Burnt Offerings - Laurell K. Hamilton [23]
He stopped talking and looked at me, gazed at me from inches away with those extraordinary eyes. “I have been explaining my menu choices to you. Have you heard any of it?”
I shook my head. “Sorry.”
He laughed, and it hovered over my skin like his breath, warm and sliding over my body. It was a vampire trick but low on the scale, and had become public foreplay for us. In private we did other things.
He whispered against my cheek. “No apologies, ma petite. You know it pleases me that you find me…intoxicating.”
He laughed again, and I pushed him away. “Go sit on your side of the table. You’ve been here long enough to know what you want.”
He moved his chair dutifully back to his place setting. “I have what I want, ma petite.”
I had to look down and not meet his eyes. Heat crept up my neck into my face, and I couldn’t stop it.
“If you mean what do I want for dinner, that is a different question,” he said.
“You are a pain in the ass,” I said.
“And so many other places,” he said.
I didn’t think I could blush more. I was wrong. “Stop it.”
“I love the fact that I can make you blush. It is charming.”
The tone in his voice made me smile in spite of myself. “This is not a dress to be charming in. I was trying for sexy and sophisticated.”
“Can you not be charming as well as sexy and sophisticated? Is there some rule about being all three?”
“Slick, very slick,” I said.
He widened his eyes, trying for innocent and failing. He was many things, but innocent wasn’t one of them.
“Now, let’s start negotiating on dinner,” I said.
“You make it sound like a chore.”
I sighed. “Before you came along, I thought food was something you ate so you wouldn’t die. I will never be as enamored of food as you are. It’s almost a fetish with you.”
“Hardly a fetish, ma petite.”
“A hobby, then.”
He nodded. “Perhaps.”
“So just tell me what you like on the menu, and we’ll negotiate.”
“All that is required is that you taste what is ordered. You do not have to eat it.”
“No, no more of this tasting shit. I’ve gained weight. I never gain weight.”
“You have gained four pounds, so I am told. Though I have searched diligently for this phantom four pounds and cannot find them. It brings your weight up to a grand total of one hundred and ten pounds, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Oh, ma petite, you are growing gargantuan.”
I looked at him, and it was not a friendly look. “Never tease a woman about her weight, Jean-Claude. At least not an American twentieth-century one.”
He spread his hands wide. “My deepest apologies.”
“When you apologize, try not to smile at the same time. It ruins the effect,” I said.
His smile widened until a hint of fang peeked out. “I will try to remember that for the future.”
The waiter returned with my drinks. “Would you like to order, or do you need a few minutes?”
Jean-Claude looked at me.
“A few minutes.”
The negotiation began.
Twenty minutes later I needed a refill on my Coke, and we knew what we wanted. The waiter returned, pen poised, hopeful.
I’d won on the appetizer, so we weren’t having one. I’d given up the salad, and let him have the soup. Potato-leek soup, hey, it wasn’t a hardship. We both wanted the steak.
“The petite cut,” I told the waiter.
“How would you like that prepared?”
“Half well-done, half rare.”
The waiter blinked at me. “Excuse me, madam?”
“It’s an eight-ounce cut, right?”
He nodded.
“Cut it in half, and cook four ounces of it well-done, and four ounces of it rare.”
He frowned at me. “I don’t think we can do that.”
“At these prices you should bring the cow out and have a ritual sacrifice at the table. Just do it.” I handed him the menu. He took it.
Still frowning, he turned to Jean-Claude. “And you, sir?”
Jean-Claude gave a small smile. “I will not be ordering food tonight.”
“Would you like wine with dinner, then, sir?”
He never missed a beat. “I do not drink—wine.”
I coughed Coke all over the tablecloth. The waiter did everything but give me the Heimlich. Jean-Claude laughed until tears trailed from the corners of his eyes. You couldn’t really tell it