Читать книгу Peachy's Proposal - Carole Buck - Страница 10

“This is not a date,” Peachy stated to her reflection approximately twenty-four hours later.

Leaning into the mirror over her bathroom sink, she painstakingly brushed another coat of black brown mascara on to her lush but virtually colorless lashes. Other types of cosmetics she could basically take or leave. In fact, aside from what she now drolly classified as her “Vampira” period—a mercifully brief interlude during her first semester of design school in which she’d affected a from-the-crypt pallor, dramatically shadowed eyes and bloodred lips—she’d always applied her makeup with a very light hand.

Except for mascara, of course.

She’d gotten hooked on the stuff more than a decade ago and had experimented with everything from bargain basement brands that smelled like petrochemicals to outrageously expensive ones that supposedly contained miscroscopic fibers of cashmere. Without mascara—well, frankly, she thought she appeared rather rabbitty.

Her lashes finally darkened to a satisfactory degree, Peachy stepped back from the sink and scrutinized her mirrored image with a critical eye. There’d been a time when she’d absolutely loathed the way she looked. A time when she would have given anything to trade her gaminely irregular features, sprite-thin body and uncontrollable mop of red-gold curls for her older sister’s classically pretty face, shapely figure and straight, chestnut-colored hair. Fortunately that time had passed.

Although she still considered Eden an extremely attractive woman, Peachy had learned to appreciate and enhance her own quirky looks. The three years she’d spent in New York—the first two as a design student, the third as an apprentice with a jewelry firm—had been extremely important ones in this regard.

Where her mass of pre-Raphaelite ringlets and rather avantgarde wardrobe choices, basic black everything accessorized with purchases from army-navy surplus stores, thrift shops and garage sales, generally had been regarded as just a wee bit weird in her hometown in Ohio, they’d turned out to be very much “with it” in the Big Apple. This had done wonders for her shaky self-esteem.

Oh, sure, she’d succumbed to a few in-your-face fashion trends during her first few months in Manhattan. But she’d eventually realized that shocking people in the street really wasn’t her thing. She’d abandoned stylistic extremes, let all but two of the holes in her earlobes heal up and begun developing her own personal look. This look wasn’t middle-of-the-road by any means. But it wasn’t so far out on the edge that it scared innocent little children, either.

Interestingly, her artwork had improved as her vision of who she was and how she wanted to present herself to the world had become dearer. By the time she’d won the design contest that had led to the job offer that had brought her to New Orleans, she’d had more confidence in herself—both personally and professionally—than she’d ever had in her life.

As for the impact the last two years in New Orleans had had on her…

Perhaps it was a response to the ambrosial food or the profusion of flowers or the remarkable diversity of cultures. Or maybe it had something to do with the local credo of letting les bon temps rouler. But within weeks of her arrival in the Crescent City—shortly after moving into her Prytania Street apartment, to be precise—Peachy had realized that she felt totally at home. No matter that she’d still needed a map to find her way around, mistakenly believed Burgundy Street was pronounced like the wine and thought chicory coffee tasted like something that should be used to clean paintbrushes. Somehow, someway, she’d found a place where she fit in.

Which was not to say that everything was absolutely perfect. The weather, for example, was a tad problematic. Peachy had heard natives claim that New Orleans, which had been carved from a swamp, only had two seasons—summer and February. She’d come to the conclusion that this was code for muggy and about-to-be muggy. She’d also discovered that the local climate played havoc with what Bible scholars would call her “crowning glory.”

Grimacing wryly at her reflection, Peachy plucked a brush from amid the clutter on the counter to the left of the sink. Maybe she should wear her hair up after all, she mused. She’d styled it into a chignon earlier then unpinned it after deciding the coiffure was too fussy and self-conscious. While making herself attractive to Luc seemed a sensible thing to do given the request she’d made of him, she was wary of creating the impression that she’d expended a lot of time and effort preparing for this evening’s, uh, uh—

“Whatever,” she said, yanking the brush through her incorrigible curls.

It was unsettling, Peachy admitted silently. She knew Luc intended to make love to her, because he’d promised her he would. Yet she had no idea when or where he planned to perform the deed.

Assuming he’d even decided those details, which she was strongly inclined not to do.

How had it happened? she demanded of herself. How had Lucien Devereaux shifted from accepting her proposal, to imposing his terms in the space of a few seconds? More importantly, why had she acquiesced in a situation where she had every right to be in charge? It was her virginity, dammit!

