Terry gave her a fast up-down-up assessment then inquired knowingly, “Hot date?”
It was the wrong question at the wrong time.
“No!”
Terry arched his brows and shifted into his sympathetic mode. “Cramps?”
Peachy grimaced, realizing she had no right to vent her emotional upset on an innocent bystander. “No, nothing like that, Terry,” she replied, moderating her tone and summoning up a quick smile. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just a little frazzled right now. Would you like to come in?”
“Only for a sec.” Terry stepped across the threshold. He gave her another considering look. “You are going out, I take it?”
“Yes.” Peachy willed herself not to blush. “To dinner.”
“With—?”
“A…friend.” Mentioning Luc’s name would prompt too many questions, she rationalized. Better to let Terry think she was off to some mysterious rendezvous.
“Oh, really?” Her neighbor seemed thrilled.
“Yes, really.” Peachy produced another smile to take the edge off what she had to say next. “Look, Terry, I hate to be rude—”
“I need an egg.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I came up here to see if I could borrow an egg from you. Or two.”
“You feel the urge for a facial?” Peachy guessed. Convinced that his years on the gridiron had had a deleterious effect on his skin, Terry spent a significant amount of time pampering his complexion. The first time they’d met, his face had been slathered with a cornmeal cleansing masque of his own concoction.
“Breakfast, actually.”
“It’s nearly 8:00 p.m., Terry.”
“What can I say? I had an extremely late evening. It ended sometime around noon over beignets and café au lait at Café du Monde.”
Peachy didn’t want to know the details. “My eggs are your eggs,” she said. “And I think I have some fresh-squeezed orange juice, too, if you want it.”
Terry beamed. “Bless you.” Then he cocked his head and frowned. “Sweetie, I hate to play fashion police, but aren’t you the teensiest bit underaccessorized for dinner with a ‘friend’?”
“Actually, I was trying to find some earrings when you knocked.”
“Oh?” He was instantly engaged. “And what look are we going for, might I inquire? ‘Don’t touch’ or ‘Take me, I’m yours’?”
Peachy had to smile. “Somewhere in between.”
“Keep the guy guessing, hmm? That’s so wise of you. But let me cogitate for a moment. Earrings. Mmm. Well, what about those gold and jade ones you lent me during Mardi Gras?”
Peachy knew exactly the pair he meant and exactly where she had them stashed away. She also knew they were exactly what she’d been seeking.
“Terry, you’re a genius!” she exclaimed, giving him a quick hug. It was a bit like embracing a side of beef.
“I try,” he replied modestly. “But if you wear the gold and jade, you’ll have to take off your silver bell locket…”
“I’m sorry I’m late,” Peachy said, slipping into the seat opposite Luc. Glancing over her shoulder, she nodded her thanks at the black-jacketed maitre d’hôtel who’d held her chair. He nodded back, murmured something about hoping she’d enjoy her meal, then moved away.
Luc had risen to his feet as she’d approached the table. He was clad in black trousers, an open-collared white silk shirt and a dove gray jacket that bore the subtle hallmarks of a master tailor. He reseated himself saying, “The wait was worth it, cher.”
The response—so smooth, so sure—nettled Peachy.
“You don’t have to do that, Luc,” she declared, opening her napkin and draping it across her lap. She kept her spine very stiff, sitting forward on her chair rather than relaxing back into it. The May Winnies would have awarded her an A-plus for posture.
“Do what?”
“Give me any of your usual lines.”
Luc paused in the act of picking up his own napkin and regarded her with an expression Peachy couldn’t interpret. She felt her pulse give a curious hop-skip-jump.
“Is it a line if I mean it?” he asked after a moment, his dark gaze drifting over her. “Because you do look lovely tonight.”
Peachy took a deep breath, reminding herself that she was a twenty-three-year-old woman not a giggly adolescent idiot. “Thank you,” she finally answered, striving for a normal tone of voice and coming fairly close. “I had some expert help.”
“Oh?”
She gestured. “Terry suggested the earrings.”
There was a long-stemmed goblet of ice water to Luc’s right. He picked it up and took a sip. As he put the glass down he asked, “Terry knows we’re out together?”
“Uh, no.” Peachy shifted slightly. “I told him I was meeting a friend for dinner. It’s not that I’m…ashamed…of what you and I are doing. But I’m afraid—I mean, it might be, uh, well, it might be awkward, don’t you think? Trying to explain. About…things.”
Again, she found herself on the receiving end of a look she couldn’t read. Again, her pulse leapt as though it had hit a series of speed bumps.
“My sentiments exactly,” Luc concurred.
At that moment the sommelier materialized by their table with a bottle of champagne and two crystal flutes. He conversed with Luc in French for a few moments. Then, still talking, he deftly popped the cork and began to pour the pale, bubbling wine. Peachy listened uncomprehendingly to the two men, unable to reconcile their fast, fluent exchange with any of the stilted phrases she’d memorized in high school language class.
She did manage a merci after the man filled her glass. He responded at great length. Finally, after giving Luc what she could only describe as a look of approval, he took his leave.
His place was swiftly taken by a waiter who presented them with a pair of exquisitely calligraphied menus plus a small silver basket of toast points and a crock of what appeared to be truffle-studded pâté.
“Pour lagniappe,” he announced with a smile.
Lagniappe, Peachy understood. Slang for “a little something extra,” it was one of the words she’d added to her vocabulary since coming to New Orleans.
“Do you eat here often?” she asked Luc after the waiter had bustled away. What she really wanted to determine was whether this restaurant was part of some standard seduction routine.
“I come here a few times a month when I’m in town,” he answered. “If the staff seems to be fawning—well, I’m an investor in the place. The owner, Jean-Baptiste, is an acquaintance of mine from high school. He started cooking in grade school and always dreamed of opening a restaurant in the Garden District. He came to me with a business proposition about four years ago, right around the time a Hollywood producer offered to shell out an obscene amount of money for the rights to my first book. I said yes to both. My accountant figured I was setting myself up for a tax write-off. I think you’ll understand my real motivation once you taste this.”
The “this” to which he referred