Tristam glanced her way. He was smiling a bit. Maybe he thought she was kidding about assaulting F. Christian. Certainly none of her friends back home would believe it. She’d always been too ladylike.
“I should certainly hope I could ‘take’ him. It isn’t as though he earns his living off honest toil.”
“Just dishonest.”
He nodded. “Since you’re ravenous and don’t require vegetables, I think the Mountain Lion Lodge will do. They specialize in barbecued large animal, and in pale tubers like turnips and potatoes.”
“Sounds perfect,” Karo said. “I can always take a vitamin supplement later if I feel scurvy coming on.” She was more sanguine now that she was safe from bearding familiar faces. It wasn’t that she was afraid, exactly, but she could wait an eternity before being involved in another brawl and it would still be too soon. “And you needn’t worry about a flaming row. I’ve already done that—hurled wine, potato salad and accusations included—and I don’t like to repeat myself.”
“Did you really hurl the potato salad? I thought perhaps that was just an expression.” He glanced at her.
“No, I threw it, bowl and all.”
“What a vengeful creature it is! Are you going to hurl your wine at me for helping you shower?” He didn’t sound worried, so she grinned. “Is that the planned revenge—food in my lap or face?”
“Oh, no. Been there. Done that. I’ll think up something special just for you. Something appropriate and personal. Let the punishment fit the crime, I always say. Anyway, I’m hoping it’s a good wine.”
He laughed. “It’s adequate.”
The Lodge was charming, the ceiling low and timbered and they had a fireplace built of gray stone. There was also a small dance floor and a dais for a band, though there was no indication that anyone would be playing that night. As promised, they clearly knew Tristam, and his arrival caused a certain amount of fluttering amongst the mostly female staff. Karo and Tristam were the first ones in the door that evening and had everyone’s undivided attention.
Sipping at a surprisingly good burgundy put out by Seven Witches, a label Tristam chose solely to tease her, Karo watched as her boss’s charm sent the probably underage waitresses running to implement his every desire. He had the gift of genteel command. Also, they were quite willingly bidden.
Karo wondered why he’d never tried such charming orders on her. He’d probably taken her number right away and, in spite of her protests about getting involved, had decided that he didn’t want to spend his days beating her off with a stick if he was too nice. Hence, the buddy-buddy treatment. Too bad he didn’t know about his pheromone problem. Should she mention it? It wasn’t like bad breath or body odor. She couldn’t just slip some mouthwash into his bathroom. And would she even want to stop it?
“Do you get such sterling service everywhere you go?” she asked at last, trying to distract herself from the rich vanilla and coconut smell that surrounded him.
“Certainly. America has been most welcoming.” His eyes twinkled. The arrogant so-and-so knew exactly what effect he had on women. That was dangerous knowledge for a man to have.
“It certainly looks that way,” Karo agreed. “Even the ones old enough to know better are all but wagging their tails.”
Tristam just smiled and sipped his wine. “So, Mistress Follett, it occurs to me that we are—in the local parlance—on a first date. If I have the American ritual correctly, that means that we are supposed to cover some personal conversational ground between the cocktails and the first course.” He looked politely inquiring, but Karo was getting to know the gleam in his eye: pure trouble. “Or is that off-limits, given our employer-employee relationship? I have to admit to a case of raging curiosity about what you’ve been doing all your life. It can’t have all been spent hurling potato salad and climbing trees. I assume the latter is a matter of cell phone reception and not some kind of privacy fetish.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised how many cads have deserved a potato salad bath,” Karo said. She was trying to decide if she was going to let the supposition that they were on a first date stand unchallenged. In the end, she chose to let it go. Nor did she explain about her tree climbing.
“So…personal stuff, like family pedigrees, ex-spouses, illegitimate children—that sort of thing?” she asked him. Though she was ragingly curious about him as well, she added: “It sounds a little predictable, especially since I don’t have any pedigree. Maybe we should discuss politics or semicurrent events. Though, I haven’t actually read a newspaper in a couple of weeks.”
