Descended (The Red Blindfold Book 1) Page 5

  “Since I was thirteen, right after my parents split up. Nobody in my mother’s family wanted to be bothered with the house anymore, so he bought out their shares. He sold his antique shops in England to afford it, successful businesses his grandfather started. Practically gave them away, he was so out of his mind over the divorce. He rents part of his land to wineries. It’s enough for him to live on and keep up the house. We’ve been trying to get him to sell for years but he won’t consider it.”

  “He lives by himself?”

  “Sort of. He has a housekeeper, Madeleine. She comes in five days a week to cook and clean and make sure he’s not eating biscuits in bed.”

  He drove past an iron gate down a short driveway of stone pavers. Unlike the villas we’d passed, Marc’s father’s house looked ancient and dark, with broken roof tiles and windows that were wavy with age. Through a stand of trees, I could see an outbuilding with a weathered wood door hanging from the hinges.

  “The former guest quarters,” Marc said, following my gaze. “They haven’t been used in thirty years. I used to go there to smoke, back when I was about sixteen.”

  I grabbed my purse and camera bag and followed him up the wide stone steps, my shoes crunching dried leaves. He tried the bell, waited, then knocked. Eventually, I heard a bolt sliding and the door opened. A slight woman of about sixty stood blinking into the sunlight.

  “Madeleine,” Marc said, kissing her on both cheeks. “Where’s Dad, taking his afternoon nap?” He switched into French and she smiled, her pale blue eyes squinting up tightly.

  He must have said something about me, because she gasped and reached out both hands to me. “Ah, Mademoiselle Quinn!” she said, and asked me a question I couldn’t understand.

  “She wants to know what you think of France,” he said.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “I’m thrilled to finally be seeing it.”

  He translated as Madeleine took in my hair, dress, and shoes. She appeared to think for a moment, then said something that sounded very profound. She turned and went into the house, beckoning us to follow.

  “What did she say?” I whispered.

  “That you’re frightfully pretty and I must be very careful,” Marc said.

  My skin prickled and flushed. “Oh, God. But does she know we’re not –”

  “It doesn’t matter. She believes she has a sixth sense about things.”

  I wanted to ask what “things” he was referring to, but Madeleine was standing at the bottom of a curved marble staircase, speaking again and gesturing dramatically. She made what sounded like three inarguable points before going upstairs.

  “What was that about?” I asked.

  “She insists we stay the night,” Marc said. “She hasn’t seen me in months and she’ll be offended if we refuse. She got a fresh beef roast from the farmer across the road just for the occasion.”

  Stay the night. In the same house with Marc. “Fresh? As in, still breathing yesterday?”

  “Probably this morning. And I promise you’ll enjoy it. Madeleine comes from a long line of fabulous cooks.”

  “It sounds like you want to stay.”

  “I’ll leave that up to you,” he said. “You’re the one here on assignment. Maybe you’d rather leave for Paris once you’ve seen the house and library. Madeleine will be disappointed but she’ll understand.”

  To have dinner and sleep in a house with so much history – was I going to say no because of a little uncontrollable attraction? Hell, no, I wouldn’t.

  “I’d hate to let Madeleine down,” I said.

  Marc nodded slowly. “It is a long drive to Paris in the dark.”

  “It will help with my research. And we have to eat sometime, don’t we?”

  “That’s settled then,” he said with a sinfully sly smile. “Tomorrow we drive to Paris. Tonight we sleep under Sade’s roof and wait for his ghost to rattle its chains.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After bringing our luggage up to the second floor, Marc took me on a tour of the house. Each room was painted a different color and crowded with artwork and faded murals. Madeleine walked ahead of us, pushing open French doors that led to a wide back terrace. There was a dining hall, a reading room, and a reception room lined with romantically threadbare silk sofas. No matter where I looked, there wasn’t a trace of anything from the present. It was all frozen in time, blanketed in a thin layer of neglect.

  “There are nineteen rooms in all,” Marc said. “They’ve been updated over the years, but the floors and fireplaces are original, and the paintings haven’t changed since Sade lived here. There’s an old cellar that’s just as it was in Marie Antoinette’s time.”

