Who could refuse a two-week stay in a chateau perched on the edge of the Mediterranean? Certainly not Richard, who was fed up to his easel with the damp London weather. Babysitting a treasure-filled museum while his old Sorbonne roommate honeymooned in Spain was the least he could do. The vandals who'd been plaguing the chateau wouldn't dare return, the repairmen Tom hired would be completely trustworthy, and "murder" was only found in something by Agatha Christie. Richard might even meet a woman, someone capable of surprising him like never before. He should go. He really should. He was dying for a vacation.