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Orla whistled softly. ‘That’s some achievement. There’s only a few hundred in the world.’
Antonio mocked, ‘Careful now. You sound almost approving.’
Orla twirled her wine glass in her hands and then looked at him, mocking back, ‘I had you down as a meathead ex-soldier. So how does a master of wine end up in the French Foreign Legion and survive?’
Immediately Antonio’s eyes narrowed on her and the air cooled. ‘Been doing your homework?’
Orla shrugged lightly, belying her sense of intimidation. ‘It’s common knowledge you went to the Legion.’
She glanced at him; his eyes had darkened. She widened hers against the tremor in the region of her gut. ‘What? I thought we’d called a truce? I’m merely trying to make conversation.’
A voice chided her, Way to go with keeping to truce-appropriate topics.
After a long moment Antonio shrugged one broad shoulder. Now he was avoiding her eye. Gazing into his wine. ‘I joined when I was twenty-five.’
Curious now, Orla said, ‘Why not earlier? Surely twenty-five is relatively old to join an army?’
Antonio’s face was expressionless as he looked at her. ‘I wasn’t in a position to earlier. I had my family to think about.’
Orla pushed aside the urge to ask him to elaborate on what he meant by that and admitted, ‘I know nothing about it apart from the myths and legends … the fact that it’s secretive and the training is brutal. That you have to give up your name and passport.’
Antonio took a sip of wine and his mouth tipped up on one corner, but Orla’s gaze was distracted momentarily by the strong bronzed column of his throat. She had the sudden desire to flick her tongue there, tasting him.
‘That’s about as much as I knew before I went in,’ he admitted. ‘I walked in the gate at Fort de Nogent in Paris, handed in my passport and didn’t get it back for seven years.’
A shiver went through Orla. ‘I can’t imagine just handing yourself over to something like that.’
Antonio’s expression was enigmatic. ‘And yet don’t we do it every day? Haven’t you given yourself over to your career, to your family business?’
Immediately feeling defensive, Orla blustered, ‘That’s different!’
‘How?’ Antonio just asked. ‘Because you’re not leaving your home, changing identity?’
‘Did you have to change your identity?’ Orla was referring to the fact that when someone joined the Legion, they had to give up their own name and take on another, usually given to them by the Legion.
Antonio’s mouth firmed for a moment as if he resented her diverting the conversation away again. He nodded. ‘Yes, but after a period of time you can resume your own identity again. It’s not as strict as it used to be.’
‘And did you take your name back?’
He shook his head after a long moment. His face was cast in shadows. Her voice husky, Orla asked, ‘Why not? Who were you?’
Antonio answered with steel in his tone. ‘Someone else.’
Just then they were interrupted by the waiter returning with starters. Orla felt slightly disorientated and was more fascinated than she liked to admit to about Antonio’s experiences in the Legion. But before she could probe any further he asked a question of his own.
‘So, how about you? Were you born in one of those suits you like to wear with your hair all neat and tidy?’
Orla scowled at him and he smiled, shameless. Her belly tightened with a spasm of lust. Somewhere along the way she was losing sight of what this dinner was; the lines were getting blurred. She took a bite of her asparagus starter and tried to control herself.
When she was able to she answered impulsively, wanting to wipe the smug look off Antonio’s face. ‘Actually, if you must know I was a tearaway tomboy for the first nine years of my life. I hated dresses. Couldn’t stand being indoors. I had more scrapes and bruises than any boy I knew, much to the disgust of my mother….’
Antonio put down his fork. ‘What happened when you were nine?’
Orla stared at him and realised what she’d just said. Cold horror flooded her because she’d been nine when she’d overheard that conversation of her father’s and had changed overnight. Feeling very exposed now, she shrugged and avoided his eye. ‘I guess I turned into a girl.’
Antonio’s deep voice came like a caress. ‘Something happened. No one changes overnight.’
Orla looked at him, but he just looked back at her and raised a brow. Feeling inordinately threatened, she finally admitted, ‘It was an overnight decision actually, but it came about because of something I overheard.’
