Awaken the Senses, Page 2

Not only that, she operated the successful greenhouse located on the Ashton Estate. It was Trace who inadvertently gave him that information while showing him a map of the estate.

  “This is Charlotte’s greenhouse.” Trace tapped at the outline of a building located about two miles east of the estate house. “That’s the cottage and her design studio’s here.”

  “A greenhouse?” Alexandre tried to keep his tone casual. “What is it for?”

  “Charlotte does all the floral arrangements for events held on the estate. That greenhouse is her baby.” The usually reserved Trace smiled. “You should go have a look—I’m sure she wouldn’t mind giving you a tour.”

  “How do I get to Charlotte’s greenhouse?” he asked, savoring the taste of her name on his lips.

  “Take one of the golf carts—the path’s easy to navigate.” Charlotte obviously preferred to ride her misbehaving bicycle. Alexandre smiled inwardly at the idea of tracking her to her territory. Perhaps surrounded by her flowers, she’d be more relaxed with him…more willing to entertain the ideas uncurling in the most male part of his psyche.

  Work commitments meant that he didn’t get a chance to seek out Charlotte until well after lunch. Around three o’clock, he commandeered a golf cart and headed east. Once he got closer, the greenhouse was easy to find, rising clearly above the vines.

  He parked in front of the first building, a stone cottage surrounded by gardens full of wildflowers. Reminiscent of something out of a fairy tale, it perfectly fit the woman whom he’d surprised this morning. Small, a little fey and ultimately enchanting.

  Just behind the cottage sat the greenhouse, with another building set close up against its right side. The sign on the smaller building proclaimed it to be Ashton Estate Botanicals, clearly the design studio Trace had pointed out.

  Expecting Charlotte to be working in the greenhouse, he walked that way. His whole body sighed as he entered and saw her. Dressed in faded jeans that faithfully caressed every feminine curve and a short-sleeved pink shirt, she looked as fresh as the flowers blooming around her. The silky waterfall of her hair was plaited in one long rope, the end brushing across her bottom as she moved back and forth.

  Her back was to him as she worked at the heavy wooden workbench set up in the middle of the greenhouse. It looked like she was repotting. She liked working surrounded by the flowers she nurtured, he thought to himself.

  Suddenly, though he hadn’t made a sound, she whirled around, a small trowel held aggressively in her gloved hand. Her big eyes appeared to get even bigger as she saw him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to find my mysterious little fleur.” He eyed the trowel she still held pointed to his heart.

  Blushing, she put it on the bench behind her. “Why?”

  “Are you always so direct?” He prowled closer, liking the look of her even more than he had earlier today. She was certainly small, but she was most perfectly a woman. In the past, he’d tended to go for long-limbed beauties. Looking at Charlotte, he couldn’t understand why. “It’s very warm in here. You do not mind?”

  “It’s to help the flowers grow out of season.” She watched him as he approached, as wary as a wild deer. “I like the heat.”

  His eye fell on a small blue notebook on her bench. “What do you write in there?” he asked curiously.

  He could’ve sworn panic turned her eyes black. “It’s my g-gardening journal.”

  Obviously, he’d misread her reaction. “It smells like sunshine and growth in here,” he murmured, slowing his pace but not changing direction.

  “What do you want?” she repeated, pressing back against the bench as if she wanted to blend into it.

  “You don’t like me, ma petite?” He wondered if for once, his sense about women had let him down. He’d never been one to push where he wasn’t wanted, and certainly not with women. They were to be indulged, cosseted and coaxed, not forced. To his shock, he realized that if this woman didn’t want him, he’d have a very hard time walking away.

  Her gold-dust skin suffused with pink. “I didn’t say that.”

  Scenting victory, he prowled closer, lifting a finger to touch one warm cheek. “Non?”

  “I…” She stepped sideways, breaking contact. “Please, this is my space.”

  “And you wish me to leave.” Though not a man who gave up easily, he had no wish to cause her any hurt.

