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Authors: Michelle Smart
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unwell. ‘Can you walk?’
‘Yes.’ There was a definite air of defiance in her affirmation, a defiance aimed at her own legs rather than him. ‘Do not carry me.’
‘Come. The car is waiting for us.’
Half dragging her, Pepe somehow managed to manoeuvre Cara the ten metres or so to the Land Rover.
Christophe Beauquet, the vineyard’s current owner, was behind the wheel waiting for them. He made no effort to get out and welcome them and made only the briefest of grunts when Pepe helped Cara sit down in the front.
Pepe leaned over to strap her seat belt on, trying to ignore, again, her gorgeous scent. He could hear her furious swallowing, knew she was doing her best to keep back what her body was so desperate to expel. Her hand still clutched the sick bag.
‘She needs to look forwards,’ he explained before jumping into the back of the four-wheel drive.
Christophe didn’t even try to hide his disgust. ‘All this fuss for a short air ride?’
The hairs on Pepe’s arms lifted. It took him a moment to realise it was his hackles rising. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he answered shortly, leaning back into his seat and clamping his mouth into a firm line. He did not like the Frenchman’s tone. He didn’t like it at all .
CHAPTER SIX
W HEN C ARA AWOKE it was dusky. Unlike when she’d awoken that morning, she didn’t have the faintest idea where she was. The last thing she remembered was pulling up alongside a pretty farmhouse. Oh, and she remembered Pepe practically yanking her door open so she could vomit. How he knew she was waiting until the car stopped moving before giving in to it, she didn’t have a clue. But he did know. And as she’d vomited out of the car and into the paper bag, he was by her side, rubbing her back and drawing her hair away from the danger zone.
It was support of a kind she’d never expected from him, and remembering it made her belly do a funny skip.
She patted her body, relieved to find herself fully dressed. She felt better. A little woozy, but on the whole much better.
When she sat up, she found her shoes, a gorgeous pair of flats from a designer brand she had coveted for years, laid neatly by the double bed she had been placed in.
She guessed she should get up and find Pepe. He was around somewhere, in this picture-book home.
It didn’t take long to find him.
She shuffled out of the room and into an open landing. Below, she could hear voices. Walking carefully, she made her way down the stairs and followed the murmurs into a large kitchen.
Sitting around a sturdy oak table was Pepe, the man she remembered as Christophe and a tiny, birdlike woman. So small, the woman was inches shorter than Cara. It was like looking at Mrs Pepperpot come to life.
Mrs Pepperpot spotted her first and bustled over, taking Cara’s arm and leading her over to join them, all the while gabbling away in French.
Pepe rose from his chair. ‘Cara,’ he said, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her on each cheek. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Much better,’ she mumbled.
‘Good.’ He stepped back and appraised her thoughtfully. A half-filled glass of wine lay before him. ‘You are still a little too pale but you no longer look like the Incredible Hulk.’
‘That’s a bonus.’ She sat on the chair he’d pulled out for her and budged it close to his. No sooner had she sat down when Mrs Pepperpot put a steaming bowl of what looked like a clear broth in front of her and a basket of baguettes.
‘Mangez,’ she ordered, putting her hands to her mouth in what looked like an imitation of eating.
‘Cara, this is Christophe’s wife, Simone,’ Pepe said by way of introduction. ‘She doesn’t speak any English but she makes an excellent consommé.’
Cara gave Simone a quick smile. ‘Thank you— merci .’
The consommé smelt delicious. Her starved belly rumbled. Loudly.
‘Mangez,’ Simone repeated.
‘She’s been waiting for you to wake up,’ Pepe said. ‘It’s also thanks to
‘Yes.’ There was a definite air of defiance in her affirmation, a defiance aimed at her own legs rather than him. ‘Do not carry me.’
‘Come. The car is waiting for us.’
Half dragging her, Pepe somehow managed to manoeuvre Cara the ten metres or so to the Land Rover.
Christophe Beauquet, the vineyard’s current owner, was behind the wheel waiting for them. He made no effort to get out and welcome them and made only the briefest of grunts when Pepe helped Cara sit down in the front.
Pepe leaned over to strap her seat belt on, trying to ignore, again, her gorgeous scent. He could hear her furious swallowing, knew she was doing her best to keep back what her body was so desperate to expel. Her hand still clutched the sick bag.
‘She needs to look forwards,’ he explained before jumping into the back of the four-wheel drive.
Christophe didn’t even try to hide his disgust. ‘All this fuss for a short air ride?’
The hairs on Pepe’s arms lifted. It took him a moment to realise it was his hackles rising. ‘She’s pregnant,’ he answered shortly, leaning back into his seat and clamping his mouth into a firm line. He did not like the Frenchman’s tone. He didn’t like it at all .
CHAPTER SIX
W HEN C ARA AWOKE it was dusky. Unlike when she’d awoken that morning, she didn’t have the faintest idea where she was. The last thing she remembered was pulling up alongside a pretty farmhouse. Oh, and she remembered Pepe practically yanking her door open so she could vomit. How he knew she was waiting until the car stopped moving before giving in to it, she didn’t have a clue. But he did know. And as she’d vomited out of the car and into the paper bag, he was by her side, rubbing her back and drawing her hair away from the danger zone.
It was support of a kind she’d never expected from him, and remembering it made her belly do a funny skip.
She patted her body, relieved to find herself fully dressed. She felt better. A little woozy, but on the whole much better.
When she sat up, she found her shoes, a gorgeous pair of flats from a designer brand she had coveted for years, laid neatly by the double bed she had been placed in.
She guessed she should get up and find Pepe. He was around somewhere, in this picture-book home.
It didn’t take long to find him.
She shuffled out of the room and into an open landing. Below, she could hear voices. Walking carefully, she made her way down the stairs and followed the murmurs into a large kitchen.
Sitting around a sturdy oak table was Pepe, the man she remembered as Christophe and a tiny, birdlike woman. So small, the woman was inches shorter than Cara. It was like looking at Mrs Pepperpot come to life.
Mrs Pepperpot spotted her first and bustled over, taking Cara’s arm and leading her over to join them, all the while gabbling away in French.
Pepe rose from his chair. ‘Cara,’ he said, pulling her into an embrace and kissing her on each cheek. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Much better,’ she mumbled.
‘Good.’ He stepped back and appraised her thoughtfully. A half-filled glass of wine lay before him. ‘You are still a little too pale but you no longer look like the Incredible Hulk.’
‘That’s a bonus.’ She sat on the chair he’d pulled out for her and budged it close to his. No sooner had she sat down when Mrs Pepperpot put a steaming bowl of what looked like a clear broth in front of her and a basket of baguettes.
‘Mangez,’ she ordered, putting her hands to her mouth in what looked like an imitation of eating.
‘Cara, this is Christophe’s wife, Simone,’ Pepe said by way of introduction. ‘She doesn’t speak any English but she makes an excellent consommé.’
Cara gave Simone a quick smile. ‘Thank you— merci .’
The consommé smelt delicious. Her starved belly rumbled. Loudly.
‘Mangez,’ Simone repeated.
‘She’s been waiting for you to wake up,’ Pepe said. ‘It’s also thanks to
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