Rafe smiled at Nicole. “Henny’s a demanding artist. Do you mind?” It was a rhetorical question, and without waiting, he placed her on the adjacent chair.
The figs were at their peak in August, compellingly sweet and flavorful. Nicole didn’t mind in the least giving her full attention to Henny’s delicious masterpiece arranged on a bed of dressed arugula. Between bites of syrupy figs and blissful sighs, she showered him with compliments until Rafe muttered, “Careful, babe, he’s already conceited enough.”
Henny turned from the stove, where he was searing rib eyes and smiled. “Don’t knock it, Rafe. A woman who likes to eat? When’s the last time you saw that?”
“Okay, you’re great. We agree,” Rafe said in lieu of answering questions about the women he’d known. “How much longer on the steaks?”
Well aware of the reason for Rafe’s topic shift, Henny held up the skillet. “Observe. It’s going in the oven. Relax. Have another drink.” And he slid the pan of steaks along with a bundle of thyme, flamed, blown out, and added to the skillet for flavor into the oven.
Under Henny’s watchful scrutiny, the meat was roasted to a perfect juicy pink. Placing the steaks on toast brushed with olive oil, Henny set a small bowl of fleur de sel, a pepper grinder, and a pot of Dijon mustard between Rafe and Nicole and said with a flourish of his hand, “Enjoy.”
A tame word for the gustatory pleasure of thick, tender, superbly prepared meat. Nicole stopped eating well before Rafe, full from all the previous courses. When Rafe flicked his fork at her steak and lifted his brows, she said, “It’s all yours. I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Non, non, just a taste of chocolate sorbet and one mocha meringue,” Henny murmured, sliding a plate before her.
Nicole looked up, a twinkle in her eyes. “How can I resist?”
“Indeed,” he said with a grin. “A little chocolate always makes the world more livable, ma chou.”
Nicole blushed at the endearment.
And Henny now understood another facet of Nicole’s appeal. She could be sweetly naïve, not to mention devastatingly beautiful and a woman of appetites. All of which had inspired Rafe to jettison his preference for personal privacy.
While Rafe ate his steak and hers, Nicole finished her dessert, just as Henny set a crème brûlée in front of Rafe. “This is Rafe’s favorite—lavender scented.” He smiled at Nicole. “Would you like to try one?”
When she hesitated, Rafe muttered, “Leave her alone, Henny.” Then shooting his friend a don’t-fuck-with-me look, he picked Nicole up and set her back on his lap.
Understanding Rafe’s weighted look, Henny immediately raised his arms. “I’m not interested in pistols at dawn. Look, I’m sitting down,” he said, his gaze amused. Reclaiming his chair, he lounged back and watched, fascinated, as Rafe alternately fed crème brûlée to Nicole, then himself, in what only could be characterized as explicit sexual foreplay. Turning to Basil, Henny murmured drolly, “What do you think? A spring wedding for our lovebirds?”
Basil smiled. “Sure Rafe can wait that long? I’m thinking next week.”
“Shut the fuck up, you two.” Rafe flashed them a mocking grin. “I’ve never felt so good. Tell them, baby. We’re living the dream.”
“It’s madness,” Nicole said, equally blithe. “But irresistible. Like chocolate and catching a prime wave.”
Henny exploded in a booming laugh, Basil raised his cognac in salute, and Rafe pushed the empty bowl aside and said without a qualm, “Am I lucky or what?”
Both men understood that they were in the presence of a bona fide miracle. Since their precocious youths, Rafe’s interest in women had always been brief and supremely casual—as in names were not a requirement.
Rising from his chair, Henny spread his arms wide. “This momentous occasion calls for vintage champagne.”
Rafe didn’t need an interpreter. “I agree. The ’92.”
“Coming up,” Henny said, moving toward the wine cooler. But he’d no more than opened the nineteenth-century champagne from the Contini family vineyard when Rafe’s phone rang.
Taking his phone from his pocket, Rafe glanced at the caller ID and hit the Answer bar.
“Enjoy your holiday.”
“Thanks, Aleix.” Sliding his phone back in his pocket, he looked at Nicole. “Did you get enough to eat?” His voice was ultra soft, his smile, easy, relaxed.
She nodded.
“Ready to go?”
How could he speak so quietly when lust was lighting up her brain and her speech synapses had jammed to a stop like a LA freeway at rush hour?