Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (38 page)

The image I saw reflected there was not Jack. It was a pale imitation of Sebastian Locke. I resembled him greatly. There was no denying whose son I was. Even though I had his features, mine were less distinct. They were not so well defined. Not so sculpted as his had been. True, my eyes were also blue. But diluted, watery. His had been blindingly blue. Brilliant in his tan face. My complexion was pale. I always looked washed out. His dark hair had been thick and wavy. Mine was dark too. And straight. I was not in the least bit dashing and dynamic. As he had been. Nor was I loaded with his kind of irresistible sex appeal.

I bet
he
was never impotent, I thought, continuing to stare at myself with a degree of disdain. I bet
he
had a permanent erection.

I hated being a faded carbon copy of that man. I hated being his son. I hated him. I hated the memory of him.

After gulping a glass of cold water, I steadied myself, pushed the anger down. Deep down inside. Buried it again. Taking total control of myself, I pushed open the door. Slowly I walked back into the bedroom.

Catherine had put on her robe. She was crouched in front of the fire. Staring into the flames. Looking pensive, lost. I took my silk robe from the bottom of the bed, slipped into it. Went to join her by the fireside. I sat down next to her on the rug.

“I'm sorry,” I said quietly, taking hold of her hand. “Too much wine. Followed by too much cognac.”

She was silent. She merely lifted her head and stared at me.

Again I said, “Sorry”

“It's
all right,
Jack, really it is,” she murmured in her softest voice. She smiled and instantly the worried expression in her eyes evaporated. Lifting her shoulders in a slight shrug, she went on, “We've many more nights together, I hope . . . hundreds of nights. We do, don't we, Jack?”

“Yes. I won't drink so much in future. It won't happen again,” I promised. I wondered if I was whistling in the dark.

Leaning forward, she kissed me lightly on the lips and touched my face. “Don't look so concerned, so upset. It's of no consequence.”

But it is. To me, I thought. I said, “You're a beautiful woman, Catherine, a very desirable woman . . .”

Leaning back, Catherine looked into my face. Then she kissed me. I returned the kiss. When we drew apart she touched my mouth lightly, traced the line of my lips with her finger. Then she lay down with her head in my lap, gazing up at me unwaveringly.

Her eyes did not leave my face. I stared back at her intently. Wondering what was going on behind that lovely face.

After a moment or two, she said, “You're
very
special to me, Jack. You've given me so much in the last few months. Love, warmth, understanding, tenderness, and passion. You must know how much I love you,” she continued, her voice low, vibrant. “You must know I'm in love with you, Jack.”

“Yes,” was all I dared to say.

I noticed a little smile playing around her mouth as she reached up with both arms. She placed them around my neck tightly and pulled me down to her. Kissing her swiftly, I broke free of her embrace. I was afraid. Afraid of being inadequate. I lay alongside her, resting on one elbow, staring into her face once more. She fascinated me.

“What is it, Catherine?” I whispered. “You look as if you have a big secret.”

“I don't have one, though.”

“But you're wearing a secretive sort of smile.”

“Not secretive. Smug, perhaps.”

“Why smug?”

“Because I have you. Because I'm with you. Because you're the best lover I've ever had. Oh Jack darling—” She did not finish. She broke off, sighing deeply, contentedly. “I've never felt like this before. It's never been like this for me. Never ever. Not with any other man. You excite me so much. I want you. I want you to make love to me.
Now
.”

“Oh Catherine . . . sweetheart. . .”

“Make love to me, Jack.
Please.
”

“Catherine, I don't know . . .”

“Don't be afraid,” she whispered and took off her robe, sitting up to do so, turning to smile at me.

She looked more ethereal than ever in the light from the fire. Her hair was a burnished coppery mass shot through with red and gold, tumbling down over her smooth white shoulders.

“Come to me, Jack,” she said, reaching out for me. “Take me. Make me yours again. I want to give myself to you. I want you. Only you, Jack.”

