The Billionaire's Bedside Manner by Robyn Grady

far-reaching vineyards busy with the business of harvest. She marveled at the colombage houses with their geometric half-timber patterns. Mateo had obliged when she’d begged to stop at a rustic farmhouse with a leaded-glass feature that highlighted a coat-of-arms on the lintel above.
    And there was so much more ahead of them.
    He didn’t dwell on the niggling doubts that had surfaced since she’d accepted his invitation to join him on this trip, although at times he had found himself wondering if he’d acted too quickly—whether he was a fool believing Baileywas cut from a different cloth than Linda. But they were here now, and he intended for them both to make the most of it.
    â€œAfter we visit the children,” Mateo said, stepping on the gas, “we’ll go back to Paris and spend a couple of days. Longer if you want.”
    â€œTwo days will be wonderful,” Bailey said, focused on a tractor trundling over a patchwork of fields. “I told Natalie I’d be back on deck by next Monday.”
    â€œShe won’t mind—”
    â€œI know she wouldn’t,” Bailey said, looking over at him, “but I’ve taken up enough slack. Natalie was good enough to offer me a job. I need to step up to the plate.”
    Changing down gears to take a bend, Mateo was deep in thought. That Natalie had offered Bailey a job didn’t bother him in the least. What did rankle was the fact that she scrubbed floors to pay back money he would never miss. After the time they’d spent together, the intimate moments they’d shared, if he didn’t know that she’d argue, he’d tell her to forget the debt. He’d much rather set her up in an apartment and, if she followed through with the idea, finance her way through university, like Ernesto had done for him.
    Of course he’d be clear that any arrangement would not include a marriage proposal. From what she’d told him of her experience with Emilio Conti, she’d be glad of the clarification. She’d had one close call. She wouldn’t be looking forward to the sound of wedding bells.
    That made two of them. He liked children but he did not want the responsibility of bringing his own into this world. Life was too uncertain. No one could convince him otherwise.
    They reached the town by eleven. Five minutes later, the convertible made its way up the long dirt ruts that led to the Ville Laube Chapelle, a fine example of early French architecture which had been restored over time andtransformed into a children’s home last century. Bailey sighed, taking in the hundred-foot steeple and angels carrying the instruments of Passion adorning the ornamental gables. Unpolished strong buttresses contrasted with the intricate foliage friezes and elevated stained-glass windows that captured then speared back the sun’s late morning light.
    Mateo’s throat thickened enough he had to clear it. So many years on and still, whenever this scene greeted him, he was six again…feeling uncertain again.
    As they parked and slid out from the car, a girl with short-cropped, blond hair, standing beneath the enormous oak Mateo remembered, gawped, dropped her skipping rope and raced inside. A moment later, children poured out through opened double doors that near reached the sky. Eager women, alternatively clapping hands to order the scattered children and patting down their dresses, followed. One lady, with chestnut hair that bounced on the shoulders of her yellow blouse, hurried to line the children up in the yard. Madame Nichole Garnier, Mateo’s contact and current director of the orphanage.
    Many girls held bouquets, flowers plucked from the home’s gardens or nearby meadow. Every boy had their shoulders pinned back. When the assembly was reasonably quiet, beaming, Madame Garnier swept up to greet her guests.
    â€œMonsieur Celeca, it is wonderful to see you again,” she said in French. Light green