Sitting beside Emma at the table, Alex watched as Zoë brought in a tray of white porcelain spoons. She set one in front of him. It contained a small, perfectly seared scallop nestled into a little dab of something green.
“It’s a scallop and fried pancetta on artichoke puree,” Zoë said, smiling down at him. “Eat it all in one bite.”
Alex took it into his mouth. The salty pancetta crackled against the sweet scallop, the smoky bite of black pepper warming the smooth artichoke. He heard a few hums of delight around the table.
Zoë lingered beside Alex, her lashes lowering as she watched his reaction. “Do you like it?” she asked.
It was the best thing he had ever tasted. “Are there more? Because I could skip the rest of dinner and just have these.”
Zoë shook her head with a grin, reaching to collect the empty spoon. “Amuse-bouche,” she told him, and went to the kitchen to bring out the next course.
“This is so much fun,” Phyllis exclaimed, swaying a little in her seat as Benny Goodman’s “Sing Sing Sing” began. She held up the wine bottle invitingly. “Alex, would you like some?”
“No, thanks,” Alex said.
“Abstinence makes the heart grow fonder,” Emma murmured, and patted his shoulder.
Somehow James had heard from across the table. “Mother, you’ve got the saying wrong.”
“Actually,” Alex said, smiling down at Emma, “she got it exactly right.”
The next course was a small plate of fiddleheads, tightly coiled fronds of young ferns. After being blanched in hot water until they had turned a brilliant green, the fiddleheads had been tossed in a warm vinaigrette of browned butter, fresh lemon, and sea salt. Toasted walnuts were sprinkled on top, along with snowy flakes of fresh Parmesan cheese. The guests exclaimed over the salad, tongues rolling the flavors inside their cheeks. Phyllis and Justine giggled together at their own efforts to scrape every last drop from the salad plates. Zoë’s gaze often touched on Alex, as if she savored his obvious pleasure in the food.
Only James seemed unaffected. Midway through the dish, he set down his fork, looking disgruntled. He lifted a glass of red wine to his mouth and drank a deep swallow.
“You’re not going to finish your salad?” Phyllis asked incredulously.
“I don’t care for it,” he said.
“I’ll help you, then.” Phyllis reached over and began to spear his remaining fiddleheads enthusiastically.
Zoë, who had just begun on her own salad, looked at her father with concern. “Can I get you something else, Dad? A dish of field greens?”
He shook his head, looking like an airport traveler waiting for his boarding pass number to be called.
Billie Holiday’s ebullient rendition of “I’m Gonna Lock My Heart” danced across the dining table. Soon Justine and Zoë brought out individual bowls of mussels, their abundant steam perfumed with white wine, saffron, butter, parsley. The guests picked up the dark, gleaming shells with their fingers, and used tiny forks to spear the sweet tidbits inside. Empty bowls were set on the table for the discarded shells.
“My God, Zoë,” Justine exclaimed after her first taste of the mussels. “This sauce. I could just drink it.”
A relaxed and jovial mood spread through the room, accompanied by the busy clacking of shells. It was a dish that required activity, involvement, conversation. The broth was indecently good, a savory elixir that washed exquisite, truffly sensation through his mouth. Alex was about to ask for a spoon, having decided there was no way in hell he was giving back his bowl until he’d consumed every drop. But homemade French rolls were being passed around, crisp on the outside, fine textured and chewy on the inside. The diners tore the bread with their fingers and used the pieces to sop up the rich liquid.
The discussion turned to the half-day whale-watching trip that Phyllis and James had arranged to take the next morning, and an alpaca farm that Phyllis wanted to visit.
“Have you ever treated an alpaca?” Zoë asked Phyllis.
“No, most of my patients are dogs, cats, and horses.” Phyllis smiled reminiscently as she added, “Once I diagnosed a guinea pig with a sinus infection.”
“What’s your weirdest case ever?” Justine asked.