I felt the heat slowly rising in me. Desire began to throb through me as she spoke. Shrugging off my robe, I almost fell into her outstretched arms. I pushed aside my fear of failing her. I was going to take her. Love her as I had never loved her. Or any other woman.

I lay on top of her long, lithe body, fitting mine to hers. I kissed her neck and her breasts. I pushed my eager, trembling hands into the cloud of her red hair.

And as I continued to kiss her neck, her shoulders, and her face, she began to whisper to me. Her whispered words were tantalizing, erotic. They drove me on. Filled me with excitement.

It was not long before I found myself fully aroused. I was able to slide into her swiftly. Catherine clung to me. Her fingers pressed into my shoulder blades. She wound her long legs around my back and locked her ankles. I slipped my hands under her buttocks. Brought her closer to me. Finally I was truly joined to her.

I forgot everything. Everyone. I could think only of Catherine.

C
HAPTER
S
EVENTEEN

“I
understand why you never want to leave this place,” Catherine said, linking her arm through mine as she gazed out across the landscape. “It's extraordinary. Breathtaking really. And quite magical.”

“Yes, it is,” I agreed. I was pleased with her. She had expressed my sentiments exactly. Captured in a few choice words what I felt about the estate.

Catherine and I stood on top of a hill, the highest point on my land. We were above the vineyards which grew on the slopes of the hillsides. They stopped short at the château's gardens. To the right of the château were the woods; to the extreme left were the fields and the château's farm. The Home Farm it was called.

Just beyond the farm was the winery There were many buildings clustered together, with vast cellars underground. It was here that the grapes were turned into wine.

I glanced around.

I saw the panoramic view as if through Catherine's eyes. And it
was
a magical sight. The sky was a pure, pale blue. Very clear, blameless, without cloud. It was a bright, sun-filled afternoon. Almost balmy. Hardly any wind. It was only the middle of March. But spring was already here in Provence.

The land had undergone a change lately. I had noticed its sudden metamorphosis. New grass sprouting on the lawns. Tender green sprigs bursting open on the trees. Spring flowers shooting up in the gardens, brightening the many borders. They were vivid rafts of color against the dark soil.

I took a deep breath. The air here was clean, pure, bracing.

Turning to Catherine, I said, “I promised to show you the vineyards. Weeks ago now. So come on. Let's go. I think there's finally something to see.”

Taking hold of her hand, I led her along the narrow path that cut down through the first slope.

“Look!” I exclaimed. I was suddenly excited and bent down, hunkering close to the vines. “The buds are appearing. Here! And here!” I pointed them out to her.

Catherine crouched down to look. She said, in a surprised voice, “But they're so tiny, Jack. I can't believe they become grapes.”

“They do.”

“How does that happen? I know nothing about vineyards. Please explain to me.”

“I'll give it a try. First let me tell you about the
cycle
of the vine. It begins with the winter rest. In February and March the sap rises. Now this—” I broke off, pointed to a bud.
“This
tiny thing is what we call a spring bud. In April the budbreak occurs. That means the bud opens more fully. A few weeks later the leaves appear. By May the leaves open and spread out more fully. In June the vines will have started to flower. Later these flowers turn into very, very small grapes. Through July and August we will see their growth. Late August, early September, they start ripening. Finally, in October, the grapes are mature. In November the leaves fall. The cycle starts all over again. The winter rest begins, etcetera.”

“It all sounds very simple,” Catherine said, looking at me. “But I'm quite certain it isn't, is it?”

“No, it's not. It's much more complex. Especially the tending of the vines. The nurturing of them. Through the winter months. And the rest of the year. I tried to make it easy for you to understand.”

“Thank you, and presumably the grapes are picked when they are ripe.”

I nodded. “That's when the
vendangeurs,
the grape harvesters, come to pick them.
Porteurs,
the grape carriers, take the grapes away in
bénatons,
those big baskets you've seen lying around. They move them to the end of each row in the vineyard. From there the
bénatons
are carried to the winery, and the grapes are put in the cellars ready for vinification.”

“Is the picking done by hand?”

