He chuckled and winked at her. Her ire evaporated like the steam from the pot—coiling and disappearing into the air. When he used his wiles on her, he was tantalizing. With that purely happy look on his face he was devastating.
“You do realize that I will have my revenge?” she said calmly, though her heart was racing.
“I could hope for no less.” He flashed her a grin, and she gripped the side of the table to keep from moving closer.
“I dislike you.”
“Always a comfort to know.” He looked at the kitchen clock, a small mantel piece positioned precariously on a shelf. “Right on time for the night.”
She blinked. She supposed it was something of a nightly ritual. “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you, your highness.”
“Your majesty, if you will.”
“But of course, your majesty. Can I bring you anything?”
“A bottle and glass of red wine would be lovely.” He pointed to a cabinet.
Marietta retrieved a bottle and two glasses.
They were on to their second glass of Burgundy wine by the time Gabriel was placing the fillets in a shallow serving dish and sprinkling them with fresh parsley.
The meal was excellent. Moan inducing. The fish melted in her mouth, the sauce just the perfect balance for letting the flavor come through and hinting at something further, something deeper—teasing her to take one bite and then another.
She paused in between bites and took a sip of wine. Gabriel lifted a brow, though she read the pleasure in his eyes and it pleased her in return. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“I learned from one of the best French chefs that upper class money can buy.”
That hadn’t been what she expected him to say. “You hired a chef to teach you how to cook?”
“I thought you knew better, Marietta. I am purely merchant class, no matter my wealth.” He lifted his glass and watched her over the rim.
“Some noblewoman purchased a chef for you to learn?”
She immediately knew it was the wrong thing to say, even with a teasing tone of voice, as she watched his fingers tighten around the stem.
His smile was slow and sensual, and though it did funny things to her stomach like always, his eyes were emerald hard. “Of course. Isn’t that what would make sense, after all? Very perceptive of you, Marietta.”
And unlike his earlier teasing compliment, this one held contempt.
“I meant only to tease you.” She looked at her plate, not wanting to see the hard look and mocking, sensual smile. “I suppose it is getting more and more apparent why I am headed firmly for the shelf.” She tried to laugh, but it came out forced.
Her thought had been an easy assumption to make, what with his obvious ease in gaining favor from women and his tricks to manipulate them. But the language in his eyes—it always said differently, and she had chosen to discount it in lieu of being witty.
The silence stayed unbroken in the kitchen for twenty ticks of the mantel clock.
“I’ve always liked the kitchens.” His voice was more reserved, and she already missed the extra note of affection that he had begun to use with her. “They are warm and hidden. Owners and guests rarely enter them. A chef took me under his wing when I used to run about under foot. Put me to work.”
She bit her lip as he continued.
“It was a good place for me. I thought about becoming a chef, but events led to other things.”
“What types of other things?”
“This and that. Favors exchanged. New favors to use.” His gaze washed over her. His voice warmer. “I do believe I won our bet. Unfortunately for you, you did not specify the terms.” The look in his eyes made her butterflies move in an abstracted pattern.
“The loser cleans the dishes, of course,” she said lightly, pushing the butterflies down.
He raised a brow, heat still sparking from his eyes beneath. “I will make sure to set the terms myself next time, but this once I’ll let you off easily.”
