Emily French by Illusion

briskly. As she calmly broke eggs into a bowl, she was pleased the kitchen was a modern one, with a new gas cooker and icebox, even if, somehow, the room seemed smaller when Seth was in it. Certainly there was a sense of unreality in having him sit there, watching her prepare a midnight snack.
    Seth seemed disinclined to small talk, content to sit in silence, regarding her with an enigmatic expression.
    That steady, silent regard began to wield a strange effect on Sophy, making her feel awkward and unsure of herself. Her heart began an erratic thumping, and she felt hot one minute, chilly the next. A long breath escaped her lips, and she felt light-headed. When their gazes collided, she found she could not tear her eyes away from his.
    Seth leaned his elbows on the table. If he didn’t know better he would say his wife’s fascination was oddly innocent and totally genuine. His white teeth glinted, and his eyes crinkled in sardonic amusement.
    “A watched pot may never boil, my dear, but an unwatched omelet will always burn!”
    Cheeks scarlet, Sophy lowered her lashes quickly. She found her husband had an unsettling effect. Disturbing. Making her a stranger to herself. Restless in a way that she didn’t like.
    What she did like was the way Seth tucked into the fluffy omelet, oozing cheese. His Adam’s apple slid up and down as if he savored every mouthful.
    In truth, Seth did. For several years he had been accustomed to camp fare, which, more often than not, consisted of basic army rations subsidized, on occasion, with a scraggy chicken or jackrabbit stew. The cook he employed had neither the expertise nor the desire to embark on any recipe more exciting than boiled meat and potatoes.
    “I must commend you on your cooking, Sophy. That was delicious.” He scraped the last morsel off his plate.
    “You ought to taste my coq au vin and my boeuf à la mode.”
    “When did you learn to cook like that?”
    “One of the many indulgences my father gave me was cooking lessons from a French chef.” Sophy knew she was gabbling, her tongue working faster than her brain. “Father paid Marcel’s passage from Paris on condition he stay with us for six months. Marcel stayed for a year, found himself an American bride and now owns a restaurant downtown.”
    Seth arched one dark eyebrow. “You look like a bride yourself, all decked out in white, waiting for her husband.”
    Instant warmth flooded Sophy’s cheeks. Suddenly she was painfully conscious of him, of his maleness, of all that this night could mean. She stood uncertainly. She did not speak, but simply looked at him, her eyes very wide and pleading in her small face. Her lips trembled.
    It seemed an eternity passed before he moved. Slowly, gently, he put his hands on her shoulders, and drew her toward him. The warm masculine smell of wool and leather, and something indefinable, flooded her senses. Sophy’s hands came up and clutched the white pleated folds of his shirt. She saw the brown skin of his throat, and felt the vibrations of his heartbeat through her fingertips.
    Instinctively, Sophy stood still within Seth’s arms. The caressing hands slid across her back, warm through the frail barrier of cotton, his touch as delicate as a butterfly’s, as light as down.
    Her fears and hesitation fled, and she snuggled closer. His arms tightened. Slowly she let her hands, still shy in their response, slide up to his shoulders. Touching him meant merging reality with dreams.
    Seth withdrew from her slightly to stare into her eyes, his own fiercely blue. She quivered in his arms like a fragile, windswept flower. His palms tested the contours of her waist before his hands came back to her shoulders, moving lightly back and forth, over her collarbone, circling lower and lower with each stroke.
    The buttons of her negligee gave way beneath his fingers, and he brushed the fine material aside. Sophy’s thoughts became scattered and unfocused. The tips of his fingers trailed across