Why was she acting like this? “I have no idea,” she said frankly. Because he made her feel happy? Because he made her feel free and alive, like she used to back in the days when she wandered Europe playing at markets and tiny festivals and picnicking on the edge of streams and the music flowed freely? “But you started it. That first night.”
“Yes, but you’re not drunk, are you?”
Fine. Go ahead and rub it in that you were, when you came on to me, she thought, a little sulkily. “Maybe I’m drunk on being here?” She opened her arms to indicate the valley of roses, or Provence, or France. This place that made her feel as if she was twenty again, backpacking through Europe after her study abroad program ended, with her guitar and a dream. This place that made her feel alive even when she wasn’t playing a new song.
He frowned, a hint of that grouchiness back, as if maybe he really preferred her not to have an excuse, and folded his arms. God, that did such great things to his biceps. But it left her cheeks feeling utterly bereft of the warmth and texture of his hands. “I actually meant, why do you think you should stop saying things to me?”
“Otherwise you might get ideas,” she admitted. He had a lot more feelings than a guitar, and playing with him might lead to someone getting hurt. Both of them, maybe. When she started playing with an instrument, she always, always ended up pouring all her heart into it.
His frown deepened into a scowl. He shoved the toe of his shoe into the soft earth. “Men have been known to do that, after being told they look good naked.”
“Exactly,” she said uncomfortably.
He pulled back a step, the grumpy bear entirely awake again. “What, are you afraid I’m going to turn out to be an axe murderer or something? That I’m going to strangle you and leave your body buried in the rose fields?”
She blinked.
He scowled.
He looked so darn adorable when he scowled like that.
Her lips quirked. “Are there a lot of dead bodies buried in these rose fields? Because you thought of a location for mine awfully quick.”
“You’d have to ask my grandfather where the dead bodies are.” He glowered at his shoe. “I’m pretty sure not in the rose fields, because we have to dig these bushes up every seven years or so, and we were always on the lookout for bones when we were kids.”
She gaped at him.
He hesitated, gaze sweeping her face, and then rushed on, honest to God as if he was trying to reassure her. “If they ever did use the rose fields, I’m sure it was only a stopgap because there was loose dirt, and they moved the bodies again as soon as they could. But honestly, I would be surprised. Anything done close to the rose fields would have been so easily tied to him and his family, when there was all this maquis around he could have done it in.” Matt gestured to the hills.
Layla stole a quick glance at the old patriarch over by the truck. Those light blue eyes of his were trained on her right at that moment, not menacing exactly, just matter-of-fact, as if it wouldn’t be the first time he’d made the decision to pull a trigger with a human skull in his sights, and it wouldn’t necessarily be the last.
“You’re trying to scare me away,” she decided. “I’m not that stupid. If you want that property back, you had a better chance at it when you were walking around half naked. Actually, maybe if you wanted to try fixing the sink half naked, that would—”
“La Résistance! He’s Jean-Jacques Rosier. You haven’t heard of him? He was a Resistance hero in the war. Like his stepsister, Colette Delatour. The woman who gave you that house.”
That caught her. “You knew her well, then? Can you tell me more about her?”
He stared at her. “You can meet her. She’s still alive, you know.”
Alive? Antoine Vallier’s letter had completely failed to communicate that the woman who gave her this mysterious gift was still alive. Layla brought her hands to her lips, both excited and unnerved.
“She’d like to meet you,” Matt mentioned. “She told me so yesterday.”
It gave her goose bumps suddenly. She had wanted to know more about this heritage, but to meet a real, live person…to really find out what it meant…it was like that build-up of nerves before she went on stage. She stared at him, wishing she could bury herself in his big, strong embrace until her nerves calmed down.
“If she tries to pass on any Renaissance treasure to you, be aware that it’s stolen, too,” a voice said behind her, and she turned to find the old patriarch had snuck up on her.
Damn. How did the man move like that at his age? He had to be at least ninety, didn’t he, if he’d fought in the Resistance during World War II?