Her mind flashed back to the previous evening.

“What do you mean…‘but not tonight’?” she’d asked once the implications of Luc’s unexpected declaration had begun to sink in.

“I think we should wait,” he’d answered calmly.

“I have waited!” she’d exclaimed, swatting a stray lock of hair out of her face. “That’s why I found myself on a malfunctioning airplane thinking I was going to die a virgin. The waiting’s over, Luc. I want to do it and be done with it and get on with my life!”

It had not been the most felicitous way of describing the consummation for which she so devoutly wished. Peachy had recognized this the moment the words had come tumbling out of her mouth. A sudden lifting of her partner-to-be’s dark brows had suggested that he, too, found her phrasing a trifle cold-blooded.

“‘Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am?’“ he’d quoted after a fractional pause.

She’d felt herself start to blush for what seemed like the millionth time but she hadn’t dared back off. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Luc’s deep brown eyes had narrowed very slightly at this point. The corners of his sensually shaped lips had quirked upward. The shift in both instances had been a matter of no more than a few millimeters. Yet the effect on his overall expression had been devastatingly seductive.

“But that’s not my style, cher,” he’d replied, his voice dropping into a velvet-lined register she’d never heard before. Even the offhand endearment he’d been using since the first time they’d met had suddenly sounded foreign to her ears.

She’d opened her mouth to say something. He’d forestalled her before she’d uttered a peep.

“The first time between a man and woman is always awkward, Peachy,” he’d observed. “No matter how much experience one—or both—of them has. There’s uncertainty about what the other person wants and there’s insecurity about whether you can provide it. It’s not…easy.”

There’d been no doubt in her mind that his choice of the final adjective had been deliberate. Easy had been the word she’d used earlier in explaining why she’d chosen him as the first recipient of her unorthodox proposal.

“So?” The breathlessness of her voice had appalled her.

“So, I think it would reduce the inevitable awkwardness if we got to know each before we head to bed for the first and only time.”

“Got to know—?” she’d echoed incredulously. “We’ve been living under the same roof for nearly two years!”

“Which means we know each other as neighbors,” he’d replied without missing a beat. “I’m talking about becoming acquainted as man and woman. About becoming…aware…of each other.”

Peachy had hesitated. She’d sensed that there was something crucial he wasn’t saying and searched his dark, deep-set eyes to try to discover what it might be.

Yet even as she’d sought for answers to questions she wouldn’t have been able to articulate if she’d tried, she’d had to concede that Luc’s arguments for “waiting” sounded reasonable.

“Well,” she’d finally begun. “I suppose…”

Luc had smiled. There’d been a brief hint of teeth, reminding her that the human race was innately carnivorous.

“There’s also the matter of my masculine pride,” he’d said. “I’d like to be sure your first time is something better than—what was your word? Oh, yes. Unawful.”

And then he’d touched her. Lifting his right hand to her face, he’d brushed his fingertips slowly down the curve of her left cheek. After that he’d stroked them, very lightly, along the line of her jaw.

The contact had affected her like a jolt of electricity. It had gone surging through her nervous system, throwing her already accelerated pulse rate into overdrive and causing her breathing pattern to unravel into short, shallow pants.

For one insane instant she’d honestly thought she might swoon. And in that same insane instant she’d decided that asking Lucien Devereaux to relieve her of her virginity was either the smartest thing she’d ever done or a mistake of such monumental proportions that she’d spend the rest of her life—

The sound of her hairbrush clattering against the tiled floor of the bathroom yanked Peachy back into the present. She blinked several times, conscious of a wild fluttering deep in her stomach. Her hands were trembling. She could feel the nipples of her small breasts straining against the lacy cups of her bra.

A glimpse of her reflection did nothing to restore her composure. Her cheeks were flushed, almost feverish looking. And there was a glazed expression in her eyes that reminded her of the zombie lore she’d heard from Laila Martigny, the fiftyish psychologist who lived in the apartment directly below hers.

Rumor had it that the regal-looking Dr. Martigny was a descendant of New Orleans’s famed witch queen, Marie Laveau. But while she would admit to being the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter and to having occasional flashes of what some others might call ESP, Laila simply smiled away questions about her possible connection to the legendary “Madame L.”

“Get a grip,” Peachy ordered herself through clenched teeth as she bent to retrieve the brush. Her hair cascaded forward in an unruly tumble. She shoveled it back over her shoulders as she straightened up.

