Invitation to Provence (5 page)

He glanced at his watch. It had been exactly four hours since he’d called Rafaella and accepted her invitation. He’d rearranged his schedule for those weeks and delegated important work, so that he would be there in September, come rain or come shine. He was willing to bet that his life would never be the same. Rafaella always had that effect on him.

Meanwhile, he was on his way to L.A. The car would pick him up in ten minutes. It would take him to Teterboro airport in New Jersey, where his private jet awaited. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip, but business was business.

He sipped his Bud. It was iced to the hilt, and he grinned his pleasure to the bartender. He was studying the list of invitees Rafaella had sent him. The only unknown was a woman named Franny Marten. He’d bet that Rafaella didn’t know much about her either, other than that she was Paul Marten’s daughter—Paul Marten was the only sibling of Rafaella’s father. Which meant that this Franny
Marten might suddenly find herself heir to a château and a fortune.

Jake’s office had tracked the details of her life in a matter of hours. Now he studied the bleak snippets of information that told him who the possible heir to the Château des Roses Sauvages might be. Franny Marten was alone in the world, a single Santa Monica vet who also did good works for rescued animals.

He could just picture her, a too-nice Oregon girl, a little bit gawky, a little bit country, addicted to jeans and peasant tops and lacy shawls, sort of like Ali MacGraw in
Love Story,
all big white smile and soulful dark eyes. He’d bet she was the kind of vague woman who’d button her shirt wrong and drink chamomile tea, and that she’d smell faintly of horses and disinfectant with a whiff of citrusy perfume.

Jake’s researcher had also discovered there was a boyfriend. Marcus Marks lived in Atlanta and was married. Jake wondered briefly how supposedly intelligent women got themselves into these situations. Then, since he was on his way to L.A. anyway, he decided he’d better check out Franny Marten himself before letting her loose on Rafaella. Nice country girl or not, the promise of a château and a fortune could turn any woman into a predator.

T
HE NEXT DAY,
Jake parked the rented silver Mustang in front of the undistinguished square building in a strip mall near Main Street in Venice Beach, California.
YOUR LOCAL VETERINARY CLINIC AND ANIMAL HOSPITAL
was inscribed in large gold letters on the glass doors. Underneath, in slightly smaller gold letters were three names. Franny Marten’s was the last because, Jake supposed, she was the most recent partner to be taken on by the practice. He nodded his head, thinking she must be proud of that. It was quite an accomplishment considering the odds that were stacked against her, being left alone and without financial support at age seventeen. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. He wouldn’t bet on it though. The thought of inheriting money could do strange things to even the nicest folk.

Inside there was a line of chairs filled with people clutching disturbed-looking cats in carrying cages and anxious-looking dogs sniffing the floor and each other, growling uncertainly because this was unknown territory. The young woman behind the counter was named Lindsey—it said so on the badge pinned to her green polo shirt. She smiled nicely at him and asked how she could help.

Jake told her he was new to the neighborhood and he’d heard that Dr. Marten was a good vet. He said he really cared
about his dog and needed to introduce himself and make sure they got along. “Make sure we understand each other” was the way he put it, and Lindsey smiled and said she understood and that Dr. Marten was almost finished with an emergency and would be glad to discuss his dog with him.

Jake took a seat next to a wheezing bulldog with bloodshot eyes. Flipping through a copy of
Cat Fancy
magazine, he wondered what the difference was between the pampered Persian in the picture and the feral black panthers that patrolled his cabin in search of food. Somewhere along the line of evolution they were related, but looking at this prize puss, he wasn’t quite sure where or how.

“This way, please, Mr. Bronson,” Lindsey said, showing him into a small room with the usual steel table and equipment. “Dr. Marten will be with you in a moment.”

Jake leaned against the table, arms folded, waiting. The door to the next room was open and he could see an enormous orange cat and his equally huge and overstuffed owner.

“Look here,” Dr. Marten was saying sharply, “a bee-sting on the tongue is very dangerous to any animal, especially a cat. Marmalade’s tongue swelled and he almost stopped breathing. Fortunately, antihistamines took care of that, plus some oxygen. The swelling’s gone down and he’s able to breathe on his own. Right now he’s moping and very sorry for himself, but he’s taken a few tentative laps of water which, trust me, is the best thing that’s happened to him today.”