“Yes. Olivier and I prefer it to mechanized harvesting. That's become popular in some parts in France. But it would be difficult here. On these slopes. Also, there's less chance of damage when the grapes are hand picked.”

“What happens next in the process?”

“The wine is made, of course. It's stored in huge vats and casks in the
cuverie.
The vat room. I think I showed it to you. When I took you down into the
cave
, the big wine cellars, at Christmas.”

She nodded. “I remember.” She tilted her head to one side. “How do you know so much about wine making?”

“I don't know
that
much,” I said. “I've still got a lot to learn. But it was mostly Olivier. He taught me. He started me out. When I was sixteen. When Sebastian gave me the château. Fourteen years later I don't know half he does. Even though I went to the University of Toulouse. To study the science of wine and wine making. Oenological training in France lasts for four years.

“I did get my diploma. But I'm not up to Olivier's standards. Not yet. He's one of the best oenologists around. Considered to be a great wine scientist and wine maker.”

“He seems very dedicated from what I've observed,” Catherine remarked.

“Over the years he's been improving everything. From the vintage of our red wines to the bottling of it. He's made immense progress in the last ten years. Because of Olivier Marchand our label, Côtes de Château d'Cose, is now considered to be a superior appellation.”

“And he's your partner you said the other day.”

“Not my partner. I've given him a piece of the business. He deserves it. All the years he's devoted to the winery. To the château. The running of the entire estate.”

We began to walk down the slopes, heading toward the château.

After a moment or two, Catherine said, “What made your father buy the estate in the first place? I'm very curious about that. Was he interested in wine?”

“He liked it. Especially champagne. Veuve Cliquot. But he was just doing a good turn. For somebody. As usual.”

“What kind of good turn?”

“A good turn for a widow woman. The widow of the man who owned Château d'Cose. About thirty years ago Sebastian was in Africa. Kenya. He met a Frenchman. In Nairobi. A man called Pierre Peyfrette. Through a mutual friend. Over the years they became close. Sebastian often stayed here. About twenty-three years ago Pierre was killed. In a car crash. Driving down here. From Paris. His widow Gabriella was at a loss. Didn't know what to do about the winery. The running of it. They had no sons to inherit. Just a young daughter. About my age. Gabriella wanted to sell the property, but there were no takers. Nobody was interested. It wasn't making money. Not in those days, anyway. So Sebastian took it off her hands. Bought it from Gabriella. Paid her very well. Maybe even too much. But it helped her start her life over. She moved to Paris with her little girl.”

“I see. Did he ever run it? I mean the way you're running it now, Jack?”

“Good God, no! Not Sebastian! He found Olivier Marchand. Put him in charge. What a wise move that was. I was seven when I first came here. And I fell in love with the château.”

“It's your home,” she said very simply, in a quiet voice, her expression full of understanding. “You belong here. You love the winery and the vineyards. You're very, very lucky, you know. You've found your true place in the world, found the work you want to do, your vocation. Found the life you want to lead. So many people don't. Not ever.”

“But you have, Catherine. You know what you want,” I said. “Know where you're going. You're like Vivienne in certain ways. You both have tunnel vision. Immense focus. You're a very functioning woman. And hardworking, thank God. I can't abide idle women.”

“Neither can I. It's impossible for me to relate to them. I've nothing in common, nothing to say. I always knew I wanted to read history at Oxford, and later lecture and write about it after I earned my doctorate. I was fortunate in that I had a flair for writing as well as a studious nature.”

“How's the book coming along? You've certainly been hard at it these past few weeks. Working like a regular little eager beaver.”

She laughed, her face lighting up. “I find this place so conducive to work. And actually, in some ways, the book's proving easier to write than I thought.” She shook her head. “Except that I'm not sure who's going to read it.”

“A lot of people,” I asserted. “Take my word for it.”

Catherine laughed again. “I can't. I don't believe there is anyone around who is interested in Fulk Nerra, Count of Anjou, war lord and predator, known as the Black Hawk, founder of the Angevin dynasty and the Plantagenet line. Perhaps it only matters to me that the house of Anjou continued on its unrelenting course for well over a century, culminating in 1154 when Fulk's descendant Henry Plantagenet, Count of Anjou, was crowned King of England, married Eleanor of Aquitaine, and sired a son who became the famous Richard
Coeur de Lion.

