Love in Vogue by Eve Bourton

humour. ‘Friends. If I offended you in any way, I’m truly sorry too. We met at a very bad time.’ His expression was suddenly very gentle and sympathetic. ‘It must be tough without him.’
    She tried to remember that he wasn’t someone she could possibly trust with her deepest feelings, despite his unexpected kindness. ‘It is. He was so full of life. Such fun.’
    ‘Yes, he was. He made me feel old.’
    ‘You? Old!’
    ‘Oh, I’ve knocked around a bit.’
    She looked him over, the picture of health and fitness. Bad idea. She couldn’t avoid noticing that he was utterly gorgeous. He was looking at her in a way that sent a shiver through her again. Just what had she let herself in for by dropping her guard with Miles Corsley? But he smiled so genuinely, she had to smile back. He had an intelligent face and his voice was pleasantly deep and warm. A man you could respect, she thought, a man who knew his own mind. Suddenly she sensed that he was also assessing her, and she looked away, slightly embarrassed.
    ‘I’m sorry for the delay. Gaston’s probably having lunch.’
    ‘Lucky bugger,’ remarked Miles.
    ‘Haven’t you eaten at all, then?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Perhaps you’d care to stay for lunch here?’ she asked quickly. ‘It will be rather late, I’m afraid. The Rochemorts are coming, but Yves has been held up with business.’
    Miles accepted the offer with alacrity. He’d be mad to turn down lunch with the owners of the two St Xavier grands crus on their home turf. And any chance to get closer to the intriguing Corinne Marchand was extremely welcome. He felt in serious danger of being bowled over by his good fortune.
    Gaston Leclerc was a short dynamo of a man who blew in like a whirlwind and was passionate about his job. He kept pressing Miles to taste more vintages as they toured the long, welcomingly cool vaulted cellar which ran beneath the entire length of the house. It had been part of the original medieval abbey, and appeared to have changed very little. Miles almost expected to see a monk pop out from behind a pillar. There were rows of oak casks in which the wine was matured for three years, racks of dusty bottles, and a small alcove that served as Gaston’s library, containing piles of tasting notes and a board on which he had pinned newspaper and magazine clippings. Several featured pictures of Jean-Claude Marchand.
    ‘Mademoiselle Marchand doesn’t seem much like her father,’ remarked Miles, as he slowly absorbed the rich texture and flavour of a three-year old St Xavier .
    Gaston watched him cautiously. ‘In four years’ time that will be marvellous, monsieur. It hasn’t fully matured yet.’
    ‘One can already tell the genius who made it.’
    The Frenchman raised his glass in acknowledgement. ‘Did you mean Mademoiselle Corinne?’ he asked, reverting to Miles’ original comment. ‘I think she is – well, certainly when it comes to business. She’s very sharp. But she takes after her mother in looks. Mademoiselle Yolande is more like her father.'
    ‘I sense that you enjoy life here.’
    ‘I wouldn’t work anywhere else,’ said Gaston emphatically. ‘After all, Leclerc and St Xavier are synonymous. My eldest son is studying at the wine college in Beaune, and he’ll take over when I retire.’
    ‘Do you have shares in the business?’
    ‘No. But I get a percentage of the profits, so it’s in my interest to see we stay top of the league. Now, come this way. I thought you might like to see the old press. We don’t use it now, of course, but it’s an interesting machine.’
    ‘Has Gaston quenched your thirst, Miles?’ asked Corinne as they finally reappeared at the door of her office.
    ‘He certainly has. He even sold me a case. Shall I pay for it now?’
    Corinne rose from her desk as the doorbell sounded. ‘That will be the Rochemorts. Gaston, would you see to Mr Corsley’s invoice? And don’t forget,’ she shouted as she disappeared down the passage, ‘our