Crazy 4U

by Cach, Lisa

He had already proven that contact with him led to nothing but embarrassment, anger, and a distressing tendency to put her foot in her mouth. There was nothing romantic in any of that.

  There was no sense thinking about him. It was highly unlikely she would run into him again, and in three days she would be on her way home, out of his range, and that would be that. There was no way on God's good earth that she was going to track him down at his grandparents' chocolate shop and take him up on his non-offer to sleep with her, "no strings attached," so she was better off just erasing him from her mind.

  Gone. Erased.

  There.

  She closed her eyes, curling once more onto her side.

  On the other hand, if she knew she would never see him again, there was no harm in pretending he was in bed with her now.

  She drifted off to a peaceful sleep, James Bond arms holding her tight.

  Chapter Five

  Eliza emptied the small carton of runny strawberry yogurt into her bowl, and sprinkled muesli on top. She added fresh fruit from the bowl in the center of the table.

  Soft classical music played from unseen speakers as she sat alone at the large wooden breakfast table. Well, alone unless she wanted to count the peculiar life-size statue of a butler, standing near the head of the table and holding up a tray with an empty glass upon it. A grandfather clock ticked in one corner of the room, and she could hear Maijet around the comer in the kitchen, clanking pans. She eyed the boxes of toppings for the bread, one of which looked like a box of confetti.

  "Pink and blue sugar flakes are empty calories," Sister Agnes protested gently in her head.

  Yes, I know, Eliza agreed, but the boxes certainly looked interesting, unlike anything to be found on the breakfast table at home. The jar of Nutella was even more enticing.

  "If all they eat is frosting, bread, and coffee for breakfast, 'tis no wonder Europeans look anemic."

  Eliza picked up the jar of Nutella. The label proclaimed it to be hazelnut spread, with skim milk and cocoa. That should be as good for you as peanut butter.

  "Half the fat but five times the sugar, I should imagine. Wouldn’t you prefer those nice preserves?"

  But this looks like chocolate. Eliza took a piece of soft white bread from the basket and opened the jar of Nutella.

  "Eliza..." Sister Agnes chided. "Haven’t we already discussed chocolate as the basis of a meal?"

  Eliza smiled at the chocolate-nut mess in the jar and dug out a huge glob with her knife. She knew she was being naughty, but this was vacation.

  "Eliza! Moderation!"

  "You are certain you do not want an egg?" Maijet asked, coming back to the table.

  "Hmm?" Eliza blinked up at Maijet. "Oh, no, this is plenty."

  Maijet set her cup of tea on the table and pulled out a chair. "Do you have plans for today?" she asked, sitting down.

  "I think I pretty much have my day mapped out," Eliza said, and proceeded to outline her route through the sights of Bruges, listening to Maijet's additional advice while she ate the Nutella-covered bread. It was sticky and wonderfully chocolaty, and she lost track of what Maijet was saying as she considered adding a glob of the stuff to the fruit in her yogurt bowl.

  Just then the other guests came into the room, a middle-aged woman and her elderly father, and Eliza thought better of the Nutella/yogurt scheme. No need to turn the stomachs of strangers.

  Her fellow guests were from England, and surprisingly cheerful and engaging. By the time she left the table her confidence in her own ability to be social had risen several notches, buoyed by the pair's easy friendliness.

  Her confidence carried her through the better part of the morning, through a visit to Burg Square, with its architecture crossing the centuries from Romanesque to Baroque, through the Basilica of the Holy Blood with its dark stone lower chapel, a tour of the canals on one of the tourist-packed motorboats with a chain-smoking guide who explained everything in three languages, and a wander through gift shops in search of postcards.

  She saw no sign of Sebastian, and did not want to admit to herself that she had been looking. Aware that he could be somewhere about, she was conscious of her appearance, standing a little straighter than usual and trying to look graceful while she walked the quaint cobbled streets or stopped to gaze at the swans in a canal. She knew she was being silly, posing for no one, but couldn't stop herself.