  Perhaps, he acknowledged, she’d seen the truth he’d been avoiding since the first moment she’d stared at him with those big brown eyes—at thirty-four he was far too old and jaded for her. This woman was as fresh and beautiful as the blooms she tended, and he’d lost his innocence a long, long time ago.

  Fighting the urge to touch her again, he sketched a half-bow. “Then I’ll go. I apologize for disturbing you.” He turned and took the first steps to the door, feeling an unaccountable sense of loss.

  “Wait!”

  Pausing, he looked over his shoulder. Charlotte closed the gap between them and without meeting his gaze, held out a fragile white blossom. “Put this in your room. It’ll make it smell like sunshine and…growth.”

  Startled at the gift and her recall of his words, he took the flower. “Merci, Charlotte. I don’t believe anyone has ever given me flowers before.” Lifting the bloom to his nose, he breathed in the fragrance.

  Her lips curved in a tentative smile. “You’re welcome.”

  And suddenly, he knew he was. All his confidence returned twofold. So, little Charlotte Ashton wasn’t averse to him. She just wasn’t comfortable in his presence. Alexandre couldn’t understand why. She was a lovely, beautiful flower, as exotic as the orchids she grew in this glass garden. Beautiful women had always liked Alexandre, for they knew he was a man who appreciated them.

  In truth, most women liked him because he genuinely liked them, respecting the steel spines beneath many of their fragile fronts. Charlotte, he thought, probably had a spine steelier than any of them. It took determination and hard work to nurture life and her greenhouse was bursting at the seams with it. Even more, it must’ve taken strength to follow a different path in this family dedicated to wine and business. His maman would like her.

  “Tell me about your greenhouse,” he coaxed.

  Her cheeks bloomed with color but on that topic at least, she was willing to talk. “I grow lots of things in here, from daisies to ferns.”

  “I can see gardens behind your bench,” he said, truly intrigued. “How can you grow things in the ground inside a greenhouse?”

  Her eyes brightened. “The earth in that part is exposed. Small pebbles on the floor facilitate drainage.”

  “Show me,” he said softly, seduced by the confidence in her eyes.

  After the tiniest hesitation, she turned and walked back through the rows of high tables set with trays overflowing with blooms. He followed, keeping enough distance that she didn’t feel crowded. As they walked, he had to duck a few times to avoid the greenery growing downward from the considerable number of hanging baskets.

  After they circled her workbench, Charlotte pointed to the lush green garden on the left. “These are my ferns.” The ferns were overflowing onto a small wooden bench placed next to the garden.

  “And over here—” she moved to the opposite side “—are my tropical blooms. Smell this.” Shyness lingered in her eyes but her lips were curved.

  Undone, he leaned forward and inhaled the heady fragrance from a creamy white flower, its heart shaded with strokes of sunny yellow. “It makes me want to be on a South Sea beach.”

  Her smile of delight tumbled his heart. “It’s Plumeria—frangipani. One whiff and I’m lost in dreams.”

  Something fell into place. “That’s the scent you wear.” It had been haunting him since this morning.

  Big eyes widened in surprise. “Yes. I order it from the Pacific.”

  A sense of intimacy invaded the air. Before it could get heavy and alarm her, he asked, “What else grows here?”

  She looked rel
ieved. “Next to the frangipani is a hibiscus I’ve been babying for a year. It’s being stubborn about blooming.”

  He chuckled. “Perhaps it is like you, wishing to be mysterious.”

  Her lashes drifted down. “I’m just me. Nothing mysterious at all.”

  “I disagree.” Encouraged by the light in her eyes, he took a chance. “Today, I must return to my work, but will you have dinner with me tomorrow?”

  All her sweet confidence disappeared under a veil of reserve. “I…I’ve got plans. Th—thank you for asking.” She busied herself with pulling off her gloves.

  He wanted to reach over and kiss her, melt her resistance with a gentle seduction. “Ah, ma chérie, you break my heart. Perhaps you will reconsider, non? If you change your mind, I’m staying at the estate house.” With those lighthearted words, he headed out of the greenhouse, her gift held gently in his hand.