Before Tristam could reply, one of the girls, a young blonde with delicate freckles and a blouse that was now unbuttoned to her lacy push-up bra, came bustling over and set the soup bowls down with a small flourish. She beamed at Tristam. Karo could almost hear the voila that went with the dramatic gesture, and his bowl was placed perfectly. Her own was off center and the soup sloshed over the edge.
“This is minestrone, but there’s chicken if you’d rather. It wouldn’t take but a minute to fetch it for you.” The blonde sounded breathless.
“This looks delicious, thank you.” Tristam nodded regally, and the girl backed away with shallow bows. She was practically shivering with delight.
“Go on. Ask for some crackers. She’ll love it,” Karo whispered, though she was beginning to get annoyed by all the hovering. She took her napkin and blotted up the soup edging for the lip of the table. “I bet she’ll even roll over if you scratch her behind the ears.”
“Jealousy ill becomes you, my dear.” Tristam looked down his perfect, arrogant nose at her and smirked.
“ ‘My dear,’ ” she mimicked his accent. “This isn’t jealousy. It’s amusement—the malicious kind. You know, à la Noel Coward. After all, she’s young enough to be your daughter.”
“Noel Coward, are you sure? But perhaps it suffers in translation. The American accent is so barbaric, and you tend to abridge everything—especially wit.”
“Ha! If the rednecks were here, the shoe would be on the other foot. I am very attractive to drunk men.” She stuck out her tongue.
He smiled blandly. “I’m sure you are, but we have veered off course. Our topic tonight is personal.” He took a taste of his soup and nodded, then picked up his wine. “America has some excellent vineyards. Ever been married?”
“No. You?” she shot back without blinking.
“No. Involved?”
“Always, but not always with men.”
“Women, then?”
Karo glared. “No. With my work.”
“Is it a good lover?”
“It’s faithful.” She reached for her wine, ignoring her own steaming bowl. She knew that this wasn’t wise on an empty stomach, but she was feeling strangely irresponsible.
“Ah, but that’s not the same thing! Predictability is no stand-in for passion. Eventually you’ll want a lover again, someone or something to thrill you. Will you go seeking one?”
“Doubtful. I’ve given them up for the rest of the decade,” she lied.
Her gaze shifted past him to the garish jukebox against the long kitchen wall. On impulse, she reached into her purse and pulled out two quarters. Rising, she went to use them.
Tristam’s eyes followed her across the room. She scanned the titles in the machine and quickly selected two. The first was an old hit by Jon Secada; the second had her hiding a smile. She’d give him some really original English usage.
“Very sexy, but then I knew you could walk. Do you like to dance?” he asked as she returned to the table.
“Yes. But not here. We’d trip over someone.” Karo jerked her head. Another girl was bearing down on them with a basket of bread. This one, a brunette, offered to fetch Tristam some crackers if he preferred. Or cheese toast. Or biscuits with gravy. Pancakes, waffles…really, he could have anything he wanted, she added eagerly, even if it wasn’t on the menu.
Karo picked up her spoon and tried the broth while a slightly chagrined Tri
stam did his polite best to banish further offers of starches. And other things. And others. She tried not to grin as his aplomb slipped.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “They are just acting more territorial than usual because I’m here. I don’t think they’ll actually try to mark you or anything.”
The girl didn’t notice Karo’s words, though Karo’s voice was not particularly quiet. She swayed closer, and Karo could see that she had rolled her skirt over at the waistband to make it several inches shorter.
“Do you like living on the east coast, or are you inclined to move around? No more bread—thank you!” Tristam said to the brunette. He frowned at Karo, who giggled, and got rid of the hovering girl by nodding at her again. Then he resumed his list of questions.
Such were the benefits of a one-track mind, Karo supposed, uncertain whether to be glad that he’d let the matter of her looking for a lover pass as he pursued the rest of his list. Karo was very interested in his romantic inclinations, but she decided to let sleeping dogs lie. Geography was a safer topic for the nonce.
