style="font-size:15px;"> Oh—she knew that. Alex had already defined the boundaries of their relationship to the month of August. How else had he managed to elude marriage all these years? Deep in thought she didn’t realize they’d entered the estate until she heard the gate clank behind them. He drove around to the side entrance and turned off the engine.
When he got out of the cab and opened her door, he flicked her what looked like a mysterious smile. “I’ve been looking forward to a midnight supper with you. It appears tonight’s the night.”
She’d dreamed of such a night. “Aren’t you tired after slaving out in the heat all day?”
“On the contrary, I feel energized.” On that exciting note he used his remote to let her in the château and turn on lights. While she hurried through the pantry, he followed with her bag and some purchases of his own.
“Where do you think you’re going in such a rush?” He’d taken the pot out of the fridge and placed it on the stove to heat.
“I thought I’d put this away first.”
He eyed the carton. “It’s dark upstairs. You might fall and break whatever it is you’re guarding so jealously.”
Dana couldn’t afford for that to happen. “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!”
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