He thought somewhat sheepishly of the next phase of this night and the garden just beyond these walls. It wouldn’t do much to disprove the previous thought. “Would you care for a light repast?”
She shot him a quizzical glance. “Here?”
“Follow me.” He brushed past her, his pace a decisive clip as they wound through two small, adjacent rooms before reaching a wide door. He pushed it open and stood aside, allowing Mariana to step past him onto an exterior landing. His inhalation as she passed him was pure instinct. He was unable not to help himself to a breath of her.
Once through the door, she came to a sudden stop and gasped even louder than she had at the sight of the Woolly Mammoth. “Nick,” she began, her voice a halting whisper, “what isthisplace?”
“The Jardin des Plantes.”
Below them twinkled hundreds—two hundred, he recalled approving—of globe candles lining a crushed granite path and hanging from trees and shrubs at varying heights.
“This is more than a light repast.” Golden amber fell on him. “This is magic.”
Nick suppressed a surge of pleasure at her words. The caterer may have gone a bit overboard. All he’d requested were a few courses for a light supper, an open-air tent, a few reclining sofas, and a few candles. Two hundred, to be exact.
It was entirely possible that the caterer had followed his instructions to the letter.
Nick followed Mariana as she descended the short flight of stairs before stepping onto a path that curved through the garden created for both pleasure and research purposes.
Once they reached a table set beneath the dimly lit tent, she asked, “I wasn’t really breaking and entering tonight, was I?”
“No.” He pulled out a chair for her. “The museum and its grounds are ours for the night.”
“This is perhaps the loveliestlight repastI’ve ever encountered.”
The moment Nick took his seat opposite hers, a parade of attendants appeared with a first course of oysters presented with small plates of varied and colorful tidbits of cuisine.
“Are we meant to eat these enchanting creations?” Delight sparked an amber glow in her eyes. “What are they?”
“Amuse-bouche.”
“Amuse-bouche?”
“Mouth amuser.”
“Oh, the French.” A charmed smile quirked her lips. “They simply can’t help themselves, can they?”
“A singleamuse-boucheis typically served at the start of the meal or between courses, but I wasn’t certain of . . .” he trailed off. He didn’t like the pull of this conversation toward the past.
“My tastes? So you had several brought out,” she finished for him. She was one to meet a difficulty head-on. “This garden is too bewitching for the past.”
She brought an oyster to her mouth and tipped it back, allowing it to slip inside her mouth and slide down her throat.
Nick sat, transfixed.
She patted her lips with a napkin and asked, “Did I pass this spy lesson?”
He cleared his throat. “With flying colors.”
She tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “I must confess,” she began. He caught an unexpected glimpse of nerves. “The Woolly Mammoth took my breath away.”
“Was it more massive than you imagined?” The question was out of his mouth before he considered it. One could locate a double entendre within if one looked closely enough. Her case of nerves infected him as he anticipated her response.
“Not thesizeof him”—She hesitated a heartbeat—“The gift of him.”
Nick shifted in his seat. “Well, you mentioned him, and I thought to—”
“Surprise me?”