“It’s alright.” She tried a little more soup. “I’m not wedded to it, though.”
Bad choice of words. She hoped he didn’t see it the same.
“How about England?” he asked.
“How about it?”
“Oh…My turn, is it? Well, let’s see.” He wrinkled his brow so that she would know he was thinking. “The ancestral manse is in a mossy part of Lincolnshire—pretty from May seventh through June third, and at no other time of year. To be honest, I’m grateful that Brother Jeremy will inherit the mire. As the younger son I have to be content with the leavings—which are rather generous, all things considered.”
“It’s tacky to brag about money. Especially to people who don’t have any,” she pointed out. “Didn’t your mother tell you that?”
He just grinned. “When I get to feeling homesick I pop over for a week or two, visit with Mum at the dower house—my sister-in-law is a bit much, so Mum keeps her own place—and then I head back stateside again. There is a great deal of comfort to be had in placing an ocean between me and my nearest and dearest.”
“I can’t tell when you’re kidding,” Karo complained.
He grinned at her some more but didn’t offer any clarification. “Gives you something to mull over in the dark stretches of the night.”
“When I lie awake and think about you?”
“Precisely. Now, where was I? Right. Women in my life—that’s next, isn’t it?” He lifted a brow. “I used to prefer the high-dollar type, but since I’ve been in the States I’ve come to enjoy slumming with the masses. Such pretty masses you have here! Have I ever mentioned that I maintain a preference for dark hair and gray eyes? The combination is rather rare.”
“Uh, no, you haven’t mentioned this. Don’t tell the blonde. She’ll be crushed. Is this a new obsession or—Oh, look, she’s bringing us crackers after all. And biscuits! What a surprise. Are you certain you don’t like slumming with busty blondes? This one looks more than willing if not so busty. And maybe they don’t have statutory rape laws for immigrants.”
Tristam gave her ankle a light kick under the table. The first waitress was back, still shivering. Karo smiled politely and, to make her point, complimented the soup. It was a pointless courtesy; the teen barely spared her a glance. And with the other waitress…Well, maybe Tristam was in danger of being territorially peed on as the two girls fought over him. The thought had Karo giggling, and she began to think that perhaps she’d had too much wine.
“Thanks, Mr. English. Would you like some more water? Or lemon? Or lime—we have lime, too.”
“No, thank you, Miss…?”
“Basco. Rebecca Basco, but please call me Becky.”
The name made them both blink. But though the same question sprang to both their minds, neither asked the girl about her genealogical relationship to a defrocked priest. For a moment Becky looked excited by the attention, and her hand fluttered for her blouse as though considering whether to undo another button.
“Thank you, Becky, but I think we’re fine for now.” Tristam gave her another unsmiling nod and she backed away again as if leaving a royal presence. The kitchen door whooshed shut behind her, and in the sudden dead space that followed the pause between jukebox songs, they could hear Becky talking to her friends.
“Isn’t he to die for?” the piercing voice demanded. “I could just eat him up.”
“But I saw him first!” the brunette waitress complained. “And you’re dating Rodney!”
Karo almost choked on her wine and even Tristam looked startled. His momentary expression of shocked outrage sent her off into paroxysms of laughter that ended in a genuine cough.
“It’s your own fault.” She found a clean spot on her napkin and mopped her streaming eyes as the jukebox spun her next selection, an offensive little number by Nine Inch Nails. The sound of static filled the air. It wasn’t a malfunction. The song had a background of hissing white noise.
“Men who are ‘to die for’ just shouldn’t be polite to horny teenagers. We’ll probably be shadowed the whole night through,” Karo pointed out to him. “Hey, maybe the fan club will follow us back to Belle Ange to see where their idol lives. If you asked nicely, maybe you could get them to paint the place. They seem willing to do anything.”
“Did your father ever beat you?” Tristam inquired coolly. It was hard to do while pitching his voice over the loud hissing coming from the speakers overhead, but he managed.
