He raised his flute and tapped it against mine. "Well, if you just say 'oui' to everything I ask from this point on, we'll do fine. Here's to a splendid evening."
There was something wonderfully seductive about Luc's manner. Although Nina had declared him GU-geographically undesirable- when she learned he was just visiting from France, she, too, had been taken by his charm and charisma.
"Are you hungry? Did you have any lunch?" he asked before the waiter left.
I had been too upset to eat anything after the episode at the range. "Something light would be good."
"Huitres?"
"Perfect."
"Perhaps not as fresh as the oysters you get in Chilmark from Larsen's Fish Market or those fried clams at The Bite, but they should do," Luc said, ordering two dozen for us. "Now tell me about your day. What kept you out of the office?"
"Tell me about yours. You probably have more exciting news."
Luc was forty-eight years old, divorced with two children who lived nearby in his hometown. He wasn't classically handsome, but he had strong features-blue gray eyes that reflected his enthusiasm, even behind wire-rimmed glasses, and a long, thin Roman nose. He was tall and lean, with hair just a few shades darker than my own, and his great style was evident in the way he dressed and carried himself.
"I think things are beginning to shape up well," he said. "This is the height of our season in Mougins. It's hard for me to get away in August, but the opportunity to duplicate my father's creation is quite thrilling for me."
Luc smiled easily. He delighted in the pleasures of the culinary arts, and his energy was infectious. I couldn't imagine a professional world- certainly neither law nor medicine, with which I'd been surrounded since childhood-that didn't involve life-and-death decisions but simply enjoyment.
André Rouget had moved to New York from France in the 1960s and had built a remarkable career in a notoriously fickle business. One of the first celebrity chefs, he had opened a landmark restaurant in a town house on East Fiftieth Street. Lutèce became known for the finest French cuisine in America, maintaining its excellence as it passed from Rouget's leadership to that of the great André Soltner, until it closed its doors almost forty years later.
"Have you found a location?" I asked.
"I'm hoping to do this exactly in the manner of my father," Luc said, explaining that his partner in the venture was scouting for a building very much like the original.
"And you'll call it Lutèce?"
"Bien sûr. There's a great history in that name. You know what it means?"
"Wasn't Lutetia the original name of Paris? Isn't that the Latin word, from the time of the Roman conquest?"
"Even more complicated, Alex. The Parisii were a Celtic tribe, living on the Ile de la Cité. The derivation of the word is Celtic-louk-teih, the place of the marshes."
I didn't want to be thinking of Mike Chapman now, but the mention of a useful piece of trivia brought him to mind at once. The information would serve me well betting against him on Jeopardy! some night.
"But let's talk about you. Tell me why you aren't on the Vineyard this weekend."
The oysters arrived on a bed of ice chips. They were cold and delicious, with a slightly briny taste that I especially liked.
"I couldn't plan anything because of the trial. I should be able to get up there for the long Labor Day weekend."
"Such a beautiful island, especially where you are, in Chilmark. It must restore your spirit, when everything else about your work seems so harsh."
"My own little piece of paradise, Luc. I love it there. What happens in Washington tomorrow?"
"My partner wants me to meet a guy who lives on the Eastern Shore-a potential backer for the restaurant. Then I fly directly home. Back to work. We have to feed all those American tourists, you know," Luc said, refilling our glasses and touching the rim of his against mine again. "Laura told me you had a big victory yesterday. Can you explain the case to me?"
I didn't want to bring Kerry Hastings's story into our rendezvous. It was too somber to mix with champagne and Malpeques.
"It's a very long story. I'd so much rather talk about your summer and anything that has to do with getting you to New York more often."
"I sent you that key for a reason, Alexandra. You know the Marches aux Puces in Paris? Clignancourt?"
"Of course. It's my favorite place for antiquing."
"Then I shall add that to our list of things to do together when you come to France. That brass key is from the wine cellar of an old chateau in Bordeaux. You can add it to your collection, but you know I bargained hard for it. I'm trying to find a way to get into your heart. Open you up a bit. Perhaps one of those keys will be useful."
Luc reached across the table for my hand.
"I don't think you need any help with that."
"But I realize that I learned more about you from my conversation with Nina than I know from talking to you."
The afternoon after Joan's wedding, I had been called back to the city for a break in a case I was working on. Luc had been fogged in on the island, and my college roommate had told him more of my personal history during that long evening than I probably would have revealed in the most intense cross-examination.
We finished the oysters and opened a second bottle of Cristal by ten o'clock. I didn't want any more to drink. My hair was coming loose from the barrette, wisps of blond ringlets curling around my brow and neck. By this time there seemed to be very little we didn't know about each other.
"You know, I had a reservation in the dining room for nine o'clock," he said, laughing as he looked at his watch.
"I'm not the least bit hungry now."
"Not for anything at all?"
"I didn't say that."
Luc reached into his pocket and put the small gold room key on the table. I picked it up and closed my hand around it.
He stood up beside me. "Dancing?"
"I think it's a waste of a lot of euros to keep that driver waiting."
"But that dress looks so lovely when you move."
"Then I'll move," I said, slipping out of the banquette and leading Luc across the room. I looked at the number engraved into the key. Four seventeen.
I crossed through the lobby to the far side of the reception desk and called for the elevator while Luc went outside to dismiss the driver for the night. We got on and the doors closed.
Luc took my head between his hands, putting his lips to mine. I opened my mouth and we exchanged kisses, deep and long. He pressed my back against the gilded elevator wall. I started to laugh.
He lifted my chin and kissed my nose. "Am I that funny?"
I closed my eyes so I wouldn't see the camera lens in the corner of the ceiling. I kept telling myself to stop being a prosecutor and pay no notice to the surveillance equipment that this hotel, like every other, had installed in public areas as a security measure.
"Somebody's watching us," I said, pointing at the miniature device.
He held up one of his long arms as though to block the lens. "Then let me take you to a more private place."
Luc led me down the hallway to his suite. He stepped aside for me to unlock the door, and then I followed him in.
The first time we made love was slow and playful. I was comfortable with Luc, trusting him, giving myself to him with an excitement I hadn't thought possible.
We rested, talked, and made love again. Finally, at two o'clock, Luc said, "We still haven't eaten any supper yet." He nibbled at my stomach. "Not enough there to feed me."
"How can you even think of food now?"
"It's against my religion to skip a meal, Alexandra. You've got to get used to that. What will you have?"
"Whatever you order." I went into the bathroom, wrapping myself in a thick white terrycloth robe.
"Suppose I give you a choice. Two things easy for the chef in the middle of the night. They don't have to do much to get some caviar up here. Or you might indulge one of my favorite childhood memories."