clothes, she took a cab to the Hilton. She announced herself to one of the dining-room staff.
“I’m Winter Adams, a friend of Pierre Dubois,” she explained. “If you tell him I’m here, I’m sure he’ll see me.”
She wasn’t left to wait more than a few minutes. In that time she reviewed what she wanted to say. The staff member returned, smiling, and said, “Chef Dubois will see you in his office.”
“Thank you.” Winter followed the other woman into the kitchen.
Its size made her own small café look insignificant by comparison. Winter lost count of how many people she saw working at various stations. Everyone was busy with meal preparation. One thing was obvious; Pierre had his hands full. If nothing else, this experience would teach him some organizational skills, which in her opinion were sadly lacking.
It took about two seconds to realize that her assumptions about her reception—and his improved organization—were off base. His desk was in a state of chaos.
He stood when she entered the room, but he didn’t advance toward her. Worse, he showed no signs of being happy to see her. He wore his chef’s toque and white uniform and appeared all business. Nothing in his expression revealed any curiosity about her visit after all these weeks.
Winter blinked. “Hello, Pierre,” she said softly, letting her voice betray her feelings.
He ignored her greeting and gestured for her to sit down, then seemed to notice that the chair was stacked with papers, catalogs and menus. He scooped up the whole pile and set it on the corner of his desk, where it promptly slid off and tumbled to the floor.
Winter bent down to help him retrieve the assorted pieces of paper.
“Leave it,” he snapped. He hated it when she felt the need to tidy up a room.
Swallowing, she straightened, then sat in the chair while Pierre dealt with the fallen papers.
He didn’t say anything the entire time he was reassembling the stack. Neither did she.
When he’d finished, Pierre threw himself into his own chair. The room wasn’t big, but it was much more spacious than her tiny office at the café.
“How are you?” she asked with a small, tentative smile.
“Busy.”
In other words, he was telling her to get to the point and be on her way.
“I hadn’t heard from you,” she said, hoping the comment sounded casual and carefree.
“We agreed there’d be no contact. It was your suggestion, as I recall.”
“We did say that,” she said, nodding. If he wanted this to be strictly business, fine. “So you understand I wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t important.”
His gaze narrowed. “Are you pregnant?”
She stared, hardly able to believe what he’d said. “You know better than to ask such a thing.”
“Do I?”
“Yes,” she flared. She was the responsible one. After the first week, it became abundantly clear that she’d have to be in charge of birth control. As a matter of fact, she’d continued with the pill, which was ridiculous since they hadn’t even touched in weeks.
“If you aren’t pregnant, what’s so important that you have to interrupt me in the middle of the day—on a Saturday, no less?”
Winter hadn’t stopped to consider that he might have two or three different banquets scheduled during a weekend.
Nonetheless, she forged ahead. “An interesting situation has come up that I felt I should discuss with you.”
“By all means,” he murmured with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“My cousin Hannah’s husband—”
“Your cousin who died?”
“Yes. Hannah’s husband’s name is Michael. He came to see me.”
“And?” Pierre prompted, obviously in a hurry to be rid of her.
“He wants to go out with me.” There, she’d said it. If she was looking for a reaction from Pierre, she didn’t get one; his expression didn’t so much as flicker. It was as if she’d pointed out that this spring was cooler than normal for the Pacific Northwest.
Pierre held her gaze. “We never discussed anything like this,” she felt obliged to remind him.
“How foolish of us,” he returned, his words heavy with scorn.
She didn’t respond to his unpleasant tone. “Well?” she pressed.
He shrugged. “I don’t see the problem.”
“You don’t mind?” she blurted out, unable to hide the hurt she felt.
“Why should I?”
“But…” Pain and disillusionment gathered in her chest. Rather than explain, rather than reveal how deeply his total disregard and lack of concern had cut her, Winter bounded to her feet and headed out the door.
“Winter…”
“I thought we could have a decent conversation for once,” she said, struggling to hold back her own anger.
“You come to me after weeks of silence because you want my permission to date another man?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“As a matter of fact, you did.”
“Are we going to argue about semantics?” she asked. How quickly they’d fallen back into the same old patterns. A few minutes earlier, Winter had been nearly breathless with anticipation. Now she was close to tears.
“If you want to date this other man, don’t let me stand in your way.”
“I won’t,” she said and smiled sweetly. “He’s a doctor, you know.”
“Who cares?”
“Oh, that was mature.”
“About as mature as telling me you’re dating a doctor. Just leave, Winter, before I say something I regret.”
“I’m the one with regrets, Pierre. I never should’ve come here, never should’ve assumed that being apart would make any difference. I can see nothing’s changed. I thought I loved you…I thought you loved me, too, but I can see how wrong I was.” She rushed through the kitchen, blinded by anger and sorrow, and almost ran to the exit.
Pierre didn’t follow, and that was just as well. She’d learned the answer to her unspoken question. Pierre was completely and utterly indifferent to her. His one concern was whether she might be pregnant. He was no more ready to be a husband and father than…than the man in the moon.
Hurrying
