She tried. She really tried. But she felt it coming, and she couldn't stop it. She giggled.
"Not funny, Hawkins." He glared at her.
"I know, I know. But if you could just see your face." She hugged him tighter and gradually felt him relax.
"I guess there're worse things to be famous for than the Eiffel Tower."
"Hmm. You didn't keep those phone numbers, did you?"
He raised one eyebrow.
"We'd better get married fast before hordes of women start camping out on your porch."
"Works for me." He leaned over and nuzzled her neck.
"Wedding. Something small and intimate. Or…" She cast him a playful glance. "Maybe I'll have me an authentic Southern Gone With the Wind wedding. What do you think?"
He rose, pulled her to her feet, then led her toward his bedroom.
"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn."
Eliza's Gateau
By
Lisa Cach
To Marci
Chapter One
He could not help noticing the nun.
Well, maybe not a nun. A novitiate, perhaps, but a pity either way. A young woman with such potential should not be wearing shapeless black dresses and sensible, rubber-soled shoes.
Sebastian turned the page of his newspaper, snapped the sheets into obedience, and watched the little nun over the top edge of the paper as she stood staring up at the changing timetable of the Brussels train station. With her head tilted back, her dark golden hair brushed her spine just about where the band of her bra should be.
Was it made of sensible white cotton? Flesh-toned nylon? Or perhaps it was a creamy lace and silk fantasy, to sustain her through those barren days at the convent, scrubbing floors and contemplating brown bread for supper.
She moved, and he saw the backpack that had been hidden behind her skirts. She bent to grasp the straps, then hefted the bag up onto her shoulders and moved off toward the ladies' rest rooms, bent slightly under her burden, sidestepping those in her path, bobbing her head in apology for blocking another's way.
No European woman would move in that way through a train station, so self-conscious, and yet so unaware of her own sex appeal and the interest she might arouse in the eyes of the men watching. She was neither nun nor novitiate. No, he could play that game no longer. She was most likely that other form of repressed female, rarely spotted alone outside her native habitat: the American.
Eliza dragged her backpack down the aisle of the train, searching for an empty pair of seats. She could have kicked herself for not buying a reserved seat, but she had been so flustered at the ticket counter she had forgotten to ask. Well, she'd forgotten until she actually had the ticket in her hand, and then hadn't had the nerve to ask for it to be changed.
An overweight, middle-aged man suddenly stepped backward into the aisle, bumping into her, giving her a strong whiff of cologne and alcohol. He grunted, said something harsh-sounding in another language, and glared at her.
"Oh, sorry!" Eliza said. "Sorry, uh, excusez-moi, pardon." He continued to glare at her a moment longer from his dark, red face, then finished stuffing his bag up onto the shelf above his seat, his breath heavy in his hairy nostrils.
He sat down at last with a great deal of shifting about, like a hippo settling into mud, and she moved past, mentally shuddering. She chalked up another point against Melanie, the supposed best friend and travel companion who had abandoned her two days ago in Paris. Eliza took perverse pleasure in blaming her friend for everything unpleasant that had occurred since Melanie flew home: her headache, her howlingly empty stomach, the unreserved train ticket, and the fact that her underwear had still been damp from washing when she put it on this morning.
She dragged her bag through several more cars until, finally, she spotted a foursome of empty seats, two facing two. A haphazardly folded newspaper leaned against the back of one of the seats, apparently discarded by its former owner.
Eliza set her backpack down, then gratefully dropped into a window seat and closed her eyes, leaning her head back against the rest. She pulled the black headband out of her hair and rubbed the places where its toothed plastic pressure had begun to feel like a shark gnawing her skull.
A minute later a small jolt made her open her eyes, and a glance out the window confirmed that the train was pulling out of the station, on its way to Bruges , in northwestern Belgium. She smiled at the empty seats across from her, guaranteed to remain empty now that no more passengers would be boarding. She slipped off her shoes and stretched her legs out across the intervening space, using the edge of the opposite seat to massage her soles.