  Her feet were getting tired by the time she reached the Beguinage, and her stomach complained that the Nutella had been a long time ago. When she was through here, it would be time for a picnic lunch from the grocery store.

  Her guidebook told her that the Beguinage was a home for Beguines, a lay sisterhood started centuries before, more or less to give single women something to do when all the men got killed off in wars. Eliza stuffed the guidebook back in her pack and walked through the gateway into a quiet parklike setting, surrounded by white houses with black-framed windows, some with walled gardens in front.

  Signs advised visitors to remain silent, and Eliza stepped as softly as she could in her rubber-soled shoes along the graveled path. She felt as she often did in Sister Agnes's presence, as if she needed to be careful to appear proper and respectable. She kept her hands clasped before her and tried to look demure, eyes downcast as she took surreptitious peeks at the sisters' homes, wondering if there was anyone at home to be annoyed by yet another stranger come to gape at her yard.

  Sebastian stood in the covered gateway of the Beguinage, knowing that this would be where he would find her. Maijet Vermeulen had been happy to share Eliza's plans for the day, as she had been acquainted with the St. Germain family for years. The B&B landlady had even felt familiar enough to suggest to Sebastian that it was high time he chased a decent young woman and considered married life.

  The comment had almost been enough to make Sebastian abandon his idea of seeking out Eliza this afternoon, but still there was that lingering sense of something unfinished between them. It had plagued him all night, and plagued him all this morning as he took an early train back to Brussels and bought a new box of chocolates from Patrice. By all rights he should be back at the shop right now with his grandfather, dissecting truffles, but this sense of something incomplete had become an itch under his skin.

  And there she was, his little nun, looking purer than usual and as if the sight of a man would put her into a dead faint. He almost expected one of the Beguinage doors to open and a sister to welcome her home at long last.

  He came up behind her, her head turning as his crunching footsteps approached.

  Her eyes went wide and she stumbled, giving him an excuse to reach out and grab her arm.

  Well, she hadn't fainted dead away, but she looked as if she could. She opened her mouth to speak, and he quickly laid a finger over her lips in a warning to remain silent. He traced the top bow of her lips with his fingertip, once, lightly, then took her hand and placed it in the crook of his arm, holding her close to his side as he led her down the path that cut through the tall trees in the center of the square.

  He felt her hand on his arm gradually relax as they walked, and although when he looked down at her she would not turn to meet his gaze, she was not resisting him. He could feel the pressure of each of her fingers through his lightweight summer jacket, and when they rounded a corner she snuggled her hand more securely into the crook of his arm.

  The breeze rustling through the high tops of the trees and the muted, distant sounds of the town faded from his awareness, all his attention on the quiet presence of the woman at his side, and the minute alterations in pressure of her small hand on his sleeve.

  An eruption of male laughter broke the spell, as a group of Japanese businessmen in gray suits came through the gateway, led by a yellow-suited Japanese woman trying to shush them.

  Sebastian reluctantly took Eliza out of the square, back onto the cobbled, cheerful streets of Bruges, back into the noise. "I had forgotten what a peaceful place that is," he said.

  "What ar
e you doing here?” she asked, and began to pull away. He put his hand over hers and held her where she was, leading her down the sidewalk back toward the center of town.

  "I have not been within those walls since I was a child. My grandmother sometimes brought my brother and sister and I there when we came to visit. I think now she did it to give herself a rest from our noise. We went to Catholic schools, and knew better than to annoy a nun."

  "You didn't answer my question."

  He met her gaze. "Maijet told me where I might find you. I have the afternoon free, and thought you might enjoy having a native Belgian as a guide for a few hours."

  She looked incredulous. "You're here to do a good deed?"

  "And for my own amusement," he said. "It is always entertaining to see one's town through the eyes of an outsider. I believe the Groeninge Museum was next on your itinerary?"

  "Yes, but—" Her stomach interrupted her with a yowling wail.

