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“Oh.” Her blue eyes lifted to his face.
“Sad I’m leaving?” He queried, only half teasing. He didn’t want to admit to himself that the other half was hopeful.
“Not at all,” she said with an obvious shortness of breath. “I do however think it’s rather poor form for you to come to England and not see your father.”
Gael flicked the menu open and scanned the offerings. “I saw Diego and Alexandra today.”
“Oh,” she winced, feeling like a first-rate bitch. “How was he?”
“The same as always. Weak and pissed off with the world at large.”
Carrie laughed at the accurate representation. Six years earlier, when last she had crossed paths with Gael, she could never have predicted how she would come to love and admire Diego.
“And my mother?” Carrie probed, her gut clenching as she remembered the sight of them kissing.
“Her usual self also,” he responded coldly. Carrie scanned his face, trying to understand his feelings, but they were not clear. What had happened between them? Had they done more than kiss just that once? Surely he would never have any serious entanglement with his father’s wife? Oh, God. And then sleep with her daughter. Carrie shut her eyes at the horrible thought, angry with herself for just considering it now.
“Carrie?” Gael leaned forward curiously. “You are okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she swallowed past the lump of yuckiness in her throat. She had to know. “Gael, about my mother…”
“I do not wish to discuss our family, Carrie. This is business,” he said, a warning note in his voice.
“Are you ready to order?” A waiter, perhaps in his late fifties, appeared, smartly dressed in a suit, with a black bibbed apron across his front.
“Si,” Gael responded impatiently. “We’ll take a bottle of Le Sanani, and I’ll have the gnocchi followed by fillet steak.”
“Very good, sir. And for you, ma’am?”
Carrie opened the menu and perused it quickly. She was too distracted by her hurricane like feelings to focus on the words. She selected something at random. “Ummm … the Cos and Pear salad will be fine, thanks.”
“Stop,” Gael accosted the waiter, when he would have walked away. “She will have the salad, and the gnocchi, and we’ll share some bread too.”
Carrie almost had to wipe her jaw from the table. She waited until the waiter had left before leaning forward and whispering angrily, “You’re such a chauvinist. How dare you amend my order?”
“How dare you come somewhere like this, with one of the best Chefs in Europe at its helm, and order a salad that even I could prepare for you.”
“It’s what I feel like!” She snapped angrily.
“I did not cancel your silly salad,” he chastised. “I merely added to it. And if you do not want your pasta, and choose not to enjoy some bread, I will eat both for you.”
Carrie made a noise of annoyance and leaned back in her chair. “Fine. And I don’t drink wine, either.”
“Ever?”
“Never.”
He dipped his head. “I’m sorry. You are missing out on a truly lovely past time.”
She laughed despite her annoyance. “Wine is not a past time.”
“It is in my country. Fine wine, a beautiful woman, these should be enjoyed on a sun-warmed hill, with no business to provide distractions.
“Mmm,” she said with a shiver, for his words evoke
d such pleasant imagery. She lifted a hand in the air, and beckoned another waiter to their table. “A Grey Goose Martini, three olives, extra dirty.”
Gael shook his head. “This is not a dinner time drink.”