A glance at the small alarm clock that sat on the back of the commode informed her that her ill-advised stroll down memory lane had put her behind schedule. It was nearly half past seven. She was supposed to meet Luc for dinner at eight. Although the restaurant he’d chosen was within walking distance, she’d have to hustle to arrive there by the appointed hour.

She stalked out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, muttering as she went. Her resentment at having had her agenda rewritten flared anew. She didn’t need to be wined and dined as a prelude to sex, she told herself as she started dressing. No. More than that. She didn’t want it. And she’d tried to make that crystal clear to Luc. Only he’d gone right ahead and overridden her wishes.

Well, no, she amended as she smoothed down the skirt of the jade green silk dress she’d settled on after reviewing the contents of her closet four times. That wasn’t entirely fair. Luc hadn’t so much overridden her wishes as she’d succumbed to his.

But no more. Never again. The instant she sat down with him she was going to make certain he understood that this evening out was not—absolutely, positively not—a date. What’s more, she was going to tell him that she intended to pick up the check. And if he had a problem with that…

She’d deal with it, she promised herself. She’d deal with it just fine, thank you very much.

But first she had to find the shoes she planned to wear. And select a substitute for the demure pearl drop earrings she’d picked out. What she’d been thinking when she’d chosen them, she didn’t know. The last time she’d had them on had been when she’d attended Easter services with the MayWinnies!

Peachy was frantically rummaging through her drawers when she heard a knock at her apartment door. “Who is it?” she called, flinging aside a pair of hammered gold hoops that had briefly captured her fancy.

“It’s me,” a distinctively husky voice called back.

She froze. Oh, no, she thought. Not Terry. Not now!

The Terry in question rented the apartment next to Laila Martigny. He’d been born Terrence Bellehurst in Syracuse, New York, and had had a spectacular career as a professional football player until a quarterback sack in the waning moments of his first Super Bowl had pretty well pulverized his right knee.

Benched for life by the injury, Terry had forged a successful second career as a play-by-play commentator. But shortly after he’d won his third Emmy for sports coverage, he’d undergone a mind-blowing transformation.

“I got in touch with my feminine self,” he’d told Peachy with characteristic candor shortly after they’d gotten acquainted. “And honey, it felt wonderful!”

Terrence Bellehurst had been reborn as Terree, emphasis on the second syllable, LaBelle. And for the last four years, Terree had served as mistress of ceremonies for the classiest drag show in the French Quarter. So classy, in fact, that the MayWinnies had attended several performances and subsequently commented to Peachy—with what had seemed to her to be complete sincerity—that it had been a pleasure to see such perfect ladies on the stage.

Having spent three years in New York City, Peachy had arrived in New Orleans believing herself essentially inured to the vagaries of human behavior. Nonetheless, her first encounter with Terrence/Terree had been a bit unsettling. However, she’d soon been won over by her downstairs neighbor’s friendliness. Terrence Bellehurst was one of the frankest, funniest people she’d ever met. As for Terree LaBelle…well, “she” would donate the frock off “her” back to anyone in need.

“Hold on, Terry,” Peachy shouted, thrusting her feet into a pair of strappy, high-heeled sandals. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Actually, it was closer to a minute before she unlocked her door and opened it to reveal a six-foot-two-inch male who was covered from throat to ankles by a royal blue kimono-style bathrobe embroidered with silver and cerise chrysanthemums. His head was turbaned with a royal blue terry cloth towel.

Terry gave her a fast up-down-up assessment then inquired knowingly, “Hot date?”

It was the wrong question at the wrong time.

“No!”

Terry arched his brows and shifted into his sympathetic mode. “Cramps?”

Peachy grimaced, realizing she had no right to vent her emotional upset on an innocent bystander. “No, nothing like that, Terry,” she replied, moderating her tone and summoning up a quick smile. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just a little frazzled right now. Would you like to come in?”

“Only for a sec.” Terry stepped across the threshold. He gave her another considering look. “You are going out, I take it?”

“Yes.” Peachy willed herself not to blush. “To dinner.”

“With—?”

“A…friend.” Mentioning Luc’s name would prompt too many questions, she rationalized. Better to let Terry think she was off to some mysterious rendezvous.

“Oh, really?” Her neighbor seemed thrilled.

“Yes, really.” Peachy produced another smile to take the edge off what she had to say next. “Look, Terry, I hate to be rude—”

“I need an egg.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I came up here to see if I could borrow an egg from you. Or two.”