  “When was the house built?” I asked.

  “It was already old by the time Sade bought it, so…about five hundred years ago. It’s seen a lot of birth and death since then, I’m sure.”

  Following Madeleine, we eventually reached the library, a darkly-paneled rectangular room with a spiral staircase and bookcases that stretched from the stone floor to the carved mahogany ceiling. I’d never seen so many warped book covers or so much gold lettering.

  “Wow,” I said, turning in a slow circle.

  “My dad’s whole life is right here,” Marc said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he stores his money in a secret compartment somewhere. If there’s ever a fire he’ll lose everything, along with about ten thousand copies of The Guardian. He loves his newspapers.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Just stunning.”

  “And it’s a black hole,” he said, peering inside a drawer of the paper-scattered desk. “One of Sade’s letters went missing in this room years ago. Dad’s convinced it was stolen. I think it’s buried under rubbish, crying out to be discovered.”

  “Some of the books are in English,” I said, trailing my hand along one of the lower shelves.

  “When my father married my mother, he brought his Shakespeare and Austen and pushed aside the French writers to make room. ‘Colonizing the library,’ as he put it. Inserting himself where he doesn’t belong like a typical outspoken Englishman.”

  “If anyone’s an outspoken Englishman, it’s my son,” said a brusque voice behind us.

  “Dad!” Marc said, turning around. “Glad to see you up and about. Sophie, this is Simon, my father.”

  “Hello,” I said, and reached out to shake his hand. He was nearly bald, with a long, narrow face, brown eyes, and skin so pale it was almost translucent. His suit jacket was well-made but loose, making him look even thinner. Instead of suit pants he wore stiff, dark jeans.

  Marc began to explain who I was but his father broke in. “I got it all from your sister on the phone. Lovely American girl coming to dig through our belongings like the Nazis did.”

  Marc frowned. “No, Dad, not like the Nazis. Like a journalist.”

  “Not going to toss anything on the floor, are you?” Simon asked, winking at me. “Ransack my records? Empty the drawers?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” I said, and he threw back his head, braying hoarsely.

  “Nice to meet you, Miss Quinn. Eleanor didn’t tell me you were such a charmer.”

  “How do you know I’m a charmer?” I asked. “I’ve said four words.”

  His eyes lit up. “I like you. Most of Marc’s girlfriends are scared witless of me. They’ll sit in a corner all night with their mouths shut.”

  “I’m not Marc’s girlfriend,” I said. “I’m the thorn in his side for the next few days.”

  “You know, you have the same fire Marc’s mother did. What a beauty she was. A year in the grave and I still hope she’ll walk through the door one morning.”

  “Dad,” Marc said. “We don’t have to tell her our life story. Not in the first five minutes.”

  “Why not? That’s what she’s here for.”

  From the desk where she stood arranging papers, Madeleine barked at Simon in French. “She’s telling me to mind my manners or I’ll go without supper,” he told me, o
bviously amused. “Can you imagine this kind of talk from a housekeeper?”

  “I can,” Marc said. “I listened to it until I was eighteen. Now, I’m going to take Sophie upstairs and show her to her room. She flew in from New York yesterday and I’m sure she’d like to rest.”

  “You’ll give her the green room, I hope? It has the best view and Madeleine’s already made it up.”

  “Yes, Dad, I will. Follow me, Sophie. You must be dying to get off your feet.”

  Walking back to the main staircase, I hardly dared to look at Marc. Who knew what kind of wanton fantasy might spin through my mind if I did?

  “My father adored you instantly,” he said.

  “Only because I’m not afraid of him. It sounds like a lot of women are.”

  “Just a couple former girlfriends of mine,” he said.

  Wimps. Who could be afraid of a charming old man? “Well, I’m looking forward to it.”

  “You’re very brave. Now watch your step, these stairs can be slippery. Welcome to the second floor of Chez Brayden.”

  When I saw the magnificent four-poster bed in my room, it was all I could do not to jump on it. Marc threw open two sets of doors that reached halfway to a high ceiling covered in faded frescoes. Sunlight rushed in, illuminating the slightly worn, jewel-green brocade drapes that fell in deep folds around the bed.