She had a low, sweet voice and Jake found himself leaning closer, trying to catch what she was saying. He caught a glimpse of her back view and smiled. His guess about her had been close. She was tall, long-limbed, and a little bit gawky in a doctor’s white coat and jeans, but her hair was
pale blond and not dark like Ali MacGraw’s. She wore it pulled back in a fat braid, like a pony’s mane in a dressage show, and a thin strand of silver and turquoise stones was strung around her neck. He’d bet anything she drank chamomile tea.

He was still smiling when she turned and caught his eye.

Surprised, she answered his smile. “Be there in a minute,” she called and went back to her patient and his owner.

“The thing is,” she told the owner in a sharper tone, “it’s okay if you and the cat don’t eat for a while. You both have enough body fat to get by, but water is essential and Marmalade will have to stay here until I’m satisfied he’s okay.”

“You’re right,” the owner said meekly. “Just do whatever is best for him.”

“I will,” she promised. “But I want you to tell me you’re going to do what’s best for you, too. You can’t go on like this, Ronnie. You have to take yourself in hand, go to Weight-Watchers, go on a diet, go to the gym, or I’m afraid Marmalade will be needing a new owner before too long.” She patted his arm and turned away. “Okay, call me in a couple of hours and I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”

Jake raised his brows, surprised. Dr. Marten was not afraid to speak her mind.

She came into the room at a trot. “So,” she said, beaming a nice-girl smile at him. “What can I do for you, Mr… .” she checked the card Lindsey had given her. “Mr. Bronson?” She fixed him with narrow eyes that were the dazzling clear-water blue of an early-summer Norwegian fiord. Her gaze was so direct, so unexpectedly candid, Jake was taken aback for a second.

“I’m new to the neighborhood. I just wanted to meet
you, make sure my dog will have a good vet. You know how it is.”

She nodded, frowning earnestly. “I certainly do, and I only wish more people got to know their vet
before
that emergency happens. It always helps to know the man and the animal—as you probably saw from the little vignette in the next room.” She laughed, shaking her blond braid out of her neckline. “Sometimes a little honesty goes a long way. You don’t think I hurt his feelings though, do you?”

Her clear eyes clouded and Jake just knew she would hate to hurt anyone’s feelings. “You did the right thing,” he hastened to reassure her, “probably saved the owner’s life as well as his cat’s.”

Franny Marten took the time to look properly at him, as a woman and not merely as “your nice local vet.” He was attractive, offbeat, different from the usual California guys, and he was looking back at her with an intense kind of look that suddenly made her toes curl.

“That’s not my job,” she said hastily, “but Ronnie’s a nice guy, I hate to see him going downhill. Besides, I know how much he loves Marmalade. So, tell me about your dog, Mr. Bronson.”

“Jake,” he said quickly.

“He’s called Jake? Nice name.” She leaned against the steel table, arms folded across her chest, interested.

“Uh, actually the dog’s name is Criminal. I’m Jake.”

She stared at him, shocked. “You named your dog Criminal? But that’s terrible.”

“Not if you know his wicked ways it’s not,” Jake said. “But he’s the best dog a man ever had. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

Franny put a hand on his arm and squeezed it gently. Her eyes shone with sincerity. “I wish everyone felt that way about their pets.”

“Criminal’s no pet—he’s my best friend,” Jake said, wondering if he’d suddenly gone mad. He never opened up about his emotions to anyone, especially a woman.

“I understand,” she said softly. “And I’ll be here for you and Criminal should the need arise, though I’m still not convinced you should have inflicted that name on him.”

Then she gave him that bright good-girl smile and offered him her hand. “Just remember to bring Criminal in for his shots, Mr. Bronson. Got to keep things up-to-date, you know. And don’t worry. I’ll take good care of him.” Then with a little wave of her hand she was gone.

Jake caught a brief whiff of something sweet that might have been ginger flowers, and that was it. He was just some guy checking out a vet for his dog. And she was just a vet doing her job. At least, that’s what Jake told himself later, sitting in the car remembering the feel of her slightly rough hand in his and the sweet, ginger-flower scent and the firm note in her voice as she told the fat guy to get his act together. He laughed thinking about it.

