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“How’s the truffle?” he asked, keeping to a safe topic.
She closed her eyes, smiled, sipped her coffee and nibbled on the treat.
“Delicious, I hope,” he said. He pressed her hand to his lips when she wasn’t looking.
His mouth against her skin produced so much sizzle she hissed in a breath.
“Quite delicious,” she agreed.
“You must save the rest of the box for later,” he said. “When I’m gone.”
He threaded his fingers through hers, which were burning from his kiss, and pulled her trembling body tightly against his chest. More fire shot through her and she grew hopeful that he might be contemplating a swift seduction. Then she looked down and saw trees and the tiled roofs of buildings looming large. They’d run out of time.
As their glass capsule approached the ground, he fell silent, and it was an electric, shared silence that made her want to stay in this magical bubble, Cupid’s Capsule, he’d called it, with her fingers burning and her body brushing tightly up against his forever.
She hungered for his gorgeous mouth. Hungered so fiercely her heart began to pound.
Why didn’t he lean down and kiss her? And not on her fingertips! She wanted to arch her body recklessly into his, to mash her breasts against his torso, to taste him, to know him, to have his hard arms close around her with wild, savage need.
To be seduced.
She had to be crazy to want a man like him.
But the evil womanizer she’d read about in the paper did nothing the least bit wicked to further debauch his or her reputation, and she was so acutely disappointed she wanted to weep. All too soon, they landed, and he folded those tingling fingers of hers inside his and helped her out of the gondola in the thoroughly gentlemanly fashion that was beginning to frustrate her.
“Thank you, that was fun,” she said, but an edge of strain had crept into her light tone.
“Yes,” he murmured most agreeably, “it was.” When he stared so intently into her eyes she feared he might read her thoughts, she looked down.
“Is everything all right?” he whispered. “Did I say something wrong? Step on your toe or something?”
So, he sensed her edginess. “Everything’s too perfect,” she replied, her voice clipped.
This time he ignored the edge. “I made reservations at a French restaurant on the South Bank. It’s a two-minute walk. But we could take a cab if you’re tired…or if those pretty shoes hurt.”
“No.” She found that she wanted to prolong every experience with him, even walking along a public thoroughfare.
The restaurant was styled as a 1930s brasserie. The earthy odor of truffles mingled with rich sauces, fresh baguettes and buttery croissants. The wait staff seemed to recognize Remy, or maybe they fussed over all their wealthy customers. Remy spoke to the head waiter in rapid French, and they were led to a table in a secluded corner. When their black-coated server brought the menu with a flourish, it was in French, which she thought she knew fairly well, but as is often the case with French menus, there were many long words and dishes that confused her.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to translate,” she said in dismay. She’d so wanted to seem sophisticated.
He smiled over the dark fold of his menu. “Don’t worry, French menus confuse even the French. The chef has rewritten this one since I was last here, and I am unsure about many things myself.”
She felt herself relaxing.
“The waiter will love explaining everything. And if you let him guide you, you won’t regret it. In France cooking is our highest art form. Our chefs are like gods, you see. Like your rock stars in America.”
Charmed, she smiled. “I always eat on the go.”
“Ah, you English and Americans. Fast food is one of the worst things about modern life. But I will forgive you that transgression because you did not know better before tonight. You are disadvantaged from birth, you know.”
“What do you mean?”
“American and English babies are fed the blandest of foods. Mush—food we would feed the chickens.”
“But of course.”
“No. Not of course. From birth French babies eat what human beings with taste buds should eat, foods such as sole, tuna, liver, fruits, vegetables, Gruyère, fromage blanc.”
She laughed even though she knew he wasn’t totally joking.
“The palate must be educated, you see. No hamburgers and French fries when they go to school, either. They are served a three-course lunch. Voilà! The child learns to appreciate good food. Even our lower-end restaurants serve excellent food. Not so in your country. You must be wealthy to eat well.”
