‘Bonsoir, Monsieur Latignac.’ The woman at the reception desk smiled at him flirtatiously. ‘I have given you the Pigeonnier – it is our best suite, separate from the hotel in a dovecot in the grounds. You can be alone there.’

‘Apart from the pigeons,’ Meredith added, laughing.

‘Don’t diss the pigeons,’ Philippe replied as he signed the register. ‘Pigeon shit was highly sought after. Only the nobility could own a pigeonnier. We’re in good company.’

‘Je suis désolée, Monsieur Latignac,’ the receptionist announced, turning her whole body seductively towards him, ‘but there is only one sitting of dinner during the week.’

‘And what time is that?’ Philippe enquired.

‘Seven thirty.’

Meredith’s practical brain did a quick computation. Not enough time for sex. Sometimes, in her experience, it was better to get the first time over with and then, with the tension defused, subsequent lovemaking was far more enjoyable.

Stop it, Meredith, she told herself. This isn’t some business event that needs to be organized. Just go with the flow.

The room was indeed lovely. Understated and modern, with the odd antique lamp or piece of furniture added. The most significant feature was the bed. It was a beautiful example of the French classic lit bateau or boat bed, in polished oak with scrolled ends.

‘It makes me think of Peter Pan,’ Meredith commented as she put down her overnight bag. ‘Second to the right and straight on till morning.’ She turned towards him, smiling mischieviously. ‘Except that I hope it won’t be straight on.’

Philippe’s reply was to laugh. ‘Mademoiselle Harding, you are a joy. A French woman would never be direct. She would hint. She would accidentally touch you with her body. She might imply that she couldn’t possibly stay.’

‘What a waste of time,’ Meredith laughed with him. ‘I have learned in business that you have to know what you want. If I didn’t want to stay, I wouldn’t have come.’

‘Impeccable logic. And now we must go and eat.’ He glanced round. ‘Unless you’d prefer to stay here and order room service?’

‘I don’t think eating in bed is sexy at all. Let’s go to the restaurant.’

‘I am in your hands.’ Again, that slow sensual smile, tinged with humour that said it wasn’t taking itself too seriously. It was a killer combination.

The restaurant was more traditional, with comfortable curved armchairs. Each table had a crisp white tablecloth and its own individual lamp. The food was some of the most delicious Meredith had tasted since she’d been here.

‘Well, I am a chef. I could hardly take you to MacDo!’

After four courses with amuse-bouches before and petits fours afterwards, they sat back to have a rest and enjoy looking at each other in pleasurable anticipation.