him close. Her other hand slid up from where it rested on his knee to massage his thigh, the crisp hair tickling her fingers.

Jack dragged himself backward, his chest heaving. His glance fell to her breasts. Her diamond-hard nipples pressed against her thin bra and T-shirt. He raised his hand to cup her breast and then dropped it to his side as if he’d lost all his strength. “Ah, mon dieu. Lily…”

She muffled his mouth with her palm. “If you are about to apologize…well…” His hot breath against her tender skin made her almost forget what she was going to tell him and she panted a couple times before remembering. “Oh, yeah. Don’t apologize, okay?”

He nodded and she started to pull her hand back, but not before his tongue flicked out to taste her. She yanked her hand back in surprise, not offense, and he gave her a dry smile. “You see, Lily? I am not much of a gentleman after all. You may want to get out of the car before I start the engine and drive us somewhere without an audience.”

She actually wavered. If that was what he could accomplish in the front seat of a miniature car, imagine what he could do with some working room. But was she ready to hop into the backseat with him?

Her hesitation was enough to break the spell. “Get out, Lily. I’ll follow you in a minute.”

“But why…” She spotted the front of his shorts and understood why he needed some down time, so to speak. She opened the door and staggered out, not in much better shape herself.

She quickly put on her sunglasses to hide her dazed expression. Now what, Lily? Jump into bed with a guy she’d met the day before? Not her style, but then the whole getting-to-know-you routine hadn’t worked much for her previously. And it wasn’t the whole perfumed air, blue sky and beautiful scenery that was making him appear so sexy. He just was.

She had the feeling she’d find him as sexy if she’d met him in whatever jungle he usually lived in. Maybe that was what had saved him from being snapped up? And did she even know if he was snapped up or single?

Nope, and she needed to learn that before she made her decision. She leaned down. “Jack, I’ll be right back.”

“What?” He started to get out of the car but made a face and sat back down. Lily stifled a giggle. She’d never had such an effect on a man before and it made her feel powerful. Sexy.

She whipped around the corner of an old limestone building and pulled out her phone. The number was the newest she’d input. “Madame Finch, this is Lily. I have a question for you.”

She asked her question and got the answer she’d wanted. Now all she needed to do was make her decision.



LILY LOOKED AROUND the perfume factory in wonder. The House of Laurent was housed in a historic building painted the color of ripe cantaloupe with white-shuttered windows. Jack had gone to the hostel around the corner to make a reservation for them for the night. Lily was relieved to put off her decision, for tonight at least.

For now, she was on the clock, so to speak. She couldn’t very well come to Provence and not write about perfume, could she? She took several photos of the display of ancient perfume pots, delicate perfumed gloves that had been all the rage in a smellier society, and Art Deco French glass perfume vials and cut-crystal bottles that were works of art in themselves.

She’d been lucky enough to catch two spots on the English tour, but where was Jack? Not that he needed a tour in English, but she found herself wanting to share more and more with him.

They had gathered the group when a hand rested on her waist—he was back.

“Just in time.” She smiled up at him. “What’s with the hat?” He was wearing an olive-drab, military style sun hat pulled down practically to his eyebrows.

“This? The sun is very strong this time of year and I am a bit pale.”

“Oh, true. I have my own sun hat, but it’s in the car.”

“We can get it after the tour if you’d like.” He cleared his throat. “The hostel had two beds left—one in the male bunkroom and the other in the female. I reserved them for us.”

“Ah. Good.” Right? She tried to ignore her feeling of disappointment. The tour started right after that and Lily was swept away in note taking.

Jack leaned down to her, his brim bumping her head. “If you don’t get all the details, ask me later. We learn much of this growing up in the area.”

“Great.” After that, she relaxed a bit and learned about different methods of extracting the fragrant oils from plants, such as steam distillation, pressing the flowers into fats and more modern methods such as volatile solvents and pumping gases into the flowers to release the scent molecules. “Very high-tech, isn’t it?” she murmured to him.

“Pah. If you have premium flowers, you don’t need fancy methods.”

“A purist, eh?”

“But of course. You should never settle for less than the highest quality in everything.”

“That’s a nice theory.”

“But not practical?”

She shrugged. “My budget doesn’t always allow for top of the line in everything.”

“Very true. But a woman’s perfume should be an indulgence, something that makes her feel wonderful.” He gestured to a case with a frosted-glass bottle blown into the shape of a swan.