Things were looking up a bit, she admitted. Her panties were finally dry, and she was fairly certain she was on the right train. Now if only she had something to eat. A cheese sandwich and tomato soup, that would be perfect. Stir-fried vegetables and a big bowl of rice. Waffles with strawberries. Her stomach whined at the thought.
Between the motions of the train and her feet, the newspaper propped against the back of the seat opposite began to slide slowly to one side, revealing the corner of a white and gold cardboard box.
Eliza dropped her feet to the floor and sat up straight, not quite believing her eyes. The box, the corner that she could see, had a distinctive shape to it: it looked like it belonged to a ballotin. She had seen them in the windows of shops in the Brussels train station. They were deep boxes, with flaps on top, often tied closed with a satin ribbon.
A ballotin was a box for chocolates.
It was as if someone had heard her thoughts and left that box there for her, knowing she would be boarding this train half-starved. Her stomach yowled. A sense of destiny slowly overwhelmed her, telling her that this was meant to be. She leaned forward and pulled away the newspaper.
The box was tied shut with a royal blue ribbon, and written across the front in gold script was the name Patrice, and beneath that, in small, elegant letters, chocolatier. It looked like an expensive box, and one— dare she hope it?— that had not been opened and its contents consumed. She watched the box a moment longer, as if waiting for it to speak and offer itself in sacrifice, then reached over and picked it up.
It was heavy with promise.
Reality briefly intruded in her mind, shouldering aside the hunger. Surely no one would abandon such a treasure on a train? Eliza half stood, peering over the tops of the seats at the rest of the train car. There was no one moving about, no one who looked as if her heart were breaking for loss of chocolates.
She sat down again, the box heavy in her lap, and considered the royal blue bow with its satin sheen, and the gold paper seal beneath it, unbroken. Her stomach gave a loud, gurgling groan, twisting itself in agony, and suddenly she heard the voice of Sister Agnes of the Immaculate Conception, her supervisor atSacred Heart Hospital , chiding her in her head.
"Nourishment, Eliza. The body's first need is nourishment. One does not nourish the body with chips, cupcakes, and candy bars."
But I don't have anything healthy to eat, Eliza silently protested. And I missed both breakfast and lunch. It's not good to fast.
"You have an energy bar in your bag," Sister Agnes said. "A dietician should know better than to even consider a box of chocolates as her first meal of the day."
The energy bar tastes like gummy sawdust.
"Eliza! Take your hand off that ribbon!"
Sugars and fats are a part of the food pyramid.
"A very small part, Eliza. Eliza!"
Eliza shut out the chastising voice as she pulled loose the ribbon, broke through the seal, and lifted the flaps, the first, luscious scent of chocolate wafting up to entrance her. "O brave new world," she whispered in awe, feeling like Miranda in The Tempest at her first sight of men, "that has such chocolates in't."
Her mouth watered as her shaking hand reached into the box and lifted out a piece of dark chocolate the shape of a marquise-cut diamond, each facet a glossy plane of bittersweet. She spared one last glance a
t the aisle, and for the approach of an irate owner, but no one appeared.
"Thank you," she said to whatever angelic forces had provided the box, and bit down.
It was like no chocolate she had ever tasted: rich, smooth, the flavor filling her mouth as the chocolate dissolved, melting cleanly away. The inside of the chocolate gem was softer, trufflelike filling, with a faint taste of some unidentifiable spice to it.
She opened her eyes, surprised that she had closed them, surprised as well that she had already eaten the second half of the gem. Her stomach, having finally been set free of its fast, cried out for more.
A milk-chocolate piece came next, its center flavored with something alcoholic. There was another dark piece, whose flavor reminded her vaguely of tea. Three, four, five more pieces went down, each one making her senses cry out in joy. One of white chocolate, with a candied violet pressed gently to its top. She almost hated to eat it, it was so pretty. Down it went.
