The French Aristocrat's Baby by Christina Hollis Page A

bothering to ask questions. She had wrecked any hope of seeing him ever again. It was the worst disappointment she had ever suffered—and when her staff clocked into work at the restaurant, it got a whole lot worse.
    ‘And don’t forget, the Count of Malotte is booked in for lunch today!’ Clemence the waitress nudged Gwen archly.
    ‘I had no idea, but I doubt if he’ll turn up,’ Gwen said grimly. ‘He’s probably had enough of my kind of hospitality to last him a lifetime.’
    She was wrong on both counts. Etienne was determined to taste it again—but on his own terms. The first volley of his attack on her will power arrived shortly before lunch that morning. Gwen was busy in the kitchen. Suddenly there was a commotion out in the restaurant. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she rushed out in time to see three large, flat cardboard boxes being unloaded from a florists’ van. The delivery man handed her an expensive, tissue-lined envelope and—more importantly as far as Gwen was concerned—an invoice with the word ‘paid’ stamped across it in large, comforting letters.
    She tore open the envelope. It contained a short note written in real ink on handmade paper. She knew who it was from without needing to see the bold, flowing signature at the bottom. The faintest trace of Etienne’s sophisticated aftershave had been enough to get her pulses racing.
Dear Gwen,
    It would be pointless to send flowers to you at home.
    You obviously spend all your time at Le Rossignol, so I’ve arranged to have regular deliveries of fresh flowers sent to the restaurant from now on. That way you can appreciate them. There will be a bouquet for each table, and a complimentary corsage of miniature orchids for each female diner—
    ‘So? What do you think?’
    Gwen jumped at the interruption. It was a deliciously familiar voice. She looked up, and found herself gazing straight into the beautiful brown eyes of Etienne Moreau.
    ‘I think you’re full of surprises.’ She folded the letter and carefully replaced it in its envelope. Then she slid it into her apron pocket. ‘Thank you, Etienne. It’s far more than I deserve. I can’t tell you how sorry I am for the misunderstanding earlier,’ she muttered, after checking none of her staff were close enough to hear.
    He waved away her apology. ‘Oh, this is inconsequential. It’s a simple gesture, nothing more.’
    He couldn’t have been more wrong as far as Gwen was concerned. It meant all the world to her. No man had ever sent her flowers before. She looked up at him with shining eyes, but he hadn’t finished.
    ‘I knew a hard-headed businesswoman like you wouldn’t want money wasted.’ He went on, before she could interrupt. ‘This way my honour is satisfied, and you get a unique selling point for your restaurant.’
    With that simple phrase, her newly revived dreams melted like candyfloss in a heatwave. The ulterior motive behind his gift robbed it of all romance. Gwen put on a brave face and tried not to care. She only had her own temper to blame, after all. It was too late for regrets.
    ‘Ah, so they aren’t a sign of your affection. They’re for the good of your conscience and my restaurant!’ She tried to chuckle, but it was difficult while she was so busy trying to swallow her disappointment.
    ‘Yes, and I can do Le Rossignol another good turn too,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I have a business propositionto put to you, Gwen. When I’ve finished lunching here, you can come back to my yacht with me and we’ll discuss it.’
    ‘Today?’ she enquired, leading him to his table.
    ‘Of course. Good ideas won’t wait.’
    ‘But it will have to…we’ve got another big party here tonight. I’ve got to supervise everything!’
    Etienne was unfazed. He sat down and watched with interest as Gwen’s staff began unpacking the flowers and putting them out on display. ‘That’s not a problem—I’ll send a couple of my chefs down from the chateau. They can cover