“I can see that.” This would make a great blog post.

“She lifts the stopper and fragrance fills the air. It reminds her of the last time she wore it because scent is a powerful memory trigger. Did she meet her lover then? Is she meeting him tonight?”

There was that word again. Lover. Lily listened to him, spellbound. His mellow baritone voice and his sexy French accent were hypnotic.

He continued, “Then she strokes the stopper over her neck, her throat, the hollows behind her ears, as she wonders what new memory she will make tonight.”

“Um, wow.” She cleared her throat.

“That is the magic of perfume.”

She stared up at him, trying not to pant. “What perfume is your favorite?”

He leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Yours.”

“But…but I’m not wearing any.”

“I know.” His breath feathered over her neck, sending a million nerve endings abuzzing. “The most intoxicating perfume of all is the scent of a woman’s skin. Even the most skilled parfumier cannot duplicate that.”

And if a skilled perfume master could bottle Jack’s sex appeal, it would be a bestseller. But then she’d have to share it with another million women, instead of guarding it all for herself.

Lily smiled up at him. Maybe not tonight in the hostel, but soon, she’d open the bottle and make some new memories.



LILY COULDN’T BELIEVE how fast the day passed. A visit to the perfume lab, filled with pristine white furnishings and brown glass scent bottles, a leisurely lunch at a sunny sidewalk table and then walking around the town hand in hand so as not to get separated in the crowd—or so Jack claimed.

He could claim whatever he wanted as long as she could keep his strong fingers wrapped around hers. He showed her many of the historic buildings, including an ancient church, a historically accurate restored lavender press and an ancient plane tree that shaded benches in the town square.

Twilight was starting to fall, the pinkish-purple light bathing them in a rosy glow. Lily was tired from the sun and wine, but her nerves felt almost raw and jittery. She took some deep breaths. Tonight they would stay in the hostel and tomorrow was another day, as Scarlett O’Hara was wont to say.

She muffled a yawn with her free hand and rolled her neck.

“Tired?” He moved behind her and started rubbing her shoulders.

She moaned at the exquisite sensation. “Oh, yes, Jack. Harder, harder.”

His fingers tightened and she realized how erotic she’d sounded. That wasn’t far off the mark. She stepped away and turned around, not wanting to embarrass herself further. “Thanks, that felt great. What would you like to do for dinner? I have some granola bars and dried fruit in my backpack.”

His pained expression made her laugh. “We will be able to find something more substantial than that.” But after stopping in several restaurants around town where the crowds were standing-room-only and the wait for a table was hours, Jack was forced to admit defeat. “I suppose we could find something at the hostel, although packaged noodles and sandwiches isn’t my first choice.”

“Food snob.” She handed him a granola bar, which he ate grudgingly on the way to the car to pick up their luggage.

The hostel was an old limestone building that looked suspiciously like a school. Jack confirmed her guess when she asked. “Yes, it was the local primary school for many years but the village built a bigger, more modern school at the edge of town. A couple years ago, an investor bought the property and had it remodeled into a hostel.”

“Now we can legitimately sleep at school.” He laughed as they went up the steps. “I feel like I should check in at the principal’s office.”

And the main office was now the front desk, the clerk a jolly older woman, unlike any principal that Lily had ever met. Jack greeted her and her face fell. She spread her arms wide and shrugged expressively, replying to his question.

Whatever they were talking about, it wasn’t good news for them. His polite insistence didn’t get him anywhere, only more expressive shrugs.

Lily touched his elbow. “What is it?”

He pursed his lips and puffed out a sigh. “She says when we didn’t arrive in time, she gave the beds to someone else and now the hostel is full. They have no beds whatsoever due to the festival.”

“So sorry, mademoiselle. But the clock…” She pointed at the utilitarian round black-and-white timepiece on the wall.

“Geez, where should we stay? Out in the park?” She didn’t want to sleep out in the open but with Jack for company, it might be safe.

He conferred with the hostel manager again, who made a telephone call. “She’s going to call one of the local women who has rooms for rent. Maybe she has something for us.”

“Okay.”

The hostel manager hung up the phone with a grin. “Ah, good luck pour vous. One chamber.”

“Great!”

Jack got directions and they headed off. “It won’t cost too much more than the hostel, and they might have breakfast for us.”

“Really, I don’t mind,” she assured him. A pair of twin beds would be fine.