“My father, Étienne, the eldest child, was made the head, but unfortunately he’s been stricken with an aggressive form of arthritis and is in a wheelchair. My mother, Hélène-Claire, and a health care giver look after him. Because of his condition, he made me the head of the corporation a year ago.
“But my uncles Pierre and Lucien, and my aunts Mireille and Abeline, along with their spouses and children, have been upset about my ascension and have a great deal to say about every move I make.”
“Why is that?”
“As I told you earlier, everyone in the family wants to be in charge.”
“But that doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re right, so don’t even try.”
There had to be more to it than that. “It sounds like the Decorvet dynasty has been prolific,” she observed. “That is a lot of family. Do they all live close by?”
“For those not living in the château, they’re too close.”
“Which king was it who complained to his minister that he had no friends, and the minister said, ‘Of course not. You’re the king!’?”
“Where did you acquire such wisdom?” he murmured, but she heard him.
“Do you have siblings?”
“Two. My sister, Josette, is married to Paul. They have a three-year-old boy Maurice, and are expecting their second child. My brother, Jean-Marc, is still single and works in the exporting office for our corporation with Uncle Pierre. Everyone is involved in some way in the family business, thus the friction.”
Abby remembered his telling her about the relative that left for Switzerland because of the dark side of his family’s relationships. The one who’d found the supposed notebook with Byron’s writing. Friction was no doubt the polite description of what went on within the Decorvet inner circle.
“As I see it, your family can’t help but have difficult moments. It’s natural because they work in the same business.” She shook her head. “That would never work for my family.
“Tell me about yours.”
“I have aunts and uncles on both sides,” Abby informed him, “but they don’t work with my dad. He runs an insurance agency and my mom works for a hospital in medical records. My brother, Steve, just finished law school and my older sister, Nadine, is pregnant with her third child.
“I have four cousins and everyone is a free thinker. Thank goodness there aren’t any secrets to be kept under lock and key, like a secret recipe for the wine you produce. No one would be able to keep quiet.” Low laughter rumbled out of Raoul.
“What kind of wine do you make?”
“The only grape we grow is the pinot noir. Nothing but grand cru.”
“What does that mean?”
“That it’s superior quality. The earth here has an exceptional purity.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s made up of red-brown clay and large bits of limestone. The soil drains so well that the flavors are kept concentrated and powerful. It’s known that this area’s soil takes our crop to a new extreme of depth and concentration, producing a one-of-a-kind wine.”
Abby heard pride in his voice. “How much does your wine cost?”
“I’m afraid the bottles are priced at extravagant levels. Depending on weather conditions, we sell three hundred thousand bottles yearly from seven different terroirs.”
She finished her drink. “Is that a lot?”
“Not really.”
His answer proved she knew nothing about his work, but she was fascinated by everything she’d learned so far. “I’ve only been told a little about the chalessas grape variety that grows around Lac Léman.”
One dark brow lifted. “Then you know more than most tourists. And I’ve told you more than most people will ever know about my family, so we don’t have to talk about it again.”
She knew he meant it. Then his half smile appeared and her heart jumped.
They drove back to the motorway. Now that they were on French soil, the signs and architecture were different. When they reached Dijon, she exclaimed over the fabulous toits bourguignons. Raoul explained that their polychrome roofs were made of tiles glazed in green, yellow, black and terracotta. They’d been arranged in geometric patterns. Abby took pictures with her phone.
Before long Raoul gave her a tour as they followed the sign for Vosne-Romanée, teaching her about the area and its wonders with every kilometer. They drove past many lush terroirs of vineyards growing on the limestone slopes of the Côte d’Or escarpment.
“It’s evident Gauguin never traveled here, Raoul. He would have had a field day painting the landscape of Vosne-Romanée—the different terroirs, hedges, trees and gardens all arranged like a great patchwork in his unmistakable style. I have to tell you I’m entranced.”
“So am I by every word that comes out of your mouth.”
Like an underwater geyser, his comment sent steaming heat through her body. Abby could feel his magic getting to her. It frightened her that she was so susceptible to him. Too much longer in his company and she’d never want to leave. He’d had such a cataclysmic effect on her, how would she be able to bear it if it turned out his feelings for her blew hot, then cold because she could never take the place of his beloved wife?
Eventually they came to a tall ornate grillwork gate. At the top it said, Regnac-Capet Decorvet Domaine. But her attention was caught by the coat of arms beneath the words.
Her gaze flew to his. “Was this a royal property at one time?”
He took his time before he said, “My ancestor was a duke from the House of Burgundy.”
Bits and pieces of unassociated information flew at her while she started piecing them together. Talk about a patchwork. But this one added up to a canvas so extraordinary, she started trembling and couldn’t speak for a minute. Yesterday when he’d appeared like a Gallic prince out of one of her dreams, she’d known something in her world had
