White Moon Black Sea by Roberta Latow Page B

hangover, tease the palate, and feed the soul. That’s French onion soup for me.” She selected a piece of hard, crusty bread covered with sweet butter, the traditional side dish eaten with the soup, and began munching on it.
    The aircraft’s two stewards placed the steaming soup in front of them, the earthenware dishes burned brown around the edges, the cheese still bubbling from the heat of the oven. The aroma revived memories of so many wonderful mornings with Adam after the nights before.
    Ice-cold champagne, vintage Krug, was poured into hollow-stemmed fluted glasses of crystal so thin that they seemed to be afloat on air.
    The red Ferrari homed in like a well-directed missile through the narrow, deserted streets where dawn was just eclipsing the streetlamps. It pulled up short in front of the shabby façade of a restaurant that glowed with a warm yellow light and the chatter and bustle of patrons. Rashidsnatched two bottles of champagne off the seat next to him and stepped out of the car.
    That was the lady’s first glimpse of him. He was the handsomest man she had ever seen. No, not handsome, beautiful. And the sexiest. Everything about him crackled sex: the way he moved, the way he breathed. She was mesmerized by every little thing about him. His impeccable dress clothes, the shine of his shoes, the silken shimmer of his white scarf and the way it swung with the rhythm of his stride.
    The bell above the door tinkled when he opened it to enter the noisy, smoke-filled room where the aroma of onion soup and escargots clung like a mist to everything and everyone. All the tables were filled. Several people put out a hand to greet him as he passed by them. He stood in the middle of the room and called out, “Carmine,” to the frizzy-haired blonde tart serving behind the bar. She looked up. A smile broke across her face as she caught one of the bottles of champagne in midair. He shouted his order above the din: two dozen snails baked in their shells with butter and garlic. Then he managed to find an empty chair at a table where two workmen were tucking into steaming bowls as if onion soup were an elixir. He snatched three clean glasses off a tray a waiter was carrying and poured champagne from the bottle for himself and the two strangers he had imposed himself on.
    He tilted his chair on its back legs and leaned it against the grimy, pale green wall, relaxed and happy to be in the workmen’s restaurant. Its fame rested on just two things: the snails and the soup. He had been a steady customer there in the dawn hours for years. It was one of the few places in the world where he enjoyed anonymity. Anonymity was the plat du jour as far as Rashid was concerned. The gala and the reverential treatment given to the king and queen and their respective families had included Rashid. It had been flattering and great fun. But he had had enough.
    Sometime during the evening he had made up his mind the moment had come for him to concentrate on his own dynasty. All the chess pieces were in the right place nowfor Rashid Lala Mustapha to checkmate any challenger who tried to block his ambitions.
    The aroma of fresh butter and garlic banished these thoughts as the waiter slapped down in front of him the stainless steel escargot plate, forceps, small double-pronged fork, and half a baguette of warm bread. He ate the first huge, succulent snail, broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the small hollow of the shell now filled with sizzling garlic butter, popped it in his mouth, and washed it down with vintage Bollinger. Then he gave his mouth a satisfied wipe with the back of his hand.
    He was starting on his second dozen when she made her move to his table. He looked up and she was there. He was quite startled by her sudden appearance, actually caught off guard. She was a beauty of great distinction who instantly captivated him with her looks, her height, her slender femininity. She had a symmetrical, exquisite facial structure and