where did we meet?’ Her voice was husky, defying him to make anything of the way she had been looking him over. ‘If I knew where we met I might remember it. Why don’t you tell me?’
‘Because you have to remember without any help from me,’ he said coolly.
‘Why?’ she persisted.
He ignored the question, gesturing. ‘Come on, eat some of your salad—you look as if your blood sugar is a little low. Maybe that’s why you’re so bad-tempered.’
‘I’m bad-tempered because you’ve kidnapped me!’ she retorted, but picked up her glass and drained the pale golden wine while he watched, his brows shooting up.
‘Careful! If you aren’t used to drinking wine it could go to your head if you drink it too fast.’
She reached for the bottle, which stood in a vacuum jug in the middle of the table, but Marc lifted it out before she seized it, poured her another half-glass, refilled his own, advising her,
‘Eat your food before you drink any more; it’s never wise to drink on an empty stomach.’
‘Will you stop giving me orders?’ But she began to eat all the same, and the food was delicious—the cheese, the bread, the salad with its tangy dressing tasting of lemon, vinegar and herbs and glistening with oil. All this tension seemed to have given her an appetite, or maybe it had been the wine, after all.
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