  He grinned at her. "But you were about to eat your lunch."

  "I don't know why you always appear when I'm hungry," she complained.

  "Ah, but hungry for what?" he asked suggestively, then went on innocently before she could respond. "Mussels? French fries? Dutch pancakes, perhaps? I know a café that does wonderful sea snails."

  "I thought I'd pick something up at the grocery store," she said, her voice saying that even she knew it was not the most exciting of ideas. "And then I thought I'd find a place to sit and people-watch."

  He considered, mind ticking through options. He did not want her to feel as if he had hijacked her. She might feel most comfortable if allowed to stay close to her own plans, at least for now. Hijacking could always come later. "There are possibilities there. Come, I know the right place to make ourselves a picnic."

  This time she did resist, planting her feet on the sidewalk and forcing him to stop unless he intended to drag her.

  "You don't have to do this," she said. "If you feel guilty about yesterday in the restaurant, it's okay."

  He stood in front of her, meeting her eyes, and reached out to raise her chin with the side of his hand. He rubbed the pad of his thumb over her full bottom lip. "Do I need a reason to spend the afternoon with a beautiful young woman?"

  She didn't move for a long moment, as if hypnotized by his touch. Then she blinked, and he saw the confusion on her face, as if she could not understand why he was saying such a thing to her. "I'm not beautiful," she said.

  He gave an internal sigh. Americans. "I think you do not see yourself in the right light, eh?" he said, putting her hand back on his arm and hauling her down the street. "Why do you wear those dresses? A man can see nothing of your figure."

  "So? I don't want men staring at my body."

  "For God's sake, why not?"

  Her free hand gestured wildly in the air. "Because! I don't want it taken as an invitation. I don't want to be seen as just a body walking around, with no mind. I don't want to be leered at."

  "Heh. You think men will look at you in that dress and think, 'There goes a woman to take seriously.' "

  "Well, no. I kind of hope they don't notice me at all."

  "They notice. They just wonder why you wear such a thing."

  She was silent a moment, free hand brushing at her skirts. "It's supposed to be a travel dress. Resists wrinkles, 'can be dressed up or down with accessories,' washes out in a sink. That's what the catalog said. I didn't think it looked that bad."

  He suppressed a smile. "It is not so bad, but I look at you and I think of what a pleasure it would be to see you walk by in something pretty."

  "And tight?" she asked accusingly.

  "Ah, no, not too tight. We must leave something to the imagination."

  "I still don't like the idea of being looked at. Why do men do that?"

  He smiled and gestured to the sky, the medieval buildings, the canal they were passing. "Why look at anything of beauty? It feels good. You would not be ashamed to put a beautiful painting on display; why be ashamed to do the same with yourself?"

  She laughed. "So I am to make myself a feature of the landscape, a work of art, a pretty thing to be stared at?"

  "Some man's day will be a little happier because he had you to look at."

  She laughed again, and this time he was certain it was not a laugh in his favor.

  "You do not agree?" he asked.

  "I don't think your ideas would go over very well with the women back home."

  He made a dismissive sound. "Americans are so uptight. They treat a breast like a temptation sent by the devil."

  "I confess I never thought of my own that way."

  Which, of course, made him look to see what wiles the devil might have wrought upon her chest. "Mmm," he said in appreciation, and saved himself from further harm by arriving in front of the shop he was seeking. "We shall build ourselves a movable feast. You like soft cheeses, yes?"

  "Not the smelly ones with all the mold."

  He made a wounded sound. "For a woman who works with food, I think you are sadly uneducated on how to eat."

  Eliza rolled her eyes. The man was incorrigible. He invited himself along without even awaiting her aye or nay, he criticized her clothing, accused her and her countrymen of being prudes, and now implied that she knew nothing about her field of expertise.

  And yet . . . He seemed, for whatever reason, to be making an effort to be charming, in his own chauvinistic way. She was pretty sure it was due to guilt for almost making her cry yesterday, which seemed rather funny, considering the trouble she had caused him to begin with.