She picked out another of dark chocolate, and this time when she bit down was surprised by a liquid center. Kirsch dribbled onto her chin and over her hand, and she quickly shoved the rest of the piece into her mouth, filling her cheeks with brandied cherry and chocolate.
This was nothing like Grandma's chocolate-covered cherries. This one had the bite of real alcohol, the fumes filling her throat and nose, making her eyes water. She gave a little huffing cough and tried to chew, holding her sticky hand away from her dress.
"Non!" a deep, angry male voice said.
Eliza jerked her head toward the aisle and the furious man standing there. "Aah!" she cried around her mouthful, and then she felt a piece of cherry lodge in her throat. She slapped her sticky hand over her mouth as she started to cough, bending forward over the box, crunching it in her lap as she faced the floor, hacking, her face beginning to flame, a sweat of horror breaking out over her skin as he angrily scolded her in French, too quickly for her to understand.
"You Americans," he said at last, switching to English. "You are American? Yes?"
She felt him tug on the box, squished between her torso and her thighs. Oh Lord, oh, good God, this was not happening. She should have listened to Sister Agnes. Her back shook as she continued to cough, bits of chocolate hitting her palm.
She could feel the man looming over her. He had the looks of James Bond, dark-haired, beautifully dressed. She heaved again, and the bit of cherry finally came loose.
She felt another tug on the box, and as she sat up the man pulled the crushed ballotin off her lap. She wiped at her mouth with shaking fingertips, and slanted a look up at him.
He stood with the box in his hands, peering into it, his face a mask of disbelief.
"You ate all but three? All but three?" he said in perfect, lightly accented English. "I was not gone more than ten minutes. How did you even have time?" His unbelieving gaze went from the decimated remains to her face.
Definitely James Bond, and with deep, sapphire blue eyes. Her stomach sank through her gut. They had been evil forces that left those chocolates on the seat before her, evil! Angels had nothing to do with it.
She hunched her shoulders and gave a pained, apologetic grimace of a smile. "I was hungry," she said. "I thought someone had forgotten them." She wanted to crawl under her seat and curl into a ball. She wanted to throw up.
"I should have thought it obvious this seat was occupied. Or did you think someone had forgotten his coat and bag, as well?"
Eliza craned her neck to the side and looked up to where he pointed, and saw on the shelf above the possessions of which he spoke. Her stomach dropped another six inches. "Oh. I didn't see them," she said, feeling like an idiot. She looked at the cardboard tray full of food that he had set on his seat. "There's a café car?"
He rolled his eyes. "Now she becomes a detective."
"I didn't know there was food on the train."
He exhaled in annoyance, glared at her, then fished around in a pocket and pulled out a snowy white handkerchief. "Clean yourself up." When she didn't respond he jiggled the hankie in front of her face, looking half away, as if he couldn't bear the sight of her.
She didn't want to take it, but there seemed no choice. "Thank you," she murmured. Her face must be smeared with chocolate, and he was treating her like a messy child. How much worse could this get? Her fingers stuck to the cotton, leaving pink and brown smudges on the pristine surface.
She watched as he moved in front of her and sat down in the seat opposite; then she ducked her head, turning to her backpack and fiddling with zippers and pockets until she found her stash of individually packaged towelettes. She used one to clean the last of the stickiness from her hands, then dared a longer look at the man.
He was carefully retying the bow on his deflated box, but when he saw her watching him his lips tightened. With a fingertip he brushed at an imaginary speck beside his mouth.
Eliza ducked her head again and wiped furiously at her lips.
When she had thoroughly cleaned off any last trace of chocolate, lipstick, or foundation within two inches of her mouth she gathered her courage and looked him in the eye. She took a deep breath, and said what she had to. "I'm terribly sorry I ate your chocolates. I will gladly reimburse you for them, or buy you a new box, if you would prefer, once we reach Bruges."
Sebastian studied the disarranged, shamefaced little nun, and knew he could not tell her that it had been that box of chocolates in particular that had been important, and that it would take a return trip to Brussels to replace it. "Do not concern yourself," he said instead, trying to suppress his annoyance.