“You feel the urge for a facial?” Peachy guessed. Convinced that his years on the gridiron had had a deleterious effect on his skin, Terry spent a significant amount of time pampering his complexion. The first time they’d met, his face had been slathered with a cornmeal cleansing masque of his own concoction.

“Breakfast, actually.”

“It’s nearly 8:00 p.m., Terry.”

“What can I say? I had an extremely late evening. It ended sometime around noon over beignets and café au lait at Café du Monde.”

Peachy didn’t want to know the details. “My eggs are your eggs,” she said. “And I think I have some fresh-squeezed orange juice, too, if you want it.”

Terry beamed. “Bless you.” Then he cocked his head and frowned. “Sweetie, I hate to play fashion police, but aren’t you the teensiest bit underaccessorized for dinner with a ‘friend’?”

“Actually, I was trying to find some earrings when you knocked.”

“Oh?” He was instantly engaged. “And what look are we going for, might I inquire? ‘Don’t touch’ or ‘Take me, I’m yours’?”

Peachy had to smile. “Somewhere in between.”

“Keep the guy guessing, hmm? That’s so wise of you. But let me cogitate for a moment. Earrings. Mmm. Well, what about those gold and jade ones you lent me during Mardi Gras?”

Peachy knew exactly the pair he meant and exactly where she had them stashed away. She also knew they were exactly what she’d been seeking.

“Terry, you’re a genius!” she exclaimed, giving him a quick hug. It was a bit like embracing a side of beef.

“I try,” he replied modestly. “But if you wear the gold and jade, you’ll have to take off your silver bell locket…”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” Peachy said, slipping into the seat opposite Luc. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded her thanks at the black-jacketed maitre d’hôtel who’d held her chair. He nodded back, murmured something about hoping she’d enjoy her meal, then moved away.

Luc had risen to his feet as she’d approached the table. He was clad in black trousers, an open-collared white silk shirt and a dove gray jacket that bore the subtle hallmarks of a master tailor. He reseated himself saying, “The wait was worth it, cher.”

The response—so smooth, so sure—nettled Peachy.

“You don’t have to do that, Luc,” she declared, opening her napkin and draping it across her lap. She kept her spine very stiff, sitting forward on her chair rather than relaxing back into it. The May Winnies would have awarded her an A-plus for posture.

“Do what?”

“Give me any of your usual lines.”

Luc paused in the act of picking up his own napkin and regarded her with an expression Peachy couldn’t interpret. She felt her pulse give a curious hop-skip-jump.

“Is it a line if I mean it?” he asked after a moment, his dark gaze drifting over her. “Because you do look lovely tonight.”

Peachy took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was a twenty-three-year-old woman not a giggly adolescent idiot. “Thank you,” she finally answered, striving for a normal tone of voice and coming fairly close. “I had some expert help.”

“Oh?”

She gestured. “Terry suggested the earrings.”

There was a long-stemmed goblet of ice water to Luc’s right. He picked it up and took a sip. As he put the glass down he asked, “Terry knows we’re out together?”

“Uh, no.” Peachy shifted slightly. “I told him I was meeting a friend for dinner. It’s not that I’m…ashamed…of what you and I are doing. But I’m afraid—I mean, it might be, uh, well, it might be awkward, don’t you think? Trying to explain. About…things.”

Again, she found herself on the receiving end of a look she couldn’t read. Again, her pulse leapt as though it had hit a series of speed bumps.

“My sentiments exactly,” Luc concurred.

At that moment the sommelier materialized by their table with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes. He conversed with Luc in French for a few moments. Then, still talking, he deftly popped the cork and began to pour the pale, bubbling wine. Peachy listened uncomprehendingly to the two men, unable to reconcile their fast, fluent exchange with any of the stilted phrases she’d memorized in high school language class.

She did manage a merci after the man filled her glass. He responded at great length. Finally, after giving Luc what she could only describe as a look of approval, he took his leave.

His place was swiftly taken by a waiter who presented them with a pair of exquisitely calligraphied menus plus a small silver basket of toast points and a crock of what appeared to be truffle-studded pâté.

“Pour lagniappe,” he announced with a smile.

Lagniappe, Peachy understood. Slang for “a little something extra,” it was one of the words she’d added to her vocabulary since coming to New Orleans.

“Do you eat here often?” she asked Luc after the waiter had bustled away. What she really wanted to determine was whether this restaurant was part of some standard seduction routine.