He thought Doc Marten was okay. She was no fortune hunter, no girl on the make. She was what she was, a nice woman with the most amazing eyes that he’d bet could look right through you when she was mad at you.

J
AKE WAS STAYING
at the Peninsula Hotel. He liked it because of its gardens that led on little winding paths, past jungly greenery and splashing fountains to the cottages. If he closed his eyes and ignored the dull roar of the L.A. traffic, he could almost have imagined he was somewhere in the countryside instead of right here in the middle of Beverly Hills.

Avoiding the rooftop pool area, which was a hangout for Hollywood’s young agents and wanna-bes, he went instead to the wood-paneled bar and ordered a Bud. It was quiet and he needed to think. Besides, the bartender knew him and his glass came straight from the freezer, as always. “How’s biz?” the bartender asked.

“Pretty good, thanks.” Jake sank into a leather club chair, nursing his beer and thinking how thrilled Rafaella was going to be when she met her niece. And a “nice” niece at that. Perhaps it would make up a little for those two disappointing sons who might—or more likely, might not—show up for the family reunion. He’d have to do something about that, go see Felix and try to persuade him to come home and make peace with his mother. And then try to find Alain, though Alain as always was a mystery man—no one ever knew his whereabouts. Not that Felix cared. He hated his brother with an overwhelming passion, and Jake for one didn’t blame him.

He took a sip of his beer. Outside the hotel, traffic hummed, birds sang, phones rang. The scent of the great bouquet of flowers in the hall reminded him of Franny Marten’s flowery perfume. He found himself wondering what she would look like with her hair out of that braid and flowing loose, out of her vet persona and into her own life. He wondered what that life was like, what kind of place she lived in, who her friends were, whether she also had a dog who was her closest companion. And he wondered if she knew that she’d gotten herself involved with a married man.

He remembered her gentle touch on his arm, the genuine concern in her beautiful eyes. He knew this was no girl on the make, no Hollywood babe looking for success, no beauty looking to be a trophy wife, no eager heiress ready to grab all she could. She was who she was, which was totally unlike any other woman he knew.

He glanced at his steel watch. Like fancy cocktails in fancy glasses, he disliked fancy watches. Five o’clock. A bit late to ask a woman out to dinner but what the hell, nothing ventured, nothing won. He was smiling as he dialed the number of Your Local Veterinary Clinic and asked to speak to Dr. Marten.

“Dr. Marten here,” she said in that sunny voice he felt he knew well, even though he’d met her only once and that for a scant few minutes.

“Jake Bronson,” he said. “I came in to see you today about my dog.”

“Criminal. I remember. Oh, I hope nothing’s wrong?”

There was that touching note of concern in her voice again. “Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “It’s just, well, Doctor, even though I told myself there was no chance a woman like you
would be free for dinner tonight, I thought I’d call anyway, just to check. That is, if you would like to have dinner, of course,” he added, amazed by how hopeful he sounded.

“Oh … well … hmmmm … dinner …” He could almost hear the cogs turning in her brain as she thought about it quickly:
a total stranger, he came in off the street, didn’t even have the dog with him.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a stalker,” he said. “Listen, how about Joe’s in Venice. That’s near you. We could dine on the patio with lots of other people around so you wouldn’t have to worry.”

“How’d you read my thoughts?”

“It’s what every woman in her right mind should think when a total stranger asks her out.”

“Well, thank you, I’d like to have dinner with you tonight,” she agreed suddenly, as though if she waited any longer she might change her mind. “That would be really nice. About eight? Is that okay?”

“Eight o’clock then,” he agreed, smiling as he clicked off his phone.

J
AKE WAS STANDING UNDER
a cool shower when he realized there was a flaw in tonight’s plan. He’d met Franny Marten under false pretences; he couldn’t tell her that he was here to check her out, nor could he tell her he would be at Rafaella’s family reunion. That was Rafaella’s secret. He got out of the shower and, still dripping, grabbed the phone. He’d call her right back and cancel.

But what excuse could he give her? That something had
come up in the couple of minutes since he’d invited her out? That he suddenly felt ill? One excuse sounded lamer than the other. No, better just go through with the dinner and hope she would forgive him when the truth came out later. Meanwhile he’d keep his distance, make it short.