“Why am I always falling for the worst sort of men?” Therese Dupont thought to herself after the news of yet another letdown in the men department sank in.

In the twelve years Therese had lived in Temecula, the beauty of the valley had never disappointed. The small southern California town, located between the densely populated cities of Los Angeles and San Diego, somehow managed to maintain its charm and down-home warmth.

To the outside world, she had it all. She was a savvy entrepreneur in her mid-forties, the owner of a successful real estate agency, mother of three beautiful boys, and a looker to boot. But on the inside, she felt like a failure in the love department. Three divorces later, she was ready to give up on love altogether.

When Monsieur Lionel Blanchet, a professional chef and sommelier, shows up uninvited to one of her affluent parties and takes her breath away, she has no defense over what comes next.

He paused, took a sip of wine and touched Therese’s cheek with the outside of his index finger. “My parents are of German/Belgium origin. They moved to Marseille when I was a petit garçon.”

“Ever married?”

“Heureusement non,” he murmured, running a thumb along Therese’s lips. “But I have never encountered such a belle femme sexy.”

The French emphasis on “beautiful, sexy, woman” made Therese’s skin quiver. She felt the tremors down her back, across her breasts, and to the inner regions of her thighs.

God, he is a force! She thought. She knew right then that she would sleep with him.