Page 22 of The Devil Wears Orange
“I hope the late booking didn’t put you out?” asks Jack.
Philippe shakes his head. “We’re not officially open for the season until next week, but it’s always a pleasure to have a repeat guest. Ah, and this time you brought a lady friend,” Philippe says happily and gives Jack a wink which Jack finds odd.
“Pleased to meet you.” Charlotte extends her hand. “Did you say ‘room’ as in singular?”
“Jean!” Philippe yells without answering Charlotte’s question. Jack would also like clarification on this matter.
It takes a moment before Jean appears by the front door, hunched over, toothless, yet, surprisingly, he looks younger than the last time Jack saw him.
“Prendre leurs biens,” Philippe says to Jean.
Jean shuffles his way to the trunk of the vehicle.
“I can manage,” offers Jack.
“No, Professor Jack. Jean can handle it.”
When the shuffling and mumbling Jean passes close to him, Jack swears he was the recipient of a dirty look. And all because the last time he was here, Jack took it upon himself to shine his own shoes, offending Jean in the process.
“Really, I can...”
“No, I insist. We will take care of everything during your two-day stay.”
Charlotte turns to Jack. “Two days?”
“Let’s get you inside,” says Philippe.
Passing through a stone-walled corridor, Jack, Charlotte, and Philippe arrive at a living room with exposed oak beams. A well-stocked library – that Jack has lost himself in many times – spans the length of one wall.
Philippe announces, “Marianna! Professor Jack is here! And this time he brought his lover.”
Jack smirks, shakes his head, and is about to speak when a joyful scream from elsewhere in the house interrupts him. Marianna rushes in from the kitchen and wipes her hands against her apron, her dark, long hair tied back in a loose ponytail.
“I’m always excited to greet our first guests of the season. Welcome,” she says, her Spanish accent heavy. “Jean, take them upstairs to the guest room. Freshen up and we’ll prepare a breakfast out on the terrace.”
Lugging a suitcase, Jean leads the way upstairs. A fat, white cat, perched in the middle on the last step, refuses to move. After a staring match between Jean and the cat, they slink past the cat.
Jack issues Charlotte a warning. “Stay away from this one. I’ve worn the scratches of defeat against this feline.”
Jean opens a set of double doors to one of the rooms, drops the suitcase near the king-sized bed, a hand-embroidered cover folded back. Fine antiques and cheap imitation art decorate the room. Jean flings open the shuttered window to views of the vineyard slopes below. Speaking French, he points to the sky and kisses his fingers in a fervent expression. Then, Jean leaves to get the next suitcase.
“What did he say?” Charlotte asks. “He spoke too quickly for me to follow.”
“He said the moon from this window is the most spectacular in all the house. Its beams creep into this room, spills its aura of lovemaking to the inhabitants while they sleep.” As Jack translates, he looks to the king-sized bed. Charlotte’s eyes follow his gaze.
“Clearly, they’ve misunderstood,” says Jack.
“Clearly.”
“Honestly, I booked two rooms,” he says, then wonders if his tone appears too strained as though trying hard to convince her. “I’ll get another room.”
Charlotte throws herself onto the bed, hugs pillows, then caresses the coverlet. Given the past 24-hours, this must feel luxurious to her. And Jack himself is exhausted, having stayed awake since yesterday morning. He’d like to lay himself down next to her.
“I never want to leave.” Charlotte closes her eyes and kicks off her shoes, wiggling her toes.
He stares at her well-manicured toes, up along her legs, past her skirt and up to her face. He studies the strength in her jawbone and the vulnerability of her chin. Charlotte most certainly has a kissable neck.
The sound of Jean shuffling into the bedroom pierces Jack’s reverie, and he’s embarrassed by the thoughts he’s having about Charlotte, but can he really be held responsible for his emotions? Indeed, as long as he doesn’t act, he’s fine to dwell on them and wonderwhat if? Likewhat if,instead of all this trouble, he met Charlotte at an art gallery, both admiringMistress In A Red Dress?What ifshe wasn’t a criminal and they struck up a conversation? Would she even talk to him? Perhaps if he wore Prada.