  “This was my great-aunt’s room until she died,” he said, “then it was mine when I wasn’t at school in England. I still keep some boxes in the closet.”

  I glanced in the huge octagonal wall mirror and saw him standing behind me, so tall, strong, and imposing. Even in heels, I was a wisp by comparison. “Shouldn’t you take this room, then?” I asked.

  “I need a desk where I can get work done, so I sleep in the white room. We just passed it. If you have a nightmare tonight, just scream and I’ll come wake you up.”

  He looked at me a beat too long. Something flickered in his eyes, and I wondered for one crazy second if he knew what I was thinking. Or maybe it wasn’t crazy. He’d have to be an idiot not to sense how I felt.

  When in the last twelve hours had I become so enthralled by him that I couldn’t even do a good job of pretending?

  I imagined him in this room making love to one of his easily intimidated ex-girlfriends – the creaking bed, the moans of pleasure – and felt both excited and miserably jealous. I needed to get away from him immediately.

  “Do you have something fancy you can wear to dinner?” he asked on his way out. “My father has a silly thing about formality.”

  “I’ll see what I can dig up,” I said.

  “Great. I’ll come for you about six o’clock for drinks. If you need anything, I’m forty feet away.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  As soon as Marc left, I sank onto the bed. I’d heard of men who could crush a woman’s willpower with a glance, but now I knew they really existed. Not that it mattered. Even if he felt some mild attraction toward me, he’d never hit on a journalist writing about his family. Which was fine, because I wasn’t about to have a one-night stand on assignment. It wouldn’t just be unprofessional, it would wipe out what little of my self-esteem Trevor hadn’t destroyed.

  To keep from spending the next hour Googling Marc’s background, I took a bath in the huge clawfoot tub. After figuring out the outlet adaptor and blowing my hair dry, I dumped the contents of my suitcase onto the bed. Why had I brought so many ugly suit pants and pencil skirts? I had nearly resigned myself to a night in boring black when I found the one thing I’d been sure I wouldn’t wear unless I needed emergency pajamas – an ankle-length silvery silk dress with straps so thin they might snap if I raised my arms. It was a little wrinkled and I’d have to go braless, but it was the only dress formal enough for dinner. Besides, I had nothing else that offered the dimmest hope of making Marc notice me.

  Just after six, he knocked. I jumped up from the chair by the bed, glancing anxiously around the room. I’d been ready for half an hour but suddenly felt as if I’d forgotten to zip my dress or put on panties.

  “Hi,” I said, opening the door with casual slowness. As if adrenaline weren’t surging like a tsunami through my veins.

  “I’m going downstairs for a cocktail,” he said. “Want to join me?” He was wearing a dark suit and tie with the same ease as old jeans and a white shirt. He stood with his ankles crossed, one hand braced against the door frame. No man had ever looked so hot to me, so insanely, untouchably desirable.

  “Sure,” I said, heart tripping. “Just give me one minute.” I shut the door and stood on the other side, taking deep breaths. So my attraction for him hadn’t vanished since the last time I saw him. I just had to act like it had, stay calm, and everything would be okay. I hoped.

  I smiled and opened the door. “All ready.”

  We walked side by side down the hall toward the staircase. With every step, I could feel my nipples tightening against the inside of my dress. Unflattering pants were sounding pretty damn nice about now.

  “You must be trying to kill my father before his time,” Marc said.

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That dress,” he said. “My God.”

  I stopped mid-stride and crossed my arms over my braless chest. “Is something wrong with it? Should I change?”

  “You should do the opposite,” he said. “Never wear anything else.”

  Walking down the stairs, I felt a flush of happiness followed by a deep pang of self-doubt. Did the dress give away my attraction to him? Was I desperate for attention after being cheated on?

  It was too late now – I couldn’t go back to my room. The atmosphere in the house was so romantic that the dress actually seemed appropriate, anyway. The air smelled of incense, fresh rosemary, and roasting meat. As we passed the dining hall, I saw a young maid fluttering a tablecloth over a long rectangular table. It was like a moment from another time, and somehow I’d been fortunate enough to stumble into it.