Phyllis grinned. “That’s a tough one. I’ve seen a lot of weirdness. But not long ago a man and a woman brought in their dog, who’d been having stomach problems. The X-rays showed a mysterious obstruction, which I removed with an endoscopic camera. It turned out to be a pair of red lace panties, which I put in a plastic bag and gave to the woman.”
“How embarrassing,” Emma exclaimed.
“It gets worse,” Phyllis said. “The woman took one look at the panties, clocked the man with her purse, and left the office in a fury. Because the underwear didn’t belong to her. And the man was left to pay the bill for a dog who had just outed him as a cheater.”
The story was greeted with raucous laughter.
Glasses were refilled and little fingerbowls filled with water and rose petals were brought out. They rinsed their fingers and dried them on fresh napkins. A palate-cleansing sorbet was served in frosty lemons that had been hollowed into small cups, the iced puree flecked with lemon zest and mint.
When Zoë and Justine went to the kitchen for the next course, Phyllis exclaimed, “I’ve never had food like this in my life. It’s an experience.”
James frowned. Inexplicably, he had become more dour and subdued with every passing minute. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“For goodness’ sake, James,” Emma said. “She’s right. It is an experience.”
He grumbled beneath his breath and poured more wine into his glass.
Zoë and Justine returned with plates of crisp-skinned quail, brined with salt and honey before it had been roasted in the oven. The quail was accompanied by quenelles, or small delicate dumplings, made with minced chanterelle mushrooms and a sweet, nutlike kiss of hyacinth.
Alex had eaten quail before, but not like this, enlaced with a pungent, toasted, deeply rich flavor. Conversation turned languid, faces flushed, eyes blinked slowly as repletion settled over the room. Coffee and handmade chocolate truffles were served, followed by pots-de-crème, vanilla and egg creams and honey baked in a water bath. The luscious emulsion dissolved in the mouth and slid gently down the throat, coating the taste buds in rapture.
James Hoffman alone had been silent amid the exclamations of the group. Alex couldn’t fathom what was wrong with the man. He had to be ill, there was no other possible reason why he had eaten so little.
Apparently reaching the same conclusion, Phyllis asked James in concern, “Are you okay? You hardly touched your food all through dinner.”
He looked away from her, focusing his gaze on the pot-de-crème in front of him, blotchy color appearing on his cheeks. “My dinner was inedible. It was bitter. All of it.” He stood and tossed his napkin to the table, and cast a furious, resentful glance at the stunned faces around him. His gaze settled on Zoë’s blank face. “Maybe you did something to my food,” he said. “If so, your point was made.”
“James,” Phyllis protested, blanching. “I ate from your plate, and your food was exactly like mine. Your taste buds must be off tonight.”
He shook his head and strode from the room. Phyllis hurried after him, pausing to turn back at the doorway and say sincerely to Zoë, “It was magnificent. The best meal of my life.”
Zoë managed a smile. “Thank you.”
Justine shook her head after Phyllis had gone. “Zoë, your dad is crazy. This dinner was amazing.”
“She knows it was,” Emma said, gazing at Zoë.
Zoë looked back at her with resignation. “It was the best I could do,” she said simply. “But that’s never been enough for him.” She stood from the table and gestured for them to stay in their chairs. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to put on another pot of coffee.” She left the library.
Seeing Justine begin to stand, Alex said quietly, “Let me.”
/> She frowned but remained seated as he headed after Zoë. Alex wasn’t entirely certain what he would say to Zoë once he reached her. For the past two hours, he had watched her set plate after plate of magnificent food in front of a father who would never appreciate such offerings. He understood the situation all too well. From his own experiences, Alex knew that parental love was an ideal, not a guarantee. Some parents had nothing to give their children. And some, like James Hoffman, blamed and punished their children for things they’d had nothing to do with.
Zoë was occupied with measuring grounds into the basket of the small coffeemaker. Hearing his footsteps, she turned to face him. She looked expectant, oddly intent, as if she wanted something from him. “I wasn’t surprised,” she said. “I knew what to expect from my father.”
“Then why did you make this dinner for him?”
“It wasn’t for him.”
His eyes widened.
