by Cach, Lisa
How could any man resist such a dramatic response to his presence? As he pushed open the door to the pita restaurant, he told himself he was doing so for idle entertainment, to satisfy the sense of mischief he had inherited from his grandfather. His grandparents' taunting words had nothing to do with it, nor did the sadness on her face.
Eliza's heart pounded in her chest, and she felt fresh sweat break out under her arms as Sebastian approached her table. Why, why, why? Why was he torturing her like this? Each sight of him was a reminder of her hideous blunder on the train, and now of those embarrassing sculptures as well.
The D-cups were too kind a gift for Melanie. She would have to go back and buy "The Big Man," whatever it was, and give it to Melanie at the nurses' station in front of everyone, including Dr. Silvers, on whom Melanie had a secret crush. Somehow her friend would be made to share in the ongoing humiliation of this day.
Sebastian sat down across from her. "Vegetables for your dinner? I'm disappointed. I had been enjoying imagining you dining on chocolate breasts tonight."
She was momentarily speechless, his words conjuring images of her lips on those dark brown nipples. "I'm a dietician," she finally stammered out. "I can't eat candy all day. It's not good for you."
He laughed, his eyebrows raised. "You, a dietician? A member of the food police?"
She pursed her lips. "I normally eat a very well balanced diet, avoiding fats and sugars."
"I'm sure you do." He crossed his arms on the table and leaned toward her. lowering his voice to a confidential tone. "Denying yourself is a certain way to bring on obsession, and run the risk of losing all control. Better to indulge, and keep your appetites satisfied."
"As I imagine you do," she said primly.
He gave her a slow smile, and leaned back. "Of course."
He continued to smile at her, watching her, until she could stand it no longer. "What are you doing here?"
He shrugged. "I came to keep you company. I never like dining alone, myself."
"And you thought I would find you an improvement to my meal?"
"Of course."
She couldn't tell if she had offended him, although he did not look as amused as he had moments earlier. She felt a stab of guilt for being rude, on the off chance he had been sincere. It would have been a kind gesture, keeping her company. She decided to try to make conversation as a form of penance. She shifted in her seat and gave a weak smile. "What was that your grandmother said about you half-owning two restaurants?"
Just then the waiter came and set Eliza's plate of chopped vegetables down in front of her, along with a basket of pita bread. Sebastian looked at her dinner as if it were a particularly nasty bit of roadkill rather than cucumbers and chick peas.
"They're in Atlanta and San Francisco," Sebastian said, tearing his eyes from her plate. "I started with a bakery; then Alex, my business partner, joined me and we added a restaurant. It grew from there, and now we do catering as well. The food is a blend of French and regional specialties, with an emphasis on seafood. What we are known for, however, is our desserts."
"Let me guess: your domain."
"Naturally. It is in my blood. I have stepped back from the daily running of the restaurants recently, though, to focus more on creating new desserts and putting together a cookbook. I do some freelance writing, as well."
"Why did you go to the U.S., why not stay here?"
"France and Belgium, they know enough about good food. But you Americans..." He looked pointedly at her vegetables.
She took a bite of a corn-and-bell-pepper medley. "Mmmm, delicious."
"Perhaps you can help me to understand the American mind," he said, frowning as she took another bite. "What is this fixation on health? Eat this, don't eat that, exercise, don't drink, straighten your teeth, wash, wash, wash. And then I see the ladies who had salad for lunch in my restaurant, they order panna cotta or raspberry gateau for dessert, and they love every bite. They lick their forks and spoons, they moan as if they were having an orgasm, and then they sit back and they say, 'I should not have eaten that. I have been so bad today.' Bad? What is bad about pleasure from food?"
Eliza set down her fork, quite aware that her pita platter had so far not given her a hint of sexual pleasure. "It is not a simple question to answer."
"But this is your business, telling people what not to eat."
"I don't tell strangers in restaurants what is good for them. I work at Sacred Heart Hospital in Seattle, with people who have things like heart disease or diabetes. For them, what they eat can be a matter of life or death."
"I'm not talking about cardiac patients, but this is a matter of life," Sebastian said, leaning forward once again, his sapphire eyes pinning her in her seat. "It is living life. You may as well be dead if all you eat is raw spinach and bran muffins, and spend your evenings on a stair machine. What type of life is that, climbing stairs all night and eating bad food?"
"You're looking at it the wrong way. They're not trying to be miserable. Those who exercise and eat fresh fruits and vegetables are striving for a long, healthy life."
"So it is the usual American obsession with more," he said dismissively. “Trying to outlive their neighbors. Quantity over quality."
"No! They do want a better life. When things are going badly, what is it people always say? 'At least I've got my health.' This is the only body we get, and when it goes, we go," she said, her dinner forgotten on the table before her.
"But at what price do you earn your perfect health? You are allowed to enjoy nothing. You Americans don't understand moderation."
"Us? Not know moderation?" Eliza gasped. "How about you, Mr. Chocolate?"
"You Americans believe you can cheat death by eating broccoli and soy beans. Maybe you think if you don't let yourselves enjoy food or sex too much, then God will think you are being good and let you live a little longer."
