Zoya Hart has been eluding her gold-digging stepmother for the last few years. Knowing that this woman will do anything to gain control of her and her late father's company, Zoya finds herself hiding out on a farm. Now, with a PI on her trail, Zoya'...
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Zoya sat on a park bench and palmed her new phone. Reading the ad one more time, she hoped the property was still available.
Constructed with the same quality and style as the one-hundred-year-old main house, the furnished single bedroom garage apartment provided a private entrance. Hardwood floors. Washer and dryer. An upper patio overlooked an arbor to the courtyard and fountain. Located in the historic district, a grocery store, coffee shop, and several restaurants were within walking distance.
Her heart hammered as she dialed, and a woman with a French accent answered. Once Zoya confirmed the property's availability, she arranged to see the place.
An hour later, she set her duffle bag down and rang the doorbell. When Delphine Angier opened the door, she wasn't anything like Zoya pictured. She imagined someone older and fat from years of eating rich cuisine. Before her stood a beautiful woman of Asian descent with dark eyes full of what had to be joy. Black hair twisted into a messy bun with wisps dangling around her flawless face. A round beaded turquoise necklace, weighing at least a pound, rested against her stylish orange and red brocade tunic.
Delphine eyed Zoya from top to bottom and she felt uneasy. Although, she'd removed her nose ring and dressed in basic black slacks and white cotton shirt, she still had the bottle blond hair. She picked up her bag, straightened, and pulled her shoulders back.
"Mrs. Angier?"
"Yes. Come in, my dear."
Zoya followed her into a sitting room and got dizzy. It'd been awhile since she'd thought about French décor, but she'd not forgotten how gaudy it could be. The woman eased onto one of two orange velvet Bergere chairs and motioned for Zoya to sit. She chose the opposing crewel Queen Victorian. On either side of the fireplace, stone columns held urns full of leafy plants, and a wall tapestry depicting a grape harvest hung above the mantle.
Removing a sheet of paper from the top of a French cerulean antique two-drawer chest, she handed it to Zoya. "I'll leave you alone to fill out the application. I had chocolate croissants for breakfast. Would you like one with a glass of champagne?"
It was only ten o'clock in the morning, but Zoya wasn't going to mention it. However, those pastries sounded good. "I'd love a croissant and water is fine."
Her hostess flapped a hand in the air. "Absolument pas! Vous ne pouvez pas boire de l'eau avec de la pâtisserie."
Zoya blinked. She understood the first part. Absolutely not. But wasn't sure about the rest. She'd not spoken French since she was fifteen. She'd have to brush up on the language.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I grew up in Louisiana, my maman always spoke French in the house. You can't drink water with pastry. I'll bring you some fresh squeezed orange juice. Oui?"
Zoya nodded. "Yes, thank you." Once she was alone, it didn't take long to finish the paperwork. She stared down at the blank lines and her heart sank. No chance of being approved. She glanced around the room again. Resting on an easel, a painting of sunflowers in a blue vase caught her eye. She walked to the canvas and squinted to read the signature. D. Angier. If she played her cards right, living here just might be possible.
