The Prince I Love to Hate: A Steamy Romantic Comedy (The Heir Affair Book 1) by Iris Morland

Author:Iris Morland [Morland, Iris]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blue Violet Press LLC
Published: 2021-05-03T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

The drive to Jeanne Durand’s home took longer than either of us expected. Despite only being a few miles outside of Paris, the traffic crawled at the slowest possible pace. By the time we’d left the city, we were both hungry for lunch and had stupidly not packed anything to eat. I’d almost asked our taxi driver if he had any food, but I hadn’t yet gotten that desperate.

When we arrived at our destination, Olivier paid the driver and headed straight for the front door. As for me, I was enjoying taking in the beauty of the French countryside. The address was a little cottage that looked like it had been built centuries ago, although for all I knew it had been built within the twenty-first century. A lovely little garden took us down a path to the front door of the cottage, hanging vines nearly covering the door number.

It was idyllic, straight out of a fairy tale. The bees buzzing, the smell of fresh, blooming flowers, the warm sun. All of it together made me antsy, like an axe murderer was going to jump out of the cottage and run us off of the property. It just seemed way too lovely.

“You look like you’re going to vomit,” said Olivier blandly after he’d knocked on the front door.

“This place is way too cute.”

“And that’s why you’re looking ill?”

“Yes. I don’t trust it.” I glanced over my shoulder. I’d tried to peer inside the window nearest the front door, but a curtain had obscured the view.

“I had no idea you were so paranoid.” He motioned at me. “Get behind me, then. I’ll protect you.”

That line made my paranoia disappear, because the image of Olivier protecting my person from some serial killer was hilarious. Olivier could probably hold his own in some fancy-schmancy fencing match, but I really doubted he could take out somebody with an axe.

I was laughing heartily, Olivier glowering at me, when the front door opened. A middle-aged woman with dark hair in a messy bun asked something in French. Olivier asked if she was Jeanne Durand, and the woman, after a moment’s hesitation, nodded.

“Do you speak English?” asked Olivier. He gestured at me. “My companion doesn’t speak French, I’m afraid.”

“A little bit,” Jeanne said in a heavy accent. “Are you American?” she asked me.

“Guilty as charged.”

At Jeanne’s confused expression, Olivier translated into French. She nodded, and after wiping her hands on her apron, she gestured us inside.

“Come, come, have some coffee. We will speak,” she said briskly.

Despite the dim light inside Jeanne’s cottage, I could make out what could only be dozens of antiques: vases, bowls, statues, clocks. Artwork hung from the walls, while the furniture was heavy and old-fashioned but beautiful. I couldn’t help but wonder how much all of this was worth.

Jeanne brought out coffee and some pastries before settling onto a red chair. “How can I help you?” she said.

I looked at Olivier. He looked at me. I finally began. “Olivier says he sold an antique clock to your husband.

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