Page 18 of Love in Bloom

CHAPTER FIVE

Sainte-Maxime

Camille worried that the drive from Nice to Sainte-Maxime would be awkward with her new “husband,” and for the first half hour it was. Then they settled back into their usual rhythm, alternating between pleasant conversation and enjoying the view. It was a stunning drive along the coast. After Tristan’s proposal, she’d hurriedly thrown her belongings into her suitcase and turned in her hotel key. Then they dashed off in the rental car.

She studied his profile while he concentrated on the road. The sun glinted off the auburn tint in his hair, giving his brown waves a burnished hue. He had a medium forehead which constantly sported a lock of too long hair she longed to brush away. Her favorite feature was his eyes, brown with darker brown flecks in them. He had a straight nose and a strong chin to support fine looking lips, which she reminded herself not to concentrate on. His lips were danger with a capital D. She rather wished she hadn’t turned down his kiss on the beach now that she was stuck fantasizing what it would feel like to have those lips mingled with hers. But she hadn’t wanted the kiss to feel contrived or obligatory. There was no romance in that. Camille wanted her first kiss with Tristan to have meaning and emotion behind it, not to be perfunctory.

Camille dragged her eyes away from Tristan and concentrated on the view to keep her mind off when and where they would share their first kiss. The whitecapped waves rose and crested in the sea as the car snaked along the coast. She could do this. She could be his wife for eight days and then return to the beach. Tristan would return to India, she supposed.

It occurred to her how little she actually knew about Tristan. She’d based her trust in him on their old association, but she really knew very little about the man who sat beside her. What secrets, if any, lurked in his past?

She pressed her head against the glass. She had no secrets. She lived a dull life full of work. She frowned. When had she become such a boring person? She’d always fancied herself as a firecracker, but an examination of her adult years blew away that notion. Why would anyone want to marry her? And why had Tristan wanted to fake-marry her?

That answer was easy. He wanted to give her a gift, and this was the price. At least she could be sure he had a kind and generous heart.

Tristan pulled up to the hotel doors. A valet took the car key while a bellhop retrieved their luggage.

Tristan crooked his elbow at her. “Shall we, Mrs. Penrose?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Mrs. Penrose. I shall have to get used to that and remember to answer to it.”

“If you forget, we’ll say that we’re newlyweds and you’re still getting used to the new name.”

“Fair enough.”

They entered the lobby of the Hôtel de Paris. “It may not be a château but my, oh my.” Her eyes roamed the room, taking in the furnishings and the architecture. Before they could arrive at the desk, a petite woman in a navy-blue suit approached them.

“Monsieur et Madame Penrose, delighted to have you on the tour.” She air-kissed their cheeks. “I’m Lisette Lacoursière and will be your tour guide. If there is anything you require, let me know, and I will see it done.”

“Thank you,” Tristan said.

“Ah, ah.” Lisette wagged a finely polished nail. “In France we say, merci.”

“Of course. Merci.” A little blush crept up his neck.

“Not to worry. We’ll have you both speaking wonderful French by the end.” She patted her perfectly coiffed French twist. “There are four other couples on the tour. We like to keep the group small so it feels intimate. You’ll meet them at dinner in two hours. That will give you time to settle in, explore the hotel, and dress for dinner. We have a special dining room. Tell the maître d' you are with Lisette.” She handed a Manila envelope and two key cards to Tristan. “These are to your room. You’ll have a stunning view up there. Again, if there is anything amiss or anything I can do to make your tour fantastique, let me know, si’l vous plaît.”

“Merci,” Tristan said.

Lisette winked and walked away. They ascended the elevator.

“You’re very quiet, Camille,” Tristan said.

The doors opened, and they stepped into the hallway. The bellhop waved to them from a few doors down. “This is your suite Monsieur Penrose.”

They entered the room, and Camille removed her sandals. Her feet sank into the deep plush carpet. She wiggled her toes.

The bellhop made short work of giving them the tour.

Camille refrained from laughing at the sight of the bidet in the toilet closet. She thought the idea had merit but couldn’t countenance using it. There were so many ways that using the bidet could go wrong. The last thing she wanted was to be attacked by water, with her knickers around her ankles, screaming for help. That would certainly give Tristan an eyeful when he came to save her.

Tristan slipped the bellhop a few euros, and the door shut, leaving them alone, in a hotel suite, together.

Her heart pounded. “We should unpack.” She stepped to the doors of the bedroom area, and Tristan followed her. Their suitcases were properly settled on luggage racks. The bed, in its white coverlet and bold colored pillows dominated the room. “Why is the bed round?” She looked at Tristan, who had an amused look on his face.

“Typically husbands and wives sleep in the same bed.”

“Yes, that’s true.” She frowned. “I hadn’t thought that part through yet.” Her body trembled at the idea of sharing a bed with Tristan. Just how far did he think they were taking the “married” idea?

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