“I come here a few times a month when I’m in town,” he answered. “If the staff seems to be fawning—well, I’m an investor in the place. The owner, Jean-Baptiste, is an acquaintance of mine from high school. He started cooking in grade school and always dreamed of opening a restaurant in the Garden District. He came to me with a business proposition about four years ago, right around the time a Hollywood producer offered to shell out an obscene amount of money for the rights to my first book. I said yes to both. My accountant figured I was setting myself up for a tax write-off. I think you’ll understand my real motivation once you taste this.”

The “this” to which he referred was a toast point he’d lavishly spread with pâté while he’d been speaking. He extended the morsel toward Peachy, clearly intending her to eat from his fingers.

After a brief hesitation, Peachy leaned forward and took a bite. The word “voluptuous” didn’t begin to describe the silken smoothness of the pâté. And the flavor…

“Goomph,” she said inadequately, trying not to drool.

Luc grinned and popped the remainder of the appetizer into his mouth.

Peachy didn’t know whether the move was intended to be suggestive of more intimate kinds of sharing. But if it wasn’t, it should have been. A quiver—part anticipation, part apprehension—raced through her. She reached for her flute of champagne.

“As for the question you didn’t ask,” Luc went on once he’d chewed and swallowed. “I usually eat alone. The last time I brought a woman here—women, actually—was about ten months ago. It was the MayWinnies’ birthday and I invited them to dinner.”

Peachy nearly choked on her champagne.

“Oh,” she was finally able to say, wondering if her cheeks were as flushed as they felt.

“Are you all right, cher?” Luc asked solicitously.

“Just…fine,” she said. Control, she told herself firmly. She had to regain control of this situation!

Regain control? a little voice inside her skull mocked. Who are you trying to kid, Pamela Gayle? Luc’s been running this show from the moment he told you, “Not tonight”!

Well, yes, she conceded irritably. Maybe he had been. But she’d been in charge—sort of—before that. She’d been the one who’d seized the sexual initiative. Oh, all right! Not seized it, exactly. But she’d definitely been the one who’d broached the subject of giving up her virginity.

Peachy took a cautious sip of the champagne. As untutored as her palate was about such things, it was still capable of discerning that she was imbibing something very special. The taste of the wine was incandescently delicious.

“Did you order this?” she asked, setting down her glass and gazing across the table at her future lover with what she hoped was a no-nonsense expression.

“Would you object if I had?”

“Luc—”

He spread his hands in apparent conciliation. “It came compliments of the management.”

“Oh.” She glanced away, wishing she’d done less doodling in French class.

There was a pause. Then: “My question stands, Peachy,” Luc said pointedly.

Her gaze slewed back to his face. “What question?”

“Would you object if I had ordered the champagne?”

“Yes.” She cocked her chin. “I would.”

He remained silent for a moment or two, seeming to weigh her unequivocal answer. Then he asked, “Why?”

Peachy took a deep breath. It was the perfect opening for what she’d told herself she was going to say.

“Because this is not a date, Luc,” she declared. “You and I—it just isn’t, all right? We’re not going out together. I mean—yes, we’re out. And yes, we’re together. But we’re not, uh, uh—”

“Dating,” he finished, reaching for a second toast point.

“I’m serious!”

“I realize that, cher.”

“Seriously serious.”

“Fine. This is not a date.”

Although she was uncertain whether he was genuinely conceding the point or simply humoring her, Peachy decided to proceed to the second item on her agenda.

“And another thing,” she said.

“Yes?”

“I want—no, I’m going to pick up the tab tonight.”

“All right.”

“This isn’t open for discussion. I’ve thought it through very carefully and I’ve decided that—” She broke off abruptly. “What did you say?”

“I said, all right.” While Luc’s tone was mild, there was a glint in his dark eyes that was anything but.

“You don’t…mind?”

“Not unless you’re classifying this meal as payment for services you’re expecting me to render in the future.”

It took Peachy a moment or two to understand what he was saying. Once she did, she was appalled.

“No,” she said, shaking her head so vigorously she felt her gold and jade earrings bounce against her cheeks. “Oh, no, Luc. Of course not!”

“Good,” her dinner companion responded. “Because while I freely admit to engaging in some less-than-respectable activities in my life, I draw the line at turning gigolo.” He raised his pâté-laden toast point to his lips. “Even on a one-time-only basis.”

