Divine Fire by Melanie Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

of the wrist and send it fluttering into her lap with the lightness of a butterfly alighting on a flower. Brice smiled at the swarm of men who appeared carrying all sorts of salvers and bottles which they left, and candelabras which they removed.
    “I don’t like candles at the table,” Damien explained. “One sees the naked fire and never the light in a guest’s eyes.”
    He probably didn’t mean his words to be romantic, but they were.
    Brice’s senses continued exploring. Her fingers told her that the upholstery on the chairs was real velvet and the menus were bound in real leather. The scents told her the food would be truly exquisite, and it was probably a more effective way to lift the spirits than any antidepressant on the market. Sighing with delight, she smiled at Damien and opened the menu that Antonio put in her hands. Maybe she was supping with the devil, but she didn’t care. She’d just ask for a long spoon.
    “And let the games begin,” Brice said softly, taking in the many pages of appetizers and entrees. “What? No Jell-O salad? No meatloaf? No French fries? I bet they don’t even serve parsley garnish. Oh— flan aux poire! And les champignons violets. I didn’t think you could get these any time but April in Paris.”
    Damien laughed softly. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but for a moment it seemed that his eyes blazed with gold fire. “A fellow gastronome. We are so rare in this day of carb-counting. Let’s celebrate our meeting of appetites, shall we? How do you feel about pâté? Would it fit the mood?”
    “Like spandex shorts,” Brice said before thinking.
    Damien laughed again. In that moment she could see some wickedness in his gaze, and a lot of sex. It was as though something had switched on in his brain when they sat down at the table. Food took some men that way.
    The name of the restaurant was Italian but the cuisine crossed many borders. Brice hardly knew where to start. Damien seemed inclined to order one of everