“You’re right.” She put it down on the counter.
“Why don’t you sit on the bench while I wait on you. After slaving over our dinner, you deserve a rest.”
“I’d rather help, but first I need to wash my hands.” She walked to the sink where she saw the note she’d left. When she’d written it, she never dreamed Alex would have come looking for her to bring her back. Her pulse was off the charts.
His actions had to mean something, but she was a fool if she thought he wanted more than a few weeks pleasure with her under his roof. Like this morning when she’d succumbed so easily, she could do it again and that frightened her.
Dana had been the one to ask if she could stay at the château. If anything, she’d been the one to take advantage of Alex, not the other way around. Whatever happened from here on out, she would have to accept the consequences and live with them.
Soon the smell of the meat wafted past her nostrils. When she turned, she noticed he’d already set the table. Along with French bread and the bottle of the wine they’d enjoyed the other night, he’d added an old silver candelabra with new candles.
Once he’d lit them, he turned off the kitchen light, transforming the room into an incredibly intimate setting. His eyes beckoned her to come and sit. The gleam in those dark depths sent a tremor through her body.
She twisted her napkin nervously as he brought the contents of the pot to the table in a wonderful old round bowl with handles. After sitting down opposite her, he ladled a portion for both of them onto their plates. “Bon appetit.”
Dana hoped it was good and took a first bite. To her surprise it didn’t taste like anything she’d ever eaten before. She took another, but it needed something. Maybe a baguette would help.
Alex had already eaten most of his. “My compliments to the chef. Among your many talents you’re a superb cook, Dana.”
She put her spoon down. “No, I’m not.”
He flashed her a curious glance. “Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s awful. I—I wanted to make you something spectacular,” she stammered. “It’s not.”
“What do you call it?”
“See?” Tears threatened. “Even you don’t know what it is.”
“Isn’t it beef?”
“No.”
“If you’re trying to tell me this is pickled pigs feet, I’m surprised it’s this delicious.”
“Wrong animal.”
One dark brow lifted, giving him a sardonic look. “Cow?”
“No.”
“Horse?”
“No!”
“Frog’s legs?”
She shook her head. “You’ll never guess. I found the recipe in my mother’s French cookbook I brought with me.”
He cocked his head. “Then this could cover anything from brains to innards to tongues.”
“This is more of an ‘end’ thing. The marchand at the boucherie told me it was a great delicacy,” she confessed.
“An end thing…” She could hear his brilliant mind turning over the possibilities.
When nothing was forthcoming she said, “It’s oxtail. How can the French eat it? I think it’s disgusting!”
ALEX’S explosion of laughter echoed off the limestone walls. It was the deep male kind, so infectious her tears turned to laughter, too.
He reached for her hand and squeezed it. His touch shot warmth through her system. “I’m touched that you went to so much trouble for me.”
“I should have fixed you something I love. Because you’re the kind of man you are, you would never say anything to hurt my feelings, but even I can tell this would have to be an acquired taste. It’s too mild and fatty, a terrible thing to serve a hungry man.”
“Terrible,” he teased. His gaze slid to hers. It was alive with emotion. “Let’s have some wine with it.”
“No—wait—”
Her cry resounded in the room, wiping his sensual smile away. “Why? What’s wrong now?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I bought us a special surprise while I was in town. Since I didn’t think I’d be seeing you before tomorrow evening, I hadn’t planned on producing it yet, but under the circumstances I think now is the perfect time.”
“Do I get to open it?” He looked and sounded like an excited schoolboy waiting to tear away the wrapping on his long-awaited birthday present.
She nodded. “But please be careful.”
In a few swift strides he reached the counter. She got to her feet and moved closer to watch him. The carton encased an old green bottle of wine packed in straw. He drew it out to examine the magenta and cream label. She’d already had the privilege. In fact, she’d stared at it for a long time, hardly able to believe she’d been able to buy anything so precious.
His face paled. “Domaine Belles Fleurs Coteaux-du-Layon Cuvee D’Excellence, 1892, Anjou, France.” As he spoke the words, he sounded like a man who’d gone into shock.
Suddenly his eyes shot to hers. They were on fire. “Where did you get this?” His voice trembled.
“I went to an impeccable source. Madame Fournier was able to put me in touch with Monsieur Honore Dumarre, a wealthy businessman and wine connoisseur living in Angers. He had three bottles of Domaine Belles Fleurs from different vintages in his wine cellar. When I explained why I wanted one, he was gracious enough to sell this to me.”
She could see Alex’s throat working. Even his hand was trembling. “A bottle like this can cost upward of five thousand dollars. Even meeting his full price, he’d have an almost impossible time parting with it.”
Dana smiled. “Once in a while it helps that I’m Jan Lofgren’s daughter. The fact that he’s shooting his latest film on the Belles Fleurs estate went a long way to make up his mind for him. I threw in the fact that the new owner lived on the other side of the world until now and has never tasted his family’s wine before.”
Alex resembled a war victim suffering shell shock. “I have no words for what you’ve done,” he whispered, “but you have to return it and get your money back.”
She took a fortifying breath. “I knew you’d say that, but I did it for the pleasure it gave me. Do you know he wants to meet you? He’ll be phoning you to make the arrangements.”
Alex’s
