two limes in a bow l. Next, came a trace of garlic, a single piece of rosemary and freshly ground pepper.
The man really can cook – and it looks like he’s actually enjoying it. Where does a transatlantic playboy learn to navigate a kitchen like this?
Michael smiled at her obvious shock. He’d learned at his mother’s knee all the arcane mysteries of stockpot, roux, and foie gras , and was utterly comfortable in the kitchen. Some of his warmest childhoo d memories, in fact, were of his mother’s large, window-lined kitchen filled with sun light and wonderful scents . But Michel shuddered to think what Alena Ro stov Sinclair, nouvelle cuisine virtuoso and sister -in-law to one of the finest chefs in all of France, would have thought of this particular meal.
It certainly didn’t help that part of his mind was on the unknown assailant back at the mansion, and of the shot aimed at one of them. And what about those strange visions that I keep having? Has the stress of all the years of living in the shadows finally caused me to crack?
Cursing when he nearly set his cuff on fire as he wrestled a plate of grilled salmon with lime sauce away from a stove that had definitely seen better days , he tried to pull his mind back to what he was doing . How does the woman manage to cook for herself on this thing?
While these thoughts churned through Michael’s head, Paige sat silently at the end of the table. Chin in hand; she watched his swift, efficient movements, utterly hypnotized and unaware of the tumble of thoughts that crashed behind his eyes.
The fish was perfect. She had purchased the salmon but had been too tired after her trip from the museum to prepare it, so she’d left it here in the fridge for later. And she doubted if her efforts would have come anywhere near the meal that he had prepared.
He seemed at home in her kitchen – they seemed at home together.
Uneasy at the increasingly personal dire ction her thoughts had taken , she poured two glasses of a French vintage, given to her on a recent birthday.
Paige studied the grilled fish, the golden slices of pan-fried French bread, and bananas cooked in brown sugar. “Amazing. It smells wonderful.”
He se t the plates on the table, r aising a brow at Paige’s contribution. “Chateau Climens ’49?” There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have, Ms. O’Neal.”
“ I didn’t. Not with two homes to keep up. It was a gift. I’ ve always thought that red wine made a perfect match to a full flavored meal like this. And rules be damned.”
The crystal glinted in the candlelight as he raised his glass. “Here’s to good wine, and rules be damned.”
In her mind, Paige could clearly see two others sitting as she and Michael sat now. Only there was love in those other people’s eyes – a touching of hands across the table. A bond between them she was likely never to know .
Lifting his fork, Michael noticed she had barely touched the flakey salmon, making a production out of rearranging the food on her plate instead . “So what do you know about this secluded hideaway of yours?”
His question shattered the visions she had been seeing. “Know?” Placing down her for k , she lifted her glass, sipping carefully. “ I don’t know anything. It’s just a perfect place to get my head together. The other house – between parties, business meetings . . . it’s never been as much of a home to me as this place is. That is , until now.” Shoving back her chair, Paige looked about with new eyes. “I always knew that the mansion was connected to Fletcher, but here? ” She shrugged. “ Now if this had been a boat . . . a real sailor’s yacht like the Zaca was . . . that , I could have believed. I suppose that I should have done more research but . . .”
“Go on,” Michael urged as he shoved her plate in front of her.
Picking at her fish, she gestured
The man really can cook – and it looks like he’s actually enjoying it. Where does a transatlantic playboy learn to navigate a kitchen like this?
Michael smiled at her obvious shock. He’d learned at his mother’s knee all the arcane mysteries of stockpot, roux, and foie gras , and was utterly comfortable in the kitchen. Some of his warmest childhoo d memories, in fact, were of his mother’s large, window-lined kitchen filled with sun light and wonderful scents . But Michel shuddered to think what Alena Ro stov Sinclair, nouvelle cuisine virtuoso and sister -in-law to one of the finest chefs in all of France, would have thought of this particular meal.
It certainly didn’t help that part of his mind was on the unknown assailant back at the mansion, and of the shot aimed at one of them. And what about those strange visions that I keep having? Has the stress of all the years of living in the shadows finally caused me to crack?
Cursing when he nearly set his cuff on fire as he wrestled a plate of grilled salmon with lime sauce away from a stove that had definitely seen better days , he tried to pull his mind back to what he was doing . How does the woman manage to cook for herself on this thing?
While these thoughts churned through Michael’s head, Paige sat silently at the end of the table. Chin in hand; she watched his swift, efficient movements, utterly hypnotized and unaware of the tumble of thoughts that crashed behind his eyes.
The fish was perfect. She had purchased the salmon but had been too tired after her trip from the museum to prepare it, so she’d left it here in the fridge for later. And she doubted if her efforts would have come anywhere near the meal that he had prepared.
He seemed at home in her kitchen – they seemed at home together.
Uneasy at the increasingly personal dire ction her thoughts had taken , she poured two glasses of a French vintage, given to her on a recent birthday.
Paige studied the grilled fish, the golden slices of pan-fried French bread, and bananas cooked in brown sugar. “Amazing. It smells wonderful.”
He se t the plates on the table, r aising a brow at Paige’s contribution. “Chateau Climens ’49?” There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have, Ms. O’Neal.”
“ I didn’t. Not with two homes to keep up. It was a gift. I’ ve always thought that red wine made a perfect match to a full flavored meal like this. And rules be damned.”
The crystal glinted in the candlelight as he raised his glass. “Here’s to good wine, and rules be damned.”
In her mind, Paige could clearly see two others sitting as she and Michael sat now. Only there was love in those other people’s eyes – a touching of hands across the table. A bond between them she was likely never to know .
Lifting his fork, Michael noticed she had barely touched the flakey salmon, making a production out of rearranging the food on her plate instead . “So what do you know about this secluded hideaway of yours?”
His question shattered the visions she had been seeing. “Know?” Placing down her for k , she lifted her glass, sipping carefully. “ I don’t know anything. It’s just a perfect place to get my head together. The other house – between parties, business meetings . . . it’s never been as much of a home to me as this place is. That is , until now.” Shoving back her chair, Paige looked about with new eyes. “I always knew that the mansion was connected to Fletcher, but here? ” She shrugged. “ Now if this had been a boat . . . a real sailor’s yacht like the Zaca was . . . that , I could have believed. I suppose that I should have done more research but . . .”
“Go on,” Michael urged as he shoved her plate in front of her.
Picking at her fish, she gestured
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