  A few minutes after we got to the library, Madeleine brought cocktails – an anise-flavored liqueur for Marc and for me, a Kir Royale, champagne with a few drops of sweet, dark cassis. Drinks in hand, we went out to the terrace.

  “I love this time of day here,” he said, leaning against the railing. “The light is always different.”

  “It’s still as warm as summer,” I said.

  “Until the sun goes down, and then it will turn to winter,” he said. “Tell me if you need my jacket.”

  “Thank you, but this is probably the last time I’ll wear a sleeveless dress until next spring. I can handle a few goose bumps.”

  “I’m happy to part with my jacket if you change your mind.” Smile fading, Marc looked past my shoulder into the distance. “Oh, no,” he said, shading his eyes. “He didn’t.”

  “What?” I asked, turning my head.

  “Damn my father. He just loves to throw a party.”

  Emerging out of the evening sunlight were three figures – a man, a woman, and a teenage girl. “They’re coming for dinner?” I asked.

  “I assume so,” Marc said. “They live in the villa down the road. Last time I was here, my father invited the staff from the winery a few kilometers away, and they drank and sang songs until dawn. Madeleine was livid.”

  The three figures walked onto the terrace like lost travelers discovering an oasis, their skirts and jackets flapping in the breeze. There were hearty greetings in French and the polite switch to stilted English when they realized I was American. The older woman, Madame Pascal, was a little younger than Marc’s father and dressed in a knee-length black chiffon dress, her feet in kitten-heeled slingbacks. Her daughter, Nelly, was no more than nineteen, with long brown hair and green eyes that glimmered whenever she looked at Marc. Nelly’s brother Robert was in his mid-twenties and handsome in a metrosexual kind of way. Every time I glanced up his gaze was pinned to my face.

  Madeleine came out to offer everyone drinks, and a few minutes later Marc’s father appeared in
a blue jacquard smoking jacket, his hair slicked back and shiny. He and Madame Pascal kissed on both cheeks, patting each other on the back while exclaiming excitedly in French.

  “Has it been a long time since they saw each other?” I asked Marc.

  “God, no,” he said. “She was here to play tennis two weeks ago.”

  Robert stood too close to me at the railing asking questions about my work. Before I knew it I’d finished my second cocktail and was having trouble controlling my tongue. Nelly sat on a wrought-iron bench with Marc chattering away, her shrill voice like a bird call. Instead of flirting with her as I’d feared, he stared straight ahead with a smirk fixed to his face. I caught his eye and glanced away, but not before my heart plunged to my feet. Robert didn’t seem to notice that I was too distracted to do anything but smile blankly at him.

  By the time Madeleine called us to dinner, the temperature had dropped just as Marc had predicted. Hand on my shivering arm, Robert walked in beside me while the others followed. I stopped at the threshold to the dining hall and drew in a breath. Just an hour ago the room had looked cold and cavernous; now it was filled with candlelight and huge vases of wildflowers. Each place was set with a scallop-edged plate and a white linen napkin. A fire roared in an immense stone fireplace.

  Marc pulled out my chair, clearly intending to sit beside me. Before he could, Robert grabbed the next place and reached for a crystal decanter. “Wine, Sophie?” he asked, filling my soup bowl-sized glass.

  While Simon took the chair at the head of the table, Marc sat across from me with Nelly beside him. Every time he looked at me, I felt our chemistry like a shock. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, the last gasp of a dying sex drive. He must have thought I was a shameless tease, meeting his eyes while his player of a neighbor leaned over and crowded my personal space.

  With the help of the maid, Madeleine brought out grilled tiger prawns, tiny cheese soufflés, and cod croquettes. While Nelly jabbered in French to Marc, he watched me eat and talk with Robert, who was not just flirty but attentive, picking up my napkin when I dropped it and refilling my wineglass. I was glad when Simon pulled Robert into a debate over local politics and I had a moment to breathe. A minute later, Nelly went to get her sweater from the terrace, leaving Marc free for the first time in an hour.