Eliza's jaw dropped. "Where did that come from? This isn't a philosophy discussion."
"On the contrary. We are talking about how to live a good life, and what is that if not philosophy?"
"Well, what do you mean by saying Americans don't enjoy food or sex?"
"I think that is obvious." He cast a meaningful glance at her plate. "Did you mentally whip yourself for eating my chocolates, even though I know you enjoyed it?"
"But that's different," she protested.
"And how about sex?"
"What about it?" she asked defensively.
"How free do you feel to enjoy it?"
"That is none of your—"
"I think maybe you have had one, two lovers in your life, and I think perhaps neither were any good, or else you might not be so uptight about your body."
"How dare—"
"How old are you?"
"What? Twenty-eight," she answered, having thoroughly lost her footing.
"Ah, you see? You American women do not even mind being asked your age, your thoughts are so far from sex when you speak with a man."
"I certainly don't see why I should be thinking of sex while speaking with you."
"Don't you?" he asked quietly, looking into her eyes.
Her mouth went dry. and she fought the urge to look away, to hide from those mesmerizing eyes and the licentious promise they held. "You... you can't be serious." she finally said.
"Why not?"
"Because." She flapped her hands in the air in front of her, trying to find words. "You don't know me. I don't know you."
His voice slowed. "That makes it more exciting."
"More dangerous, you mean," she said, flustered. "I don't know what types of diseases you have, especially if you go around sleeping with women you don't know." Oh, God, did I just say what I think I did?
The intensity left his eyes, and a smile crooked his mouth. "There, you see?" he said in a normal tone of voice. "I offer you the chance for a purely pleasurable sexual encounter, 'no strings attached,' as they say, and you turn it down using the excuse of health. If that doe
s not prove my point about not knowing how to enjoy sex, I do not know what does."
"Proves your point…?” Eliza stared at him as realization came that he had faked those long, intense looks of sexual interest. She had taken him seriously, had thought he was genuinely interested in her, and was utterly humiliated for having done so.
"Y-you!" she stuttered. "You set me up!" Her cheeks flamed with anger and embarrassment. She yanked her day pack off the back of the chair and dug around for money, slapping the necessary notes on the table. She stood up. "You, Sebastian St. Germain, can go..." She fumbled for a suitable insult, found it, and could not utter the foul word. "Go play with yourself!" she spit out. She gave him one last short glare, and fled.
Tears stung her eyes as she hurried down the narrow, darkening cobbled street, struggling to slide her arms through the straps of her pack. How could she, even for a moment, have thought he was interested in her in that way? Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was a horrible man, and she should never have spoken with him, not after the train. She should have left the moment he came into the restaurant.
A hand on her shoulder made her flinch and turn halfway around.
"You forgot your breasts," Sebastian said, holding out the blue paper bag.
She snatched the bag from his hand and turned around again, resuming her flight back toward her B&B. She blinked back her tears, tensing her jaw as he fell into step beside her.
Sebastian saw the sheen of unshed tears in her eyes, and felt a hollow sinking in his chest. He had riled her deliberately, wanting to chase away the sadness in her eyes, and he admitted he had still been a bit annoyed with her for what his grandparents had said, as if it were somehow her fault. He had had no intention of harming her. The last trace of his amusement was vanquished by that hint of tears and the tight, trembling set of her jaw. He knew he had gone too far. Precisely where he had put his foot wrong, he wasn't sure, but he had, and it made him feel sick.
He reached out and touched her shoulder again. "Eliza—"
She skittered out from under his hand, casting him a hard look.
"Eliza, please," he said, easily keeping pace with her tight, hurried walk down the sparsely populated street. "I apologize. I did not mean to upset you."
"Didn't you?" she snapped, flicking her eyes once at him. "Then what was that little game you played with me?"
"Eliza, stop, please," he said, using his strength to pull her to a halt and turn her toward him, holding both her shoulders in his hands. He looked down into her face, at the distress and anger so poorly concealed. "I did not mean to hurt you. Tease you a bit, but not hurt you. What was it that wounded you so?"
Her pale green eyes met his briefly in horror, and then she looked down again and pulled away from him. "Never mind." she said, and resumed walking, albeit at a slower pace.
Several minutes passed in silence as he matched her steps, and he took her acceptance of his presence as a form of reluctant forgiveness. He ran their conversation in the restaurant over and over in his mind, but could not guess precisely how he had managed to wound her so deeply. Perhaps she was even more repressed than he had thought, and any mention of sex disturbed her.
He recalled her parting shot at him, and felt his lips twitch. Perhaps she wouldn't discuss sex, but it definitely had a place in her mind.
"How old are you?" she asked quietly, not looking at him.
"Thirty-six," he said, relieved to have her speak. So perhaps the wound had not been mortal after all.
"Can I ask you a question?" she asked.
She just had, but he thought it would behoove him to keep that to himself at this point. "Certainly."
"Who were the chocolates for? I mean, why would a man whose grandparents own a chocolate shop in Bruges be buying a box of chocolates in Brussels?"
He smiled wryly. "I am not certain you want to hear the answer."