“If you hadn’t agreed to come here tonight,” Zoë continued, “we would have gone to a restaurant. I wanted to cook for you. I planned every course trying to think of what you would enjoy.”
Frustration and bewilderment tangled inside him. He had the sense of being manipulated in the softest possible way, like silken nets being drawn around him. A woman didn’t do these things purely for the sake of kindness or generosity. There had to be something behind it, a motive he would only discover when it was too late.
“Why would you do that for me?” he asked roughly.
“If I were an opera singer, I would have sung you an aria. If I were an artist, I would have painted your portrait. But cooking is what I’m best at.”
He could still taste the flavor of the pot-de-crème, clover and wildflowers and deep amber nectar. The taste bloomed on his tongue and tightened his throat with sweetness, and flowed through him until he could have sworn the honey scent was even rising from his pores. Without meaning to, he reached Zoë in two strides and took her by the arms. The feel of her, voluptuous and silky, sent his blood racing. Emotion and sensation swirled together in a volatile mixture, and all it would take was a single spark to obliterate him. He was so hard, so hungry for her. So tired of trying to keep apart from her.
“Zoë,” he said, “this has to stop. I don’t want you to do things for me. I don’t want you to think about ways to please me. You’ve already ruined me. For the rest of my life, I’ll never be able to look at another woman without wanting her to be you. You’re woven all through me. I can’t even dream without you being there in my head. But I can’t be with you. I hurt people. It’s what I’m best at.”
Her face changed, her mouth rounding in an O of tender dismay. “Alex, no.”
“I’ll hurt you,” he said ruthlessly. “I’ll turn you into someone we both would hate.” The truth came from the deepest part of his soul. You’re nothing. You deserve nothing. You have nothing to give anyone except pain. Knowing that, believing it, was the only way the world made sense.
As Zoë held his gaze, he saw anger gathering on her face. The sight relieved him. It meant she would strike him, reject him. It meant she would be safe.
Her hand came to his cheek. But softly.
Her fingers were gentle against his jaw, her thumb brushing his lower lip as if to erase the razor-edged words. It threw him into hot confusion to realize that her anger wasn’t directed at him. “No,” she murmured, “you’ve twisted it all around. You’re the one who’s been hurt. You’re not trying to protect me. You’re trying to protect yourself.”
He shoved her hand away from him. “It doesn’t matter who the hell I’m trying to protect. The point is, some things are broken too bad to be fixed.”
“Not people.”
“Especially people.”
Seconds passed, sawing deep through the silence.
“If either of us gets hurt,” Zoë said carefully, “it’s still better than never taking a chance.”
“You want to take a chance on something hopeless,” he said in a scornful tone.
She shook her head. “Something hopeful.”
In that moment Alex hated her for what she was trying to do, for making him want to believe her. “Don’t be stupid. Don’t you get what having a relationship with me would do to you?”
“We’re already having the relationship,” she said in exasperation. “We have been for a while.”
Alex seized her, wanting to shake some sense into her. But instead he was gripping her close against his hammering heart, forcing her to stand on her toes. He didn’t kiss her, only held her with his head bent so that he could feel her breath on his face.
“I want you,” she whispered. “And you want me. So take me home and do something about it. Tonight.”
The sound of the kitchen door made him flinch, but he still couldn’t let go of Zoë.
“Oops,” he heard Justine mutter. “Sorry.”
Zoë turned her face toward her cousin. “Justine,” she said, sounding remarkably calm, “you don’t have to drive Emma and me back to the cottage. Alex is going to do it.”
“He is?” Justine asked warily.
Zoë’s warm blue eyes stared up into his. Daring him. Entreating.
All right, then. He had finally reached the point where he didn’t care. He was sick of struggling and needing, and never having. He didn’t give a damn about anything except getting what he wanted.
Alex gave her a single nod.
Against every instinct he possessed.
Twenty
Emma was sleepy and contented on the drive back to Dream Lake, not to mention relieved that Zoë hadn’t been upset by her father’s behavior.
