It was a no-brainer, really. But could she really cope with living under the same roof as him? When there was this strange push-and-pull thing going on between them...attraction vying with wariness?
But it wasn't as if he was welcoming her with open arms anyway. He was a busy man who travelled the world. She mightn't see him for most of the time she was his guest.
A little while later, she was about to go about unpacking her car when she glanced around to see him watching her with a dark intensity.
How long would it take for him to regret asking her to stay? If he wasn't already doing so...?
CHAPTER FOUR
MONDAY MORNING. THEY HAD flown to Paris the day before, and today he had a number of client and in-house meetings before him. The acquisition had gone through on Friday evening.
He had set Aideen up with a temporary studio space in the library of the chateau, and she planned on spending the day organising meetings with clients.
He jogged past the walled garden in the grounds of the chateau and then broke into a sprint. He had dined out last night with his French management team. Glad to have an excuse to leave the chateau and her offer to cook them dinner.
They had both worked on the plane over yesterday afternoon, but he had found his gaze repeatedly wandering towards her, intrigued by how absorbed she had been in her work. With her hair swept up into a messy bun she had stared at her laptop screen, her long fingers tapping the delicate column of her neck in thought. And he had wondered what it would be like to have those fingers run against his skin.
After that, the thought of sharing dinner alone with her had set alarm bells off in his brain. He had to keep his distance.
Taking the steps of the garden two at a time, he ran across the stone terrace that traversed the entire length of the back of the sixteenth-century chateau. He entered the house and walked towards the kitchen. Was that baking he smelt?
An explosion of household goods were scattered across the surface of the island. The shells of juiced oranges, an upturned egg carton, an open milk bottle teetering precariously on the edge of the unit. Behind them, a trail of baking tins and bowls was scattered along the kitchen counter.
He turned to the sound of footsteps out in the corridor. Aideen walked towards him, a huge bunch of multi-coloured tulips in her arms, a carton of eggs in her hand, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, a wide smile on her face. Her hair, thick glossy waves of soft chestnut curls, fell down her back.
'Oh, you're back.' She flashed him a quick smile before her gaze darted guiltily to the chaos behind him. 'I thought you would be out for a while yet.'
'What's happened to the kitchen?'
'I'm making breakfast. I hope you don't mind.'
Actually, he did. He wanted his kitchen clean and tidy, as it usually was. Not this mess.
She sidestepped him and began to search through the kitchen cupboards.
He gritted his teeth and tried to resist the urge to start clearing up the mess himself. His stomach, however, had very different thoughts as it rumbled at the delicious sweet smells of baking.
She plopped the tulips in a vase she had found in a cupboard and placed it on the kitchen table. 'I met your gardener earlier, and he gave me the use of his bike to cycle down to the village so that I could go to the boulangerie. But then I ran out of eggs, so I had to go again. The cycle down is easy but, boy, the hill back up is tricky. The countryside here is beautiful, and the village is so pretty. When I came back he gave me these flowers from the garden-aren't they stunning?'
The tulips did look good, but something about their cheery presence in the kitchen niggled him...they were just too homely.
For a few seconds she looked at him expectantly. When he didn't respond she smiled at him uncertainly, before rolling up the sleeves of her pink and white striped shirt.
'I'll tidy up here and then put some breakfast on. In honour of being in France, I'm going to make us oeufs en cocotte.'
He looked at her, bewildered. And slowly it dawned on him that she was expecting them to have breakfast together.
For a few brief seconds he was tempted to give in to the tantalising aroma of fresh baking filling the room. But a glimpse of her white lace bra as she bent over to swoop up the errant milk cap from the floor had him coming back to reality with a bang.
This wasn't what her stay was supposed to be about. A bed and an office... Not seeing too much of her. That was what he had signed up for. Not this cosy domesticity. Not some breakfast routine that could quickly become a habit. Not feeling desire for a woman first thing in the morning.
'I don't eat breakfast.'
It was almost the truth. He usually just grabbed some toast and coffee and took it to his office, eager to start work.
She was going about gathering up all the empty packaging on the island unit and paused briefly to give him a quick look. 'But that's crazy. After exercising you should eat.'
His spine stiffened and his jaw muscles tightened. Irritated, he grabbed a mug from the cupboard and went about making himself a coffee. 'I'm not hungry.'
At the sink, she rinsed out a cloth before she turned and caught his gaze. 'Have something. I wanted to thank you for having me here. For the flight over...the accommodation. I have some croissants and a baguette I bought in the boulangerie earlier warming in the oven.' She stopped and grimaced before admitting, 'My first attempt at oeufs en cocotte didn't quite work out, so I had to pop out for more eggs, but I'll have them ready in ten minutes.'
For a moment he almost wavered. 'I appreciate the gesture, but I'll stick to my usual coffee.'
With a disappointed sigh she added, 'If you won't eat, at least let me make the coffee for you.'
He threw his hands up in surrender. 'If you insist-two shots of espresso.'
'I've set the table out in the courtyard. If you would like to go out and sit there I'll bring you out the coffee.'
His head darted to the outdoor dining table in the courtyard. His fine china and cut glass sat on top of a white linen tablecloth. A jug of freshly squeezed orange juice sat next to silver salt and pepper pots. The courtyard was filled with an abundance of springtime flowers and the whole setting looked like a magazine feature on the ultimate romantic breakfast.
'Thanks, but I'll stay in here. I have to leave for work soon.'
At the kitchen table he clicked on to his usual newsfeed, using his tablet. He tried to concentrate on the various market analysts' commentary on his acquisition but she'd switched on the kitchen music system to an upbeat radio breakfast show. The DJs spoke in rapid French, sounding like children who had overdosed on a breakfast of sugary cereal.
And as if that wasn't bad enough she then proceeded to chat away herself, over their manic laughter. 'What a beautiful morning! Going to the boulangerie this morning reminded me of the summer I spent here as a student. I had an internship in a design house and I was penniless. I ate baguettes for the entire summer. I used to stare longingly at the patisserie stands, wishing I could afford to buy an éclair or, my favourite, a millefeuille.'
She continued this monologue while fiddling with the coffee machine's controls.
'Do you want some help?'
'No, I'm fine. I'll work it out.'
As she fiddled and twisted Patrick stared at the financial reports, very little detail actually registering. What was registering was the round swell of her bottom, the long length of her legs in skinny faded denim. Which only added to his growing annoyance.
Was it because he hadn't been with a woman for more than two years that he sometimes caught himself thinking that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever met? It wasn't just her prettiness, the seductive curves of her long-limbed body. Something shone through in her personality-a happiness, a strength of will that was beguiling.
He almost sighed in relief when she eventually popped a mug of coffee before him.
'Milk or sugar?'
'Neither, thanks.'
Sweet Lord, it was the strongest coffee he had ever tasted.
'I've messed up the coffee, haven't I?'
A crestfallen expression on her face, she waited for his answer.
He leant back in his chair and raised an eyebrow. 'I could probably stand on it.'
She moved to take the mug. 'I'll try again.'
'No!' That poor machine couldn't take it.
She planted her hands firmly on her hips. 'I take it you're not a morning person?'
'Correct in one. I like good coffee, silence, and preferably a tidy kitchen-not Armageddon.'
For a brief second a mixture of hurt and anger sparked in her eyes before she turned away.
She switched off the radio and then quickly cleared the countertops. She wiped them down and then filled the sink with a gush of steaming water in readiness to wash the used pots and pans piled high next to it.