That got her to look at him, but he was not sure of the message in her eyes.
“Try me," she said.
"Patrice is one of the most exclusive and innovative chocolatiers in the country, or even the world," he began. "Whenever I visit home, I buy a ballotin of their newest creations and bring it to my grandparents, and then we do our best to steal the ideas. My grandparents look for ideas for their shop, and I steal ideas that I can incorporate into desserts."
"You steal ideas?"
"Chocolate is a competitive business. Patrice steals from others, we steal from Patrice, it all goes around."
"Can't you think of ideas yourself?" she asked, a touch of derision in her voice.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Of course. But all artists steal. Just because I take an idea from Patrice does not mean that I am copying. I will use it in my own way, change it, make it my own. We build upon each other."
They took several steps in silence. "I suppose that explains why you were so upset on the train," she said. "Those chocolates were unique. And now you'll have to go back to Brussels if you want to replace them."
"I told you that you might not like the answer."
She stopped, shrugged free of her day pack, and began to dig through it, her hand emerging moments later with a set of keys. He looked up at the blue door behind her, and the stickers in the window to one side, declaring the house a bed-and-breakfast.
"Thank you for walking me home," she said, the keys jangling in her hand. She went up the three steps and began to fit the key in the lock.
"Eliza—"
She looked over her shoulder at him, her hand on the keys going still. "Yes?"
He did not know why he had called her name, or why he did not want to see her go just yet. Things felt somehow unfinished between them. But her face told him she was weary, the light above the front steps casting shadows under her eyes, and he knew he had caused more than half her grief today. "Have a good stay in Bruges."
Some emotion flickered across her face, possibly disappointment. "Thank you," she said, and in a moment she had disappeared inside, leaving him alone on the street with his thoughts.
Chapter Four
Eliza stood in the darkened entryway, feeling like crying for the third time that day.
"Have a good stay in Bruges." What a letdown.
When he'd said her name, just for a moment her heart had leaped, and she had thought he was going to ask her... ask her... ask her what? For a good-night kiss? To go dancing at a nightclub? To have dessert sitting at a table under the stars, with violins playing in the background?
She closed her eyes and shook her head. She was such a fool.
She dragged herself up all three flights of stairs, her breath coming heavily by the time she crawled her way onto the top landing and opened the door to her room. Despite herself she was drawn immediately to the window, shoving it wide and sticking her head out. The street below was vacant of pedestrians, Sebastian long gone.
She pulled her head back in and looked at the room, the overhead light making it more chilly than cheery now that night was falling. Her watch told her it was just past six o'clock. If Melanie were here, they would be out wandering the streets, or sitting at a café watching people, sipping wine and chatting.
But Melanie wasn't here, and she'd be damned if she'd be miserable all night because of it. She'd had entirely too much misery today. Buck up, Eliza, she encouraged herself. She was too tired to go out again, but she had a room to herself, a shower to be used, and a bookshelf full of guide books waiting to be perused. She was going to have a cozy, contented night in, and neither Melanie nor thoughts of Sebastian were going to stop her.
Three hours later, eyes bleary and stinging from reading, her hair still half-damp down her back, she slid a brochure on canal tours on top of all the others scattered across the Indian-print bedspread and yawned, proud of herself for passing a reasonably pleasant evening.
She set the alarm on her travel clock, and set it inside the cupboard bed. She turned out the lights and crawled into the dark space, burrowing down under the covers, then reached out a
hand and pulled the cupboard doors loosely shut.
There. Snug as a mouse in its hole, and she had more than enough ideas for what to do with her time tomorrow. She might even have more fun without Melanie, who had only a minimal interest in art museums, and an unhappy fondness for kitschy gift shops.
Sleep began to creep up on her, and her soothing thoughts of windmills and lace tatting drifted away, to be replaced by Sebastian sneaking his way back into her mind. Her brain insisted on replaying her grand faux pas on the train, and the flush of remembered embarrassment jolted her out of her half-sleep, her heart thudding.
She turned onto her side, lifting her damp hair out from beneath her cheek and spreading it above her head. She pressed her face into the pillow, uselessly trying to force the scene from her mind. The whole day was insisting on tramping its way through her brain, each encounter with Sebastian, each embarrassment, each moment when he looked at her or touched her.
Eliza flipped onto her back, lying spread-eagle within the confines of the cupboard, her ankles pressed to the walls. She stared into the dark. She reached behind her for the travel clock and lifted it close to her facc, pushing the button for the light. 12:45 a.m.
She groaned and set the clock back in place behind her head.
This was all Melanie's fault, of course. It was only because she was alone here, thousands of miles from home, that she could not stop thinking about that man. She was clinging to her only human contact. That was all it was.
Certainly she was not thinking of him because he was tall and broad-shouldered, with beautiful eyes and an accent that she could listen to all night. It was not because her secret, barely admitted fantasy for months before coming on this trip was to meet a romantic foreigner and have a brief and passionate affair, and he looked perfect for the role of lover. And certainly it was not because he had joined her in the restaurant for no perceptible reason, and walked her home, and made her wonder why.
