A waiter materialises as though out of air, and drinks are ordered; a G&T for him and a mojito for me, a pot d’accueil, or a welcome drink. We don’t speak until the waiter withdraws.
‘You look beautiful, Rose. I could’ve watched you all night, standing at the top of the stairs.’
‘I think I almost stayed there,’ I say, brushing off the compliment, ‘the view is just like a peek at the heavens. It’s cooler up here, too.’
‘Too cool? Would you like the fire lit?’ He points to the outdoor hearth that gets very little use, judging by its condition. It’s filled with white stones, the mantel-shelf standing at least my height.
‘No, honestly. I’m fine. It’s kind of nice.’ Nice. Urgh. Shoot me now. Will our conversation be so stilted the whole evening? Given the choice between arguing and playing nice, I’d definitely choose the former. The latter I can do with anyone. ‘What’s the story with the house?’ I tilt my head back at the beautiful building behind us.
‘What do you mean?’ He brings his glass to his lips, his brows suspiciously high.
‘Why are we here? Is the place yours? Does it have a big cellar, and have I been kidnapped?’
He shakes his head, kind of like you do with small children when they do something adorable. ‘The house is mine, for a little while, at least. We are here for privacy and no. That doesn’t mean we’re hiding. As for a cellar, yes. But one with an extensive wine collection. Have you been kidnapped? I wish.’
‘Well, I’m kind of confused.’ And kind of wrong, I decide, as my lady parts decide to take an interest in the conversation.
‘And I am kind of besotted.’ I blush like a debutante with her first dance card at his words. My guess is it won’t be the last blush of the night. ‘But I draw the line at kidnapping.’
In front of us, the sky turns the colour of cotton candy and the sparse clouds like violets, as cocktails turn to our appetiser, and appetiser to entrée, or as they say in France, entrée to plat principal. I suppose it’s kind of a simple meal, though every morsel is served with the greatest of care and is utterly delicious from the peppery salad that I could totally make friends with—wafer-thin slices of radishes and tiny sweet tomatoes in a heavenly vinaigrette—to the main event of steak frites. Steak with fries by any other name, though if you were served portion sizes like this back home, I’m sure there would be complaints. But the fillet is melt-in-the-mouth tender, and the fries such a perfection of crisp and golden that it’s just as well there are less than a dozen on my plate. I think I could eat these until they came out of my ears. But the time we reach the cheese course, I’m coming to realise the reason for the tiny serves.
‘I chose a decent bottle of Beaujolais to pair with the cheese, or should we open the champagne?’ The sky has long since turned to night, a chandelier hanging above us, fiery lanterns dotted around the garden.
‘Are we celebrating?’ Did I mean to purr? I don’t think so, though the cicadas decide to join the chorus. At least, that’s not how this night is supposed to go. It must be the cheese. I do love me some cheese.
‘I think that’s up to you.’
‘I thought I was on the clock.’ His laughter, deep and rich, resounds across the space, so much so that I find myself playing my response back in my head. Nope, sounded correct; on the clock, not on the . . . you know what I mean. ‘What’s so funny?’
A deep breath. A sigh. His gaze falling over me, trailing fire in its wake. ‘Any night spent with you is cause for celebration.’
‘Maybe you’re just trying to get me drunk.’
‘Tempting, but no.’ His eyes, dark and glossy, dance with mischief.
‘I shouldn’t imagine you’ve ever had to get a woman tipsy to persuade her into bed.’
‘I don’t want a woman in my bed. I want you. Not just in my bed but my life.’
I glance around me, wondering how I can change the subject, wondering if I really want to when he takes pity on me, changing the subject as the waiter appears with champagne on a silver tray accompanied by two tall flutes. It’s like he read my mind. With a murmured thanks, Remy takes the bottle, the man drifting into the night like a ghost.
‘Have you visited the casino yet?’
‘Not yet,’ I answer, sure he means the Casino de Monte-Carlo, an icon of Monaco. He presses a napkin to the cork before beginning to twist the bottle. The cork releases with a decadent hiss.
‘You’ve done that before.’
‘Once or twice.’ The ends of his hair turn the colour of newly minted pennies as reaches across the table, splashing the effervescent bubbles into a glass. ‘I have a few other tricks I can show you sometime.’