“Never,” she shouted back cheerfully, finishing her wine. Karo knew she was drinking too much but didn’t seem able to stop. “Daddy didn’t believe in physical discipline.”
“What a pity. Still, it’s never too late to start. Vellacourt left a nice selection of whips upstairs.”
“So what? You can’t beat me. I have a doctor’s excuse. But I suppose that I could always beat you. If you ask nicely.” Her glance was mischievous. In the back of her mind she knew that she would never have said as much without first being lubricated with wine—and perhaps the visitation by Vellacourt. “That’s what Englishmen like, isn’t it? All those years at boarding school…?”
Yes, the wine had made her bold.
“You little horror!” This time the indignation sounded real, but his gaze was…intent.
“Are you really upset? I’m sorry. No, truly I am. I shouldn’t tease you.” Karo stopped smiling. “That girl’s affections…Well, it must get tedious having women mooning over you,” she said a bit enviously.
Tristam leaned forward and covered her hand. His eyes were unblinking, almost soulful. “Does that mean you won’t tease me anymore?”
She was certain that he had touched her for the very purpose of infusing her with more of his heart-fluttering musk. Despite that suspicion, her blood thickened enough to make her heart thud. Her mouth went dry. She had to resist the urge to turn her hand over and return the deliberate caress of his long fingers.
“Not over dinner. Afterward, I don’t promise anything.”
“So?” That mouth curved up and the hand withdrew. “Our game goes on. I’m so glad you’re not a coward. It’s no fun to win by surrender.”
So, it was a game. He was still playing a game. Karo was relieved but also piqued. She wasn’t looking for a lover—absolutely not—but the gender gauntlet had been thrown down between them. She might not pick it up, but she certainly wasn’t going to go racing away from the challenge. A woman had her fair share of pride, and she might have any man she wanted. Probably. At least for one night.
“What in blazes is that revolting noise?” Tristam demanded in outrage, his accent stronger as horns began to blare from the jukebox. They were like sirens.
“Noise?” Karo asked innocently. “Oh, that’s Trent Reznor. He’s still very popu lar in some circles. Industrial music. It’s got a good beat, hasn’t it?”
“Can he actually say things like that? Aren’t there decency laws in this country or someth
ing?”
“Careful. Your age is showing. This is very with it.” Actually, it was almost passé. She had only chosen it to annoy him.
The second waitress materialized before Tristam could continue his harangue. She set their entrees on the table and beamed expectantly. Her skirt had gotten even shorter. Karo kept a straight face while Tristam thanked her once again and declined any more bread or soup or water or wine or cola or coffee.
“Don’t say a word,” he warned her, pointing a long finger in her direction. “I won’t answer for the consequences.”
“Who me? Wouldn’t dream of it.” Karo picked up a fork.
He stared at her for a moment and then picked up his own utensils.
“I’m glad you can manage the cutlery properly.” She smiled at him. “I thought you might need a little help cutting up your meat, and dear Becky—”
“There are lots and lots of whips,” he warned. “Whole racks of them. Not all of them velvet.”
“Okay. Pax. But you have left the left-handed fork behind. I never quite gained the knack when we lived in Europe, though it looked quite practical.”
“It’s a working-class affectation. And when in Rome…You Americans do a ridiculous amount of switching knife and fork about. But that’s typical, I guess, making the complicated out of the simple.”
“I think that when you’re on a date you’re supposed to say nice things to the woman. Compliment her and stuff. Complaining about her countrymen’s table manners is out.”
“Very well. You’re terribly pretty and very smart,” he said easily. “Also a bit precocious and overeducated, but I’m a gentleman. I can live with that.”
“Hm. Not bad. For a start. And it’s mostly true.”
He eyed her. “Be a lady and say something nice back. I want to see if your tongue cleaves to the roof of your mouth when you try.”
“Well, it’s a stretch for a nonpedigreed slumdweller like me, but…I’m glad you’re not boring. And I like men who have a sense of humor. There really are damned few of them around, especially in management.”
The Ghost and Miss Demure Page 15
