Tempted by a Dangerous Man by Cleo Peitsche Page A

think,” Corbin said. “The job is the job, but things not related to that… I think you deserve to know. If you still want to.”
    I didn’t dare look at him, afraid of breaking the spell. “Like what?” I whispered.
    “My wife. If you’d rather not know…”
    “I want to know,” I said quickly.

    ~~~

    Corbin didn’t say anything for several minutes. In the meantime, the cold was settling in, fast. I snuggled under the blanket and wished Corbin were closer.  
    “I knew she was the one the moment I saw her.”
    His words were like a kick in the gut. The one . As in, the only one. Ever.  
    Foolish thoughts, I knew, and certainly ungenerous. The woman was dead, yet I was jealous of her.  
    “We met shortly before I turned eighteen. My father was a diplomat, and because of that we moved every few years. I’d left a trail of friends all over the world, and I couldn’t wait to get to college, be in the same place for a bit. And then I saw her, and I knew that Paris was it.”  
    “Love at first sight.” And it took every ounce of my self-control to keep the bitterness out of my voice.
    “It wasn’t just that she was pretty, though of course she was.” He looked over at me. “Obviously I only date beauties.”
    “Need your eyes checked,” I mumbled. “Continue,” I said louder.
    “Her family lived in the same building that mine did. The first time I saw her, she was in the street in front of the building, on her hands and knees, helping the concierge’s daughter fix her scooter while an officious little man yelled at them about propriety. Because that wasn’t acceptable for a proper young lady in l’Arrondissement de Passy .”
    “The what now?”
    “It’s the neighborhood where we lived. Politicians’ kids, diplomats’ kids. The fellow stood there with his hands on his hips, his upper body bent forward like a hen while he scolded, over and over, ‘ Ça ne se fait pas, ça ne se fait pas.’ Telling her that her behavior was inappropriate. I saw her again the next day. She was with a group of her friends, and I was with two brothers I’d known years earlier, in Suriname. As our groups passed, I noticed that she was surreptitiously trying to adjust her bra, and I said, ‘ Ça ne se fait pas, mademoiselle.’ In the same nasally tone as the man the day before, of course. She started laughing, though all our friends were quite confused.”
    “She was French?”  
    “Yes. Well, a quarter Algerian.”
    No wonder I hadn’t been able to find anything about her. Wrong country. Countries. Hell, wrong continents, wrong languages. I could see her now, though. Probably a tall, small-boned, dark-haired beauty with luminous eyes. Like Audrey Hepburn or that French actress whose name I could never remember. She would have a charming accent and be flawlessly dressed all the time.
    Except when fixing scooters. Or adjusting her bra. Ok, so maybe she sounded human and perfectly likable, but the gnawing worry didn’t want to hear it.  
    “We started dating, and we both knew it wasn’t just a fling. She was a year younger, and when I finished school, I stuck around. Did two years at a technical school while I worked for a chef, a friend of the family who encouraged me to pursue the culinary arts.” He glanced at me. “Everywhere we had lived, I learned the local cuisine. Roger, the family friend, was quite impressed by what he had thought was some uncanny aptitude but was really the result of a childhood spent in kitchens around the world. He used his leverage to get me a job as a sous-chef at one of the top restaurants, which ruffled quite a few feathers. When I had the chance to open my own restaurant in New York—a fresh start—I took it. I was twenty-three then, and Audrey and I had been married for a year.”
    “Why can’t I find anything about you online? Surely there should be something if the restaurant was so popular.”
    “There were a few articles, but I’ve always prized my privacy.