Where was a gunman when you needed one? Why couldn't someone come put her out of her misery? Eliza watched Sebastian's eyebrows draw down in annoyance at his grandmother's broad hint. Obviously he did not consider her a likely candidate for the role of Madame St. Germain.
"Half own two restaurants," he corrected his grandmother.
Eliza extended her hand across the counter, trying to keep her face neutral, her eyes on the top button of his shirt. "Eliza Mandish."
His warm hand enveloped her own, his grip firm yet considerate of her smaller bones. He held her hand longer than he should have, making her empty stomach flip like a fish on the ground. Startled, she met his eyes, and was caught there by the intense, searching look he gave her.
It felt like an eternity until he finally broke contact, both of hand and eyes, leaving Eliza feeling thoroughly confused.
"You were looking at breasts?" he asked briskly, as if nothing had passed between them.
"Yes…" she said. "For a friend of mine at home."
It was all too much. Much too much. She couldn't handle this amount of embarrassment. She felt herself dissociating from her body, and watched from a distance as her hands and mouth finished the transaction, all emotion shoved into a tight little box to be opened later, when she could be destroyed by it in private.
She took the first pair of breasts he held up for her, and left the shop five minutes later with a bag full of milk chocolate D-cups. The door closed behind her with a thunk, and she could only pray it signaled the end to a bad, incomprehensible nightmare.
Chapter Three
"That is the type of girl you should be dating," Camille said in French the moment the shop door shut behind Eliza.
"I beg your pardon?" Sebastian said, taken off guard.
"She's a nice girl, a good girl, not like those others you usually choose."
"You've only met one or two of the women I've dated."
"And what does that tell me?" she asked gently. "It tells me that even you know they are not fit to bring home. Your mother and I, we talk. I know it is the party girls that you spend your time with, the ones who will never make a good wife."
"Robert and Lydie both have children— don't tell me you are expecting me to produce great-grandchildren for you now, too."
Philippe spoke from where he was putting away the last of his boxes. "It is the quiet girls who are the wildest in bed. The ones in the short skirts and tight blouses, sometimes they are all show, all surface, there is nothing left to discover. But the quiet ones— let them loose, and…" He finished the statement with a suggestive chuckle. "They are tigers underneath."
Sebastian looked at his grandmother, at her innocent, butter-wouldn't-melt smile, and suddenly had a new, unwelcome perspective on Grandfather's chocolate sculptures.
"Ah, but we should not interfere, Philippe," Camille said, shrugging her shoulders and beginning to close up the shop for the night. "Maybe he is not ready yet to live life as a man, instead of as a little boy who cannot decide which candy to choose. Maybe he is afraid to have a home and a loving woman who is happy to see him at the end of the day. That is why he only chooses the unsuitable ones."
Sebastian blinked at them, taken completely off guard by the attack. What had gotten into his grandparents? His grandmother had always shown an interest in his romantic life, always made hints about when he would marry, but never had she made a direct attack upon his choices. And Grandfather! The old man had always seemed to gain a vicarious thrill from his exploits with beautiful women.
"I have never been afraid of commitment," Sebastian protested, sensing a hint of dishonesty in himself even as he said it. "And I happen to like the women I date. They are intelligent, sophisticated, ambitious women any man would be proud to be seen with."
"Underfed, overgroomed, and coldhearted," his grandfather countered. "I would not want such a one in my bed on a cold winter night."
"I don't live in Norway. I don't need a woman for warmth."
"Don't you?" his grandmother asked, then lifted her hand and gently brushed back the tuft of white hair above one of Philippe's ears.
"For being such a smart boy, he is not so smart about women," Philippe said. He picked up Camille's hand and kissed it.
"It is not working," Sebastian declared to the two. "I'm not going to date that little nun just to please you." They ignored him, communing silently with each other with their eyes. "Aah!" He threw up his hands. "I am going for a walk."
"You would have beautiful children together," he heard his grandmother say as the door closed behind him.
He gritted his teeth and marched up the cobbled street, blind to the other pedestrians. What had they seen in his little nun?
His nun. My god, look what they had done to him already. She was a chocolate-thieving Puritan afraid of her own body, and he had no interest in her whatsoever.
Her face came to mind, scarlet from neck to hairline as Grandfather displayed his erotic art, and a guffaw escaped the control of his bad mood. And why the hell had she been buying chocolate breasts?
For no reason he glanced in the window of the restaurant he was passing, and did a double take. Perhaps it was the distinctive St. Germain blue of the paper bag on the table right against the window that had caught his eye, he did not know, but there sat his nun, a look of disconsolation on her pretty face.
Sebastian glanced at the name of the restaurant and grimaced. A vegetarian pita restaurant. Perhaps she was trying to punish herself. Puritans were big on that.
She noticed him watching her at that moment, and immediately stiffened up, her slouch going ramrod straight. He could not exactly place the look in her eyes, but horror was a definite component. She fiddled with the neckline of her dress, then dropped her hand, glancing nervously away from him, then back again.
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 eclectic: a bit of French, a bit of Italian, some seafood, regional specialties. 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 gâteau 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. Eat Fat All Day?"
"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 does 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. "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-and-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 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."
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