For this?
“Not really,” she whispered.
He took her hand and kissed a knuckle, even that small gesture sending off fireworks in her overly sensitive body.
“Don’t worry. You will be,” he assured in a low voice that felt like knuckles gently rasping her spine.
Chapter Fourteen
Lucien unlocked the back door of Fusion and opened it for Elise to enter.
“Are we picking something up?” Elise asked him as she trailed him down the long hallway past his office a few seconds later.
He glanced back to answer and his gaze remained glued to the sight of her. He’d never seen her lips and cheeks so pink. She was the very image of a stunning, intensely sexually aroused woman. He had to force himself to look ahead before he stumbled over his own feet. He’d seen her slight wince when she’d sat down in the car earlier and had worried the plug was causing her discomfort. By the time he’d pulled out of the parking garage, however, her color had deepened, and he’d recognized her arousal. If her vivid cheeks and lips hadn’t told him, the teasing hint of her erect nipples visible even through the barrier of the fitted jacket would have informed him loud and clear what Elise experienced.
“No, you said you wanted to dine here,” he reminded her quietly as they entered Fusion’s empty, hushed dining room. “I arranged for the kitchen to be opened and a meal to be served just for us.”
“You didn’t call Denise to cook on her day off, did you?” Elise asked, clearly perplexed as she noticed the light on in the distant kitchen.
“No,” Lucien assured, leading her to a secluded private booth he reserved for his own use or for special guests when they requested it. He nodded toward the circular booth. Elise carefully sat and inched toward the middle of the candlelit table, draped with a white cloth.
“Then . . . who is cooking?” she asked when she’d settled and Lucien scooted in next to her.
“I think you’ll approve of the chef. He used to live in Paris. He and his partner, Richard St. Claire, owed me a favor, and they seemed very willing to even things up between us. Ah . . . here is Richard now.”
A very handsome dark-haired man with the slender build and light step of a dancer approached their table carrying a bottle of wine, his fingers twined around the stems of two wineglasses. He set down his burden on the table, smiling broadly. Lucien stood and the two men exchanged a warm greeting in French, shaking hands. Richard took Elise’s hand when Lucien introduced her.
“I hear tonight is a special occasion. So Lucien has finally found someone worthy of him,” Richard said, grinning slyly before he brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Emile and I have said forever that no such creature exists. I will be glad to tell him we were wrong.”
“Emile?” Elise asked, politely bewildered.
“Emile Savaur,” Richard said as he began to uncork the wine, not noticing Elise’s mouth fall open in amazement. “We chose this one out of your private stock to suite the meal, just as you suggested,” Richard told Lucien as the cork slid out of the bottle. “Emile was green with envy over your selection, but he personally chose this for the oysters.” He held up the bottle of muscadet.
“Excellent choice,” Lucien murmured, glancing at Elise as she studied the wine label. “I once met an adorable little girl in Nice,” he said, referring to the fact that he’d handpicked the wine from Bellet Vineyards, near Nice.
Elise gave him a small, knowing smile.
“And please tell Emile that he should take another Bellet wine before he goes tonight,” Lucien said.
Richard glanced sideways as he poured the wine. “You can tell him yourself. Here he is,” Richard said. An older man with gray-streaked hair, a high forehead, and patrician features approached the table and set down an iced platter with a flourish.
“Tomales Bay oysters and mignonette sauce—my mother’s own recipe. I serve it only to family and close friends,” the world-renowned chef said briskly. “And I heard what you said about the wine, and you know you owe us nothing, Lucien. Richard and I would come and cook and serve for you ten times over for all you did in getting us that property in Paris years back. And who is this blooming rose?” Emile said, ignoring Lucien’s outstretched hand and turning to Elise.
“Elise,” she said simply, and Lucien was sure she didn’t want to be recognized as the wild-child, spoiled heiress of Louis Martin. And why should she, he wondered, studying her as Emile took her hand, when she had grown into so much more than that . . . when she was so much more than that stereotype? He’d once been foolish enough to try to squeeze her into that narrow role, but of course Elise could never be pigeonholed.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you for years now,” Elise said, staring up at Emile with an amazed, starry-eyed expression. “I went to your restaurant in Paris several times. Your cuisine took me to a higher state of consciousness.”
Emile beamed at her stark, completely sincere-sounding compliment. “You’re referring to the very restaurant where Lucien found us ideal premises. It was no small favor on his part. That is why Richard and I are here tonight.”
“How is your mother?” Lucien asked Emile quietly as he released Elise’s hand.
“As opinionated as ever. You should hear the way she harangues the cook at her assisted-living facility.”
“And you wonder where you get it,” Richard said smugly.
Emile gave his lover a sly smile. “At your every command, Lucien. Come, Richard, I need some help with the quail.”