“Of course I wasn’t,” Zoë said with a light laugh. “I know how he is. I’m glad he brought Phyllis, though. I like her.”
“I do, too,” Emma said. A reflective pause. “It must say something good about James, that he can attract a woman like her.”
“Maybe he’s different when he’s away from us,” Zoë said. “Maybe when he’s in Arizona, he’s more positive.”
“I hope so,” Emma said doubtfully.
Alex was quiet, occupied with a fierce inner battle. He knew that he should drop Zoë and Emma off at the cottage and leave at once. He even thought there was a chance he could do that. The odds were seventy–thirty in favor of leaving.
Maybe sixty–forty.
Alex wanted Zoë so badly there was no room left for anything else. He was molten inside, but in the past few minutes his heart had shut down and turned glacier-cold. The difference in temperature, the tension between fire and ice, threatened to crack his chest in a thermal downshock.
The ghost, occupying the backseat next to Emma, was silent. There was no doubt that he’d sensed Alex’s turmoil. He understood something was wrong.
“Alex is coming in for a drink,” Zoë told Emma as they got out of the car.
“Oh, how nice.” Emma linked arms with her granddaughter as they headed to the front door.
“Would you like something, too, Upsie?”
“At this hour? No, no, I’ve had a lovely day, but I’m tired now.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Thank you for driving us, Alex.”
“No problem.”
They went into the house, and Zoë murmured to Alex, “I’ll just be a few minutes. There’s lavender lemonade in the fridge.”
She went into Emma’s room and closed the door.
Lavender lemonade. Alex suspected it would taste like leftover water from a flower vase. But heat was thrumming in his body, turning his skin dry and parching his mouth. He went to the refrigerator, found the pitcher of lemonade, and poured a glass.
It was tart and light, wonderfully cool. He drank deeply, sitting on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. The ghost was nowhere in sight.
A heavy mass of emotion had gathered inside, and he struggled to separate it into identifiable parts. Lust, first and foremost. Anger. Maybe a trace of fear, but it was so mixed up with the anger that he couldn’t be sure. And worse than anyth
ing was a terrible knifing tenderness he’d never felt for anyone in his life.
The women he’d been with in the past, including Darcy, had all been experienced, confident, seasoned. With Zoë it would be different. The familiar terms for sex … nailing, boning, banging … did not apply. She would expect him to be gentle … gentlemanly … God help him, he’d have to figure out how to fake that.
The bedroom door opened and closed quietly. Zoë had slipped off her high heels. She walked toward him in that damned black dress, the gathered fabric hugging every luxurious curve. Alex didn’t move from the bar stool. A tightening feeling spread over him, the lust threatening to annihilate him, and her along with him.
“She’s asleep now,” Zoë whispered, coming to stand in front of him. Her smile was tremulous. He reached out and touched the pure line of her throat, pale as moonglow. His fingertips trailed softly downward to her collarbone. The light touch drew a shiver from deep within her.
He pulled her closer between his spread thighs and gripped one strap of her dress, dragging it down a few inches. Pressing his mouth to the side of her neck, he kissed the smooth skin, working his way down. Gently he bit the fine, firm muscle at the top of her shoulder. A gasp escaped her. He could feel a blush in her, burning its way to the surface. For a moment it was enough just to hold her like this, to savor the female form caught between his thighs, the veil of her hair sliding against his face and neck.
“You know this is a mistake,” he said gruffly, lifting his head.
“I don’t care.”
He sank his hand into her hair and kissed her, opening her mouth with his, searching aggressively with his tongue, then caressing in softer, deeper strokes. She tensed against him, a sound caught in her throat, her hands groping around his shoulders.
He had never known such intense need, more than could be satisfied in ten lifetimes. He wanted to spread her out like a feast, kiss and taste every part of her. Reaching behind her, he found the hidden zipper of the dress, and it gave way with a metallic hiss. His hand slipped inside the shadowed opening, fingers spreading across the satiny warmth of her back. The pleasure of touching her shot through him. His mouth traveled over her throat, and he breathed her name, rubbing the syllables into her skin with his lips and tongue—