‘Come to me, ma chérie,’ he whispered, his voice husky as he held out his hand.
Evelina went willingly into his arms, her lips meeting his, his hands finding her waist as she slipped her arms around his neck and sighed contentedly against his mouth.
A week later, Evelina stretched out in bed, her toes pointed, and for the first time, her heart fluttered and her breathing slowed.Antoine is still here. She was careful not to wake him as she moved across the sheets to get closer to him, sliding her arm around him and gently placing her head to his chest.
When they’d first met, she’d thought she’d like not having to see him all the time, craving her own space and having time to do her work. Or perhaps she’d been lying to herself, and she’d only been happy because she’d believed that it was a mere matter of time before he left his wife for her and moved in. But the longer they were together, she realised that he was never, ever going to leave his wife. His heart might be hers, but his marriage meant something to him that she wasn’t privy to.
‘Good morning, beautiful,’ he murmured, as she skimmed her leg across his, listening to the steady beat of his heart as she kept her cheek to his chest.
‘Good morning,’ she whispered in reply.
‘I don’t know why we haven’t done this more often,’ he said, lazily kissing her hair and drawing her even closer. ‘I think I’ll have to go on many, many more business trips this year.’
She didn’t bother agreeing with him—she was fairly certain her feelings on the matter were obvious.
‘I don’t think we’ll leave the hotel suite all weekend, if that suits you,’ Antoine said, as he sat up a little in bed, the soft, oversized pillows cushioned behind him. He pulled Evelina up with him, and she tugged the sheet to cover her breasts, suddenly self-conscious. They’d pulled the thick drapes the night before, but there was a gap that had allowed the morning light to stream into the room, and she wasn’t used to him seeing herfirst thing in the morning. Usually every time he saw her she was coiffed and made-up, not tousled from sleep.
‘I think we should order coffee in bed,’ she said with a sigh. ‘And croissants for after.’
Antoine laughed. ‘After what, exactly?’
Evelina smiled up at him. ‘Call room service and order me coffee, and maybe you’ll find out.’
There was so much she still didn’t know about him—what his routine was each morning when he woke, how he drank his morning coffee, whether he liked to read the newspaper to start the day. She shuddered to think of him waking up beside his wife, but told herself they might well have separate bedrooms, as so many married couples did. His wife must know he had a mistress, otherwise how could he explain away all the late nights, returning home smelling of another woman’s perfume, bleary-eyed as he let himself in, in the early hours of the morning.
Evelina pushed thoughts of his wife away when he rose from the bed to use the telephone. She really needed to stop thinking about her. She watched him as he moved, the way he stretched and then spoke so directly into the phone, a man used to getting what he wanted, to having his orders obeyed the moment he spoke them. She stood while he still had his back turned, taking the sheet with her and wrapping it around herself, collecting one of his cigarettes on her way past. She lit it and took a gentle puff, before going up behind Antoine, her arms wrapping around him as he put down the phone, offering him the cigarette. He took it, turning with it in his mouth, his eyes searching hers.
‘The coffee will be ten minutes,’ he said.
Evelina took his hand and feigned confidence, the sheet pooling around her ankles as she led him back to the bed. They only had the weekend, and she intended on making the most of every minute. When he wasn’t with her, she wanted it to beimpossible for him to stop thinking of her. It was the only way she could live with their being parted.
18
PRESENT DAY
Blake still wasn’t used to the feel of Henri’s hand in hers, but she was certainly starting to like it. She glanced up at him, taking in his side profile as they walked along the street towards the café, finding it hard to believe that he’d decided to come with her. They’d had the most magical few days at the chateau, and although they’d stayed longer than planned, they’d also decided to make the four-hour drive to Provins to see if they could find out more about Evelina Lavigne. The following day, they’d head back to Lyon, but Henri had been as eager as she was to find out more. All she’d discovered so far, after hours of Google searching, was that Evelina had been married to a fashion designer named Théo Devereaux, but she was divorced well before Blake’s grandmother could have been conceived.
The town of Provins was not what she expected, and she couldn’t stop looking around and stopping. The buildings were medieval-style and perfectly preserved, and she couldn’t help but feel as if they’d stepped back in time as they walked along the winding cobbled streets. The locals had all been quick to smile, clearly used to visitors and perhaps appreciating the money they spent in their small town.
‘I can see why so many tourists like coming here,’ she said. ‘The architecture alone is incredible.’
‘I agree,’ Henri said. ‘I feel as much of a tourist as you are, I’ve never been here before.’
The café was busy as they approached, with almost all the outdoor seats full, and half the pavement taken up by dogs lying at their owners’ feet as they sipped their coffees. They went in and Henri ordered for them both as Blake watched on, only knowing for sure that he was asking about Evelina when he heard him say her name.
The waitress shrugged and shook her head, but she did point to an older lady who was sitting by the window.
‘What did she say?’ Blake asked.
‘That we should ask the woman over there. She’s apparently lived here her whole life.’
The woman had silver-grey hair pulled back into a bun, and she wore a simple striped top with a navy-blue scarf tied around her neck. Once again, Blake did the talking, but when he asked her if she spoke English—one of the phrases that Blake did recognise—the woman replied in heavily accented English.
‘My friend here, she’s searching for her great-grandmother, and we believe she was from Provins,’ Henri said. ‘You’ve lived here your whole life?’
The woman nodded. ‘Oui,’ she said. ‘Yes, I have.’
‘Do you recognise the name Evelina Lavigne?’