"Isn't there some way I can repay you?" she asked.
"Please, think no more of it."
"I'll wash and return you hankie, if you tell me where to send it."
"Keep it," he said brusquely. "Please," he added, when he saw that she was sinking further into her seat. "You will repay me best by speaking no more of it. It was, after all, just a box of chocolates." He tried not to wince.
She dropped her eyes and stared at the crumpled handkerchief in her hand for some moments before turning her face to the window. He doubted she was seeing the fields and trees go by. More likely she was mentally whipping herself for eating his chocolates.
Her turned head did give him a chance to look her over more thoroughly. Her profile was delicate, her features gentle, like those of a Madonna. Perhaps that had been the reason for his nun fantasies of her, even more than the clothes. Her eyes were a pale leaf-green, almost blue, almost gray, limpid with naïveté.
Her thick hair, on the other hand, was disheveled, as if she had been running her fingers through it. When he had first come upon her devouring his chocolates, it had been like seeing a lion at the kill, face streaked with bloody gore, ravaging its helpless prey. Most un-Madonna-like.
But those dreadful clothes she wore! They were shapeless, hideous, concealing all but faint hints of what lay beneath. They spoke of a woman either embarrassed by or unconcerned with her own body. Luxuriating in his chocolates had probably been the most sensuous thing she had done in years.
"Are you traveling alone?" he asked suddenly.
She turned her wide eyes on him, suspicion now flitting through the leafy green. "At the moment," she answered.
Her voice was pleasant— soft, despite whatever violent scenarios she was now imagining. She probably thought he intended to follow her off the train and perform unspeakable foreign acts upon her innocent person. "I was a bit surprised, that's all," he explained in an offhand manner. "I see Australian women traveling alone, but not often American. I thought they usually went in pairs, or on tours."
"I was. Part of a pair, that is." Her nose wrinkled.
"Boyfriend?"
"How did you know?" She looked more surprised than she should, and then her face relaxed. "Oh, you mean did I have a boyfriend? No. It was hers that caused the problem." She hesitated, and then went on. "Melanie and I had planned this trip for over a year. We started in London , then went to P
aris. We were there for only two days when Melanie called home and found out that Craig, her boyfriend, had wrecked his motorcycle while riding it drunk. He wasn't hurt, but he lost his license, and Melanie flew home to console him and drive him around. So here I am." She shrugged her shoulders, apparently indifferent, but the tone of her voice had said quite clearly what she thought of Craig, and of Melanie's decision to go home to him.
He couldn't resist prodding her to see a bit more of that irritation flare in her too-innocent face, and to pass on some of his own annoyance. "Well, he is her boyfriend. It's her duty to be by his side in times of trouble," he said. "She should be willing to sacrifice everything for him. This could be the man she spends the rest of her life with, the man who fathers her children."
"Heaven save them if he does!" she cried. "She's known him three months, and already he's moved in with her. He doesn't do any housework, he's filled her garage with a broken big-screen TV and dirt bikes that don't run, and a week before we left he lost his job. What type of father for her children would he make? He hasn't even grown up himself."
Sebastian picked up one of his sandwiches and began to unwrap the plastic. "The love of a good woman can change him."
He heard her indrawn breath, and then when silence followed he looked up from his ham and cheese. She had narrowed her eyes at him.
"You're baiting me, aren't you?" she asked.
He gave her his best charming smile. "Would you like a sandwich? Chips?" He held up the bottle of Perrier. "Water? You must be thirsty after all those chocolates."
Eliza tilted her head to one side, eyeing him narrowly. She was sorely tempted to lean forward and snatch that bottle from his hand. She resisted the impulse, and said instead in a falsely sweet voice, "I have an energy bar in my pack, if you would like it. It's quite nutritious, and contains thirty percent of your recommended daily allowance of fiber. Very good for your bowels."
He gave a shudder of distaste.
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