"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 face, 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.
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 nonoffer 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 Marjet around the corner 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?" Marjet asked, coming back to the table.
"Hmm?" Eliza blinked up at Marjet. "Oh, no, this is plenty."
Marjet 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 Marjet's additional advice while she ate the Nutella-covered bread. It was sticky and wonderfully chocolaty, and she lost track of what Marjet 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. Marjet 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-and-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 are 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. "Marjet 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 there, 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.
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