The sight of Luc’s even white teeth snapping down on the tidbit he was holding sent a tremor running through Peachy.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a pause, aware that her voice was much huskier than normal. “I never meant to suggest—I mean, my paying for dinner tonight isn’t—” She grimaced, then opted for bluntness. “Look, Luc. You have a tendency to overwhelm people. Maybe you got used to giving orders in the army. Or maybe you’re accustomed to bossing around the characters you create. The point is, you like to take charge of things. And given our—no, given my situation—”

“You want to be the one who’s in control.”

There was something in his tone that caused Peachy’s breath to jam at the top of her throat.

She wasn’t unaware of the fact that Luc’s childhood had been infinitely less idyllic than hers. The MayWinnies’ pseudo-clucking over their mutual landlord’s rakish behavior was frequently leavened with delicate references to his mother’s “popularity” with the opposite sex and his father’s “fondness” for fine wine. Laila Martigny—who’d financed her education by doing domestic duty for the Devereauxs and others—was even blunter in her comments.

“When I think about the bad that’s been done to that boy,” she’d once told Peachy, abandoning her normally flawless diction for a patois phrasing that carried the lilt of her Caribbean heritage. “I’m amazed he grew up any kind of good.”

Still.

To hear the empathy in Luc’s voice…

To sense that he understood—truly understood—her feelings of vulnerability…

Peachy hadn’t expected it. She hadn’t expected it at all.

“Yes,” she said. “That’s what I want.”

An odd smile ghosted around the corners of Luc’s mouth then disappeared. Propping his elbows on the table, he steepled his fingers and leaned forward.

“Yesterday,” he began slowly, “when you were explaining why you’d decided to come to me first, I wondered whether you were leaving something unsaid.”

Peachy’s heart performed a queer, cardiac somersault. She suddenly found herself recalling her previous evening’s impression that Luc had been holding back from her on some key level—that even as he’d accepted her proposal, he’d been silently amending their verbal agreement with an escape clause.

“Like what?” she asked warily.

“Like—” his gaze slid away from her face “—you trust me.”

Peachy’s initial response was to wonder why Luc should sound so skeptical. But then she realized that what she’d thought was skepticism was something much deeper. Much darker.

“Is there some reason why I shouldn’t?” she countered.

His eyes returned to hers. The expression in them was similar to the one she’d seen the night before when she’d told him that she’d expect him to confess if the stories she’d heard about his sexual exploits were untrue.

“There’s always a reason,” he commented without inflection. “But even so…”

There was a pause.

“Even so?” Peachy prompted.

Luc unsteepled his fingers and extended both hands toward her, palms up. After a moment of internal debate, she reached forward and placed her hands in his.

“Even so,” he said quietly, feathering his thumbs against the sensitive skin of her inner wrists, “I can promise you that everything that happens between us from this moment on will be by your choice.”

Peachy inhaled an unsteady breath. She dimly registered that the rhythmic pounding of her heart was in sync with the stroke-strokestroking of Luc’s faintly callused thumbs.

She gave a shuddery sigh.

His eyes compelled her. She’d never realized how the brown of his irises shaded around the edges to a hue that matched the ravendarkness of his hair. Nor had she ever noticed the fine flecks of topaz and carnelian—

Way to go, Pamela Gayle, the small voice that had goaded her earlier piped up snidely. You’re really in control now. What’s next on the schedule? Melting into a puddle the way you almost did last night when he chucked you under the chin?

Peachy blinked several times, feeling the humiliatingly familiar surge of hot blood rushing up her throat and into her cheeks. She searched her response-fogged brain, trying to remember what Luc’s last words to her had been. Something about a promise that from this moment on—

Oh, yes. Right.

She withdrew her hands from his and folded them primly in her lap.

“Am I to take it that everything that’s happened between us before this moment hasn’t been?” she inquired, keeping her voice steady through sheer force of will. “By my choice, that is.”

The question clearly caught Luc off guard. For a moment it looked as though his surprise might turn into anger. His eyes narrowed. His lips compressed into a thin line. The tanned skin of his cheeks seemed to tighten.

And then, astonishingly, his expression eased and he started to chuckle.

“Touché,” he said, miming a fencer’s salute.

Although uncertain what Luc found so funny, Peachy succumbed to the lure of his laughter. By the time their shared merriment died away, she felt more relaxed than she had since she’d heard the announcement that the plane she was flying on was going to be forced to make an emergency landing.

“I’m still paying for dinner, Luc,” she asserted a bit breathlessly.

“Of course, cher,” he responded with a roguish grin. “And this is still not a date.”