  Now that he knew she didn’t abhor his presence, he had no intention of giving up on his shy blossom. He just wished he knew what to do to win her trust. Given the jaded nature of his own heart, he’d made it a point to stay away from innocents. But, for some reason, he couldn’t stay away from this one with her big brown eyes and blushing cheeks.

  He knew she was too soft and young for him, but he also knew that he wasn’t going to walk away. Instead, he was going to break every single one of his rules and seduce her, seduce her so completely that those brown eyes wouldn’t even look at another man ever again.

  A frown creased his brow at the commitment implied in that sudden thought. He had no intention of marrying, not when he knew the frailties of the institution so very well, and Charlotte was the marrying kind. A woman made for a lifetime of loving.

  His scowl intensified. Why were his thoughts heading in such directions? Seduction and sensory pleasure were all he ever promised a woman. Charlotte’s wariness around him told him that she understood that instinctively. He’d never lie to her about his intentions, but he would have her.

  What most women failed to detect beneath his charming front was a determination that made a thunderstorm look weak by comparison. Once set on a course, Alexandre Dupree would not deviate from it unless it suited his purpose. And right now, he was set on sweet little Charlotte Ashton.

  Two

  Safe inside her greenhouse, Charlotte watched Alexandre get into the stylish golf cart and drive away.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered, when he was finally out of sight. The man was lethal. Those dark eyes, that charming smile and especially that way he had of looking at her like he’d like to devour her—they all added up to a combination that spelled danger. Charlotte wasn’t the kind of woman with whom dangerous men played.

  Rubbing her hands on her jeans, she swallowed at the thought of actually accepting Alexandre’s dinner invitation. A second later, she discarded the idea. Except for when discussing her beloved plants, the one topic about which she had complete confidence, she could barely speak in his presence. The pressure of a date would undoubtedly leave her tongue-tied.

  Pain shot through her at the reminder of her shortcomings. She was probably the only Ashton on the estate who couldn’t hold her own in the kind of sophisticated environment they inhabited. That was why she’d retreated to her flowers. They didn’t expect anything from her but kindness.

  She knew she was partly at fault for her social inability. If she’d stayed in the big house, she could’ve learned the necessary skills from Lilah.

  Her lips thinned.

  Sure, Lilah would’ve loved teaching the niceties of mingling in society to the half-breed brat who’d been foisted on her. The elegant redhead had always quietly hated the fact that she’d been saddled with the responsibility of raising two children of mixed parentage. Being so enamored of Spencer, Charlotte’s brother Walker hadn’t much noticed her subtle antipathy. But Charlotte had needed a woman in her life and Lilah had made sure Charlotte knew she could never expect that woman to be Spencer’s wife.

  Shaking her head, she returned to the seedlings she’d been repotting. Perhaps she could ask Jillian for advice, she thought, sinking one gloved hand into a bag of soil. There was a grace about her older cousin that would’ve normally intimidated Charlotte, but Jillian also had such warmth that she’d found herself wanting to tell the slender brunette things she rarely told anyone.

  Like her belief that her mother was still alive.

  For the past few months, that belief had grown stronger and stronger, until she was almost bursting with the need to share it. Since the secret of Spencer’s first marriage had come out, her belief had turned into a certainty. If the man could lie once, why not twice?

  Though she wanted to share her thoughts, she’d barely been able to broach the topic even with Jillian. Confiding the details would require a level of trust that Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to give to anyone.

  She shook her head at her own wandering thoughts. “You have to finish the repotting.” Despite the order, her mind kept returning to the topic and she knew why. It was because she’d stalled in her search. Not because she didn’t know how to go forward but because she was afraid.

  What she found could change her life forever. Going alone and unsupported into the unknown frightened her. After years of hard work, she’d managed to create a haven on this estate where she’d never felt at home. The thought of losing this feeling of safety to the cruel truth terrified her.