“I'm interested,” I reassured her. I meant what I said. “You're a good storyteller. Even though you're dealing with facts not fiction. You've intrigued
me
when you've talked about the French-English connection.

“It sounds as if Henry and Eleanor had a real soap opera going. All their lives.”

“That's one way of putting it,” Catherine replied with a loud guffaw, looking amused. “And I suppose their lives together did have sort of . . . operatic overtones, what with their competitive, quarrelsome sons, Eleanor's scheming and meddling, Henry's philandering, and his constant banishment of her. He was always shoving her off to one of their many castles.”

“It would make a helluva good film,” I pointed out.

“Somebody beat me to it. A screenwriter. James Goldman. He wrote
The Lion in Winter,
which was all about Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine.”

“Peter O'Toole and Katherine Hepburn! That's right! I saw it. And it
was
a nutty family. Dysfunctional. Just like the royals today. I guess it's all in the genes.”

“Not in this instance. The Windsors are not descended from the Plantagenets,” Catherine replied. “They are of German descent through Queen Victoria and her consort Prince Albert. He was her cousin and all German. So was she, as a matter of fact. Her mother was a German princess and her father the Duke of Kent. He was descended from the Hanoverian kings who were invited to rule England because of their Stuart connection. In a way, Victoria was born because of the scramble by the brothers of George the Fourth to produce an heir. But going back to the Plantagenets, they were eventually eclipsed by the Tudors. When Elizabeth the First died, the throne of England went to her distant relative, James Stuart, King of Scotland.”

I laughed. “Whatever you say, Catherine. But I bet a lot of people
will
read your book. Because you tell it all so well. Make it sound so . . . modern.”

“I guess human nature doesn't change much, Jack. Anyway, the Plantagenets were very colorful. But don't forget, I'm not really writing about them, but about Fulk Nerra. Nobody's interested in him. Except for me and my editor.”

“Don't be so sure. Listen, far be it from me to tell you what to write. But get more of the Plantagenets into the story. I guarantee it'll be a best-seller.”

“From your mouth to God's ears, darling,” she said, still laughing.

We had reached the bottom of the slopes where the vineyards grew, all thirty-three acres. I paused, took hold of Catherine's arm affectionately. “I've got to work for a few hours. With Olivier. What about you? Are you going back to do more on your book?”

“For a while, and then I thought I would go riding. I think a good gallop across the fields will do me good. Blow a few cobwebs away. Would you mind awfully if I rode Black Jack? He's quite easy for me to handle.”

“I told you before, you can ride any horse in the stable. Of course you can take Black jack.”

Leaning into me, she gave me a resounding kiss on the cheek. “Thank you. Have a good afternoon. Don't work too hard.”

I smiled at her. “Nor you.”

She was walking away, walking toward the château when I called after her, “Catherine!”

She swung around. “Yes? What is it?”

“How about dinner in Aix tonight? We've been cooped up here far too long.”

“That's a lovely idea, darling.”

“I'll make a reservation at Clos de la Violette. Is that okay?”

“Only perfect.” She waved and went on her way.

 

I strolled toward the winery. As I passed the Home Farm I slowed. I almost went in to see Madame Clothilde. She ran the farm. As her mother had done before her. I had known her since I was a little boy. She had been a teenager then. Her husband Maurice was one of our vignerons, who worked in the vineyards. But he also helped out on the farm, along with their daughter, Hélène, and son, Vincent.

She always made me very welcome, whipped up a café au lait in an instant. Brought out a warm brioche, or a slice of tarte tatin.

My mouth watered. But I hurried on. Olivier was waiting for me. He wanted me to take a look at some bottles of wine. Quite a lot of bottles. He thought there might be something wrong with them. I wondered if they were bottle sick. I hoped it was only that. Wine that was bottle sick usually rectified itself if left to its own devices.