centered. I’ll need a few things, so you can drive me to the market.”
“I can?”
“Yes, you can. I’ll get my purse. And since I now have bellinis on the brain, we’ll stop by the liquor store and pick up some champagne.”
“You want champagne,” he said after a beat.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Anything else on our list of errands?”
She only smiled. “You can bet I’m getting a pair of rubber gloves. I’ll explain on the way,” she said.
SHE BROWSED, STUDIED, EXAMINED THE OFFERINGS in produce. She selected tomatoes with the care and deliberation he imagined a woman might use when selecting an important piece of jewelry. In the brightly lit market with its mind-melting Muzak and red dot specials, she looked like some fairy queen. Titania, maybe, he decided. Titania had been no pushover either.
He’d expected to be irritated, or at least impatient with the household task of food shopping, but she was fascinating to watch. She had a fluid way of moving, and a look in her eyes that said she noticed everything. He wondered how many people could be terrorized by a demon, then coolly stroll behind a grocery store shopping cart.
He had to admire that.
She spent a full fifteen minutes over poultry, examining, rejecting chickens until she found one that somehow met her standards.
“We’re having chicken? All this for chicken?”
“Not just chicken.” She tossed back her hair, gave him that sidelong smile of hers. “It’s a roasted chicken made with wine, sage, garlic, balsamic—and so on. You’ll weep with joy at every bite.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your tastebuds will. Your travels have probably taken you to New York a time or two over the years.”
“Sure.”
“Ever dined at Piquant?”
“Fancy French place, Upper West.”
“Yes, and a New York institution. The chef there was my first serious lover. He was older, French, absolutely perfect for the first serious lover of a woman of twenty.” That smile turned knowing, and just a little sultry. “He taught me quite a bit—about cooking.”
“How much older?”
“Considerably. He had a daughter my age. Naturally, she despised me.” She poked at a baguette. “No, I’m not settling for the bread here, not this late in the day. We’ll stop by the bakery in town. If nothing there works, I’ll just bake some.”
“You’ll just bake some bread.”
“If necessary. If I’m in the mood to, it can be therapeutic and satisfying.”
“Like sex.”
Her smile was quick and easy. “Exactly.” She rolled the cart into line. Leaned on the handle. “So, who was your first serious lover?”
She didn’t notice, or didn’t appear to care, that the woman ahead of them in line looked back over her shoulder with wide eyes. “I haven’t had one yet.”
“Well, that’s a shame. You’ve missed all the wild passion, the bitter arguments, the mad yearnings. Sex is fun without it, but all the rest adds intensity.” Cybil smiled at the woman ahead of them. “Don’t you agree?”
The woman flushed, moved her shoulders. “Ah, yeah, I guess. Sure.” And developed a sudden—and to Gage’s eyes, bogus—interest in the tabloids on the rack before the belt.
“Still, women are more prone to look for all that emotion. It’s genetic—hormonal,” Cybil continued conversationally. “We’re more sexually satisfied, as a gender, when we let our emotions engage, and believe—even if the belief is false—our lover’s emotions are as well.”
When the belt cleared enough, she began to load her purchases on. “I cook,” she told Gage, “you pay.”
“That wasn’t mentioned.”
She gave the bird a pat as she set it on the belt. “If you don’t like the chicken, I’ll give you a refund.”
He watched her load. Long fingers, palely painted nails, a couple of sparkling rings. “I could lie.”
“You won’t. You like to win, but like women and emotion and sex, the win isn’t as satisfying for you unless you play it
“I can?”
“Yes, you can. I’ll get my purse. And since I now have bellinis on the brain, we’ll stop by the liquor store and pick up some champagne.”
“You want champagne,” he said after a beat.
“Who doesn’t?”
“Anything else on our list of errands?”
She only smiled. “You can bet I’m getting a pair of rubber gloves. I’ll explain on the way,” she said.
SHE BROWSED, STUDIED, EXAMINED THE OFFERINGS in produce. She selected tomatoes with the care and deliberation he imagined a woman might use when selecting an important piece of jewelry. In the brightly lit market with its mind-melting Muzak and red dot specials, she looked like some fairy queen. Titania, maybe, he decided. Titania had been no pushover either.
He’d expected to be irritated, or at least impatient with the household task of food shopping, but she was fascinating to watch. She had a fluid way of moving, and a look in her eyes that said she noticed everything. He wondered how many people could be terrorized by a demon, then coolly stroll behind a grocery store shopping cart.
He had to admire that.
She spent a full fifteen minutes over poultry, examining, rejecting chickens until she found one that somehow met her standards.
“We’re having chicken? All this for chicken?”
“Not just chicken.” She tossed back her hair, gave him that sidelong smile of hers. “It’s a roasted chicken made with wine, sage, garlic, balsamic—and so on. You’ll weep with joy at every bite.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Your tastebuds will. Your travels have probably taken you to New York a time or two over the years.”
“Sure.”
“Ever dined at Piquant?”
“Fancy French place, Upper West.”
“Yes, and a New York institution. The chef there was my first serious lover. He was older, French, absolutely perfect for the first serious lover of a woman of twenty.” That smile turned knowing, and just a little sultry. “He taught me quite a bit—about cooking.”
“How much older?”
“Considerably. He had a daughter my age. Naturally, she despised me.” She poked at a baguette. “No, I’m not settling for the bread here, not this late in the day. We’ll stop by the bakery in town. If nothing there works, I’ll just bake some.”
“You’ll just bake some bread.”
“If necessary. If I’m in the mood to, it can be therapeutic and satisfying.”
“Like sex.”
Her smile was quick and easy. “Exactly.” She rolled the cart into line. Leaned on the handle. “So, who was your first serious lover?”
She didn’t notice, or didn’t appear to care, that the woman ahead of them in line looked back over her shoulder with wide eyes. “I haven’t had one yet.”
“Well, that’s a shame. You’ve missed all the wild passion, the bitter arguments, the mad yearnings. Sex is fun without it, but all the rest adds intensity.” Cybil smiled at the woman ahead of them. “Don’t you agree?”
The woman flushed, moved her shoulders. “Ah, yeah, I guess. Sure.” And developed a sudden—and to Gage’s eyes, bogus—interest in the tabloids on the rack before the belt.
“Still, women are more prone to look for all that emotion. It’s genetic—hormonal,” Cybil continued conversationally. “We’re more sexually satisfied, as a gender, when we let our emotions engage, and believe—even if the belief is false—our lover’s emotions are as well.”
When the belt cleared enough, she began to load her purchases on. “I cook,” she told Gage, “you pay.”
“That wasn’t mentioned.”
She gave the bird a pat as she set it on the belt. “If you don’t like the chicken, I’ll give you a refund.”
He watched her load. Long fingers, palely painted nails, a couple of sparkling rings. “I could lie.”
“You won’t. You like to win, but like women and emotion and sex, the win isn’t as satisfying for you unless you play it
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