  She wasn’t sorry to be sharing his overbearing company, whatever his motivation. As long as she kept her head on straight, and knew not to take any of his flirting personally, as she had been stupid enough to do yesterday, she could see no harm in spending a few hours with him. A native guide would be nice, especially if he was going to put together lunch for her, and save her from having to eat alone.

  She let herself drift along beside him as he made his purchases, speaking in Flemish to the staff behind the counters. She got distracted by a display of packaged cookies, and then Sebastian appeared beside her, his basket full.

  "You want some of those?" he asked, and then without waiting for an answer, "These are good." He dropped a package in the basket, and moved on.

  She trailed after him, and when they got to the checkout counter she fumbled for the money in the zippered compartment of her day pack.

  "Do not concern yourself," he said, setting his fingertips briefly on her forearm as she dug around.

  "I should pay my share."

  "Please, no. I insist."

  She looked up at him and he smiled, his eyes sincere, and then he had turned away and was paying the checkout girl, joking with her in Flemish as Eliza zipped her bag back up, feeling slightly awkward.

  When they were back out on the sidewalk, Sebastian nudged her with his elbow, looking at her with eyebrows raised until she once again took his arm.

  "The last guy I dated insisted that if an outing were my idea, I should pay," she said.

  "Pay your half?"

  "No, for us both."

  He widened his eyes at her. "You are joking, yes?"

  "I am joking, no.''

  Sebastian made a pained sound. "Maybe I understand why you do not want American men to look at you."

  "I suppose it's only fair, though," she said, trying to keep a straight face. "After all. we women want equal pay for equal work, equal rights and all that. We shouldn't expect doors to be held open for us, when we can open them ourselves. Fair being fair, a woman should send you flowers as often as you send them to her. Would you like that, Sebastian?"

  He shuddered under her hand. "I think not."

  "Some evening she could pay for the opera tickets, pick you up in her car, take you out to dinner, and then over the chocolate mousse she bought you she could take a little black velvet box out of her purse and offer you an engagement ring, promising to provide for you when the
children came."

  He made an exaggerated face of horror, then smiled, tilting his head down to hers, just touching her forehead with his own. "You are teasing me, eh?"

  She smiled innocently. "Perhaps." They walked a bit in silence. "Is there ever a time you let the woman pay? In your personal life, I mean, not business?" Her prom date in high school had expected her to buy her own dinner.

  "No."

  What a lovely answer.

  He led her down a side street, then through a gateway into a tiny garden area walled in by brick buildings. A few young people sat in the sun or on low walls, one of them playing a guitar. He led her to a small arched bridge, which they crossed to a shaded courtyard full of trees. There was a bronze statue in the center, and benches around the edges. Buildings formed three of the walls, the glass windows in one showing a dark display room of antique carriages. The fourth side of the square was a low wall banking a canal, the opposite bank made up of old houses. They were wooden, their foundations beneath the waterline, their small windows made of diamonds of leaded glass.

  The wall was wide enough to sit upon, a tree that grew close by arching green branches down toward the water but allowing dappled sunlight through to warm the cement top. Sebastian set the bag of groceries on the wall; then before Eliza knew what he intended he grasped her above the waist and lifted her up onto the wall herself, leaving her feet dangling a good two feet off the ground.

  She blinked at him. "I could have done that myself."

  "But it is so much more fun this way, don't you think?"

  Yes, actually, she did think. It had been a very long time since a man had touched her in any way.

  She watched him unpack his purchases, then take a Swiss army knife out of his pocket and start cutting open a crusty baguette: James Bond making lunch. Reminding

  herself that Sebastian was, after all, a trained chef, whereas she thought boxed macaroni and cheese was a gourmet delight, she left him to his business, contenting herself with observing him instead of offering to help.

  He caught her watching when he switched to slicing a tomato, and gave her a crooked grin. "Your American boyfriends, did they never make you a sandwich?"