  Alexandre Dupree had surely never been afraid, never been a coward like her, she thought, unable to keep her mind from drifting to the charming Frenchman who’d walked into her life and far too quickly begun to fascinate her.

  He reminded her of all the things she could never be. The man exuded charisma with every breath, as dangerously beautiful as a stalking leopard. His sensuality alone was powerful enough, but once you added the razor sharp mind hidden behind the charm, he became the most fascinating creature she’d ever met.

  She guessed his lazy charm fooled many people into thinking him a playboy. She knew better. After meeting him that morning, she’d logged onto the Internet and done some research. Alexandre Dupree was no playboy. He was one of the most respected winemakers in the world. The only reason she hadn’t heard his name before now was that her plants interested her far more than the vineyards and their produce. That was Trace’s passion.

  Not only was he a respected winemaker, Alexandre was a rich one. Filthy rich. The most public of his successful commercial interests was the small winery he owned in France, but she’d also found his name mentioned in relation to several exclusive restaurants. It made sense that a man famed for producing “wines of stunning complexity” should choose to align himself with places that served food fit for his wines.

  What made him extraordinary was that instead of hoarding it, he didn’t begrudge others his expertise. Witness his presence here, helping Trace find just the right texture, the right taste, to tempt the most fussy of palates.

  If Alexandre’s wealth and skill hadn’t been enough to intimidate her, she’d found several photos of him at high profile events. He’d been photographed at the Cannes Film Festival several times, always accompanied by a leggy, sharply elegant creature in a killer dress. Not only did his women have several inches in height on Charlotte, they had “breeding” stamped on their perfect profiles, elegance oozing out of their perfect pores and grace flowing from their every perfect movement.

  Shaking her head at her inability to banish the Frenchman to a corner of her mind, she finished off the final pot and quickly tidied up. When she walked into her cottage to take a shower, the first thing she saw was the picture of Alexandre she’d printed out that morning. Frustrated with her susceptibility to the man, she strode into the shower, hoping the water would wash away her inexplicable fascination.

  Fifteen minutes later, she stepped out of the humid glass cube and shrugged into a fluffy white robe. As she stood in front of her bedroom mirror, combing her towel-dried hair, her eyes didn’t see the woman she’d become but the
painfully shy girl she’d been.

  Unable to adapt fully to life with the Ashtons, she’d withdrawn into herself when Walker had begun to spend more and more time with Spencer. To the girl she’d been, it had felt like her uncle had stolen her brother from her…just like he’d stolen her mother.

  The phone rang, startling her into dropping the brush. “Charlotte,” she said, her voice a little husky.

  “Ma chérie, what is wrong?”

  Every nerve ending in her body went on high alert at that deep male voice. “Nothing.”

  A pause. “Have you changed your mind about dinner with me tomorrow?” His words were practical but his tone turned them into a caress…a question from one lover to another.

  She knew she should reprimand him for the way he continued to speak to her so familiarly, but she couldn’t find the words. “I…” The temptation to say yes was almost overwhelming, but fear held her back—she didn’t know how to deal with a man like him. Only in her dreams could she be witty and sophisticated enough for him. “No.”

  He sighed, as if she’d broken his heart. “Then perhaps I could persuade you into a walk?”

  The hunger in her bucked at the reins. “A walk?”

  As if sensing victory, his sinful voice became even more hauntingly seductive. “I’ll come to your cottage tomorrow around six and we can take a walk through the vineyard. Say yes, Charlotte.”

  Sweat dampened her palms. “I’ll be ready.” She couldn’t believe her own temerity.

  “Until tomorrow then. Good night—sleep well.”

  As she hung up the phone, Charlotte wondered about the number of women who’d heard the same from him in far more intimate settings. Surely, a man as sensual as Alexandre had no lack of bed partners. Wrenching the brush through her hair, she told herself to stop obsessing.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t control her dreams.

  Alexandre spent the night alone, as he’d chosen to do for a considerable period of time. Though he had a healthy sexual appetite, simple physical pleasure had ceased to satisfy his needs.