Why did she feel so out of sorts? Ever since she’d arrived at the château that morning, she’d felt totally unlike herself. Weary and unsettled, dissatisfied and confused. Of course, it didn’t help that her body ached in some very unusual places. Or that her head hurt from fielding Daisy’s endless enquiries about why she’d appeared at eight in the morning still wearing her maid of honour gown. Or that their flight had been delayed for three endless hours in Nice airport because of some oversight with the paperwork. But why couldn’t she shake this hollow feeling—as if she’d lost something she could never get back? And why did she keep picturing Mac Brody, the bronzed skin of his back gleaming in the dawn light as she shut the hotel door? She’d promised herself she wouldn’t moon over the man. She couldn’t afford to start believing in fantasies. However mouth-watering this one might have been. And yet she couldn’t seem to stop herself.
