Once Upon a Rose(49)

“How, exactly, does that solve all these other problems?” Damien asked acerbically.

Raoul shrugged one big shoulder. “You’d be surprised.”

Tristan frowned, feeling like he had as a kid before his birthday, when his cousins kept teasing him about this really cool present they had hidden for him.

“I think you’re worrying about the wrong person here, anyway,” Raoul said. “Matt’s tough.”

Well, that just shot Raoul’s credibility all to hell. “He’s a damn marshmallow,” Tristan said. “That’s why he growls so damn much—to hide it.”

“Who do you think we should be worrying about, Raoul?” Damien asked. “Pépé? Tante Colette?”

Tristan made a tiny snort. “They’re way the hell tougher than Matt.” As tough and spare as nylon rope, those two.

“Her.” Raoul gestured to the phone with its photo of a woman smiling confidently for the camera while her fingers clutched nervously at her purse. “She’s obviously trying to be incognito here, and we just sent her out in public with Nathalie Leclair’s ex. That’s worth a few photos on celebrity sites, if anyone spots them and realizes who she is.”

Damien frowned. “Fortunately all the paparazzi are down in Cannes right now, focusing on the festival.”

“Unless a photographer decides to follow some stars up to Aux Anges,” Raoul said. Gabe and Raphaël’s Michelin three-star restaurant was packed with movie stars for the two weeks while every celebrity in the world descended on nearby Cannes.

“She’s not that recognizable,” Tristan pointed out. “We didn’t recognize her. It’s not as if she’s a household name.”

“Yes, but paparazzi are a different breed,” Damien said. “That’s their livelihood—being able to recognize celebrities, even small celebrities. Anyone whose name might be enough to get their photos sold to some site or magazine.”

Damn it. Tristan frowned, deeply unhappy now. “Are we going to have to talk to Matt about all this?” And ruin the way he and Layla were currently pulling toward each other like bees to roses? That was crappy.

Raoul stretched out long, blunt-tipped fingers and studied them. “I think he should talk to her, and she should talk to him, and we should stay the hell out of it,” he said.



Wow, Matt drove well, Layla thought. These roads weren’t scary at all with Matthieu Rosier at the wheel. He focused on the roads as if he liked them and expected them to do what he told them.

He drove fast, much, much faster than anything Layla would have dared. But he never drove too fast for the road. His car held the curves of those narrow, twisty cliff-drop roads easily at the speed he demanded of it. When he came behind tourists creeping along carefully, he slowed down and left several courteous car lengths between them, not honking or even growling under his breath, waiting calmly until the tourist turned off or the road opened up and he could speed up again.

The hand of his injured arm curved around the wheel of his rebuilt car—some kind of sixties sports car, she was pretty sure—with a kind of competent affection. Big hands. Both focused on the job, one on the wheel and one shifting. If his wounded left arm bothered him, he gave no sign. The subtle scent of roses filled the car.

There were moments when the growls slid off him, when everything about him seemed to ease. The afternoon before in her doorway, as he looked down at her. This morning in his fields, as his hands framed her face. And here now, in the car. Was it because the car did what he told it to without resistance? Or could it conceivably have something to do with her? Could she possibly have the effect on him she kept fantasizing about, the ability to lay her hand on his chest and ease him all the way through?

“You could drive these roads in the dark without headlights, couldn’t you?” she murmured. “Have you always lived here?”

“Except for a few months up in Paris last year. Do you want the top down? Or would it mess up your hair?”

“Whatever you want.” The scents of herbs and pine outside were nice, but so were the roses and the quiet inside. She could go with either. She smiled at him.

He took a long, slow breath and put all that focus of his back on the road. His hand left the gearstick long enough to pull out his phone and start music streaming through the car speakers—nothing vintage about his BlueTooth. The song made her smile a little, since she’d opened for the band several times. Good people. Hearing their song reminded her of all the friendships she had formed in her years trying to make it as a musician, of the crazy post-performance nights, hanging out and talking about the trials and joys of pursuing their music dreams, over mojitos or beers or a couple of bottles of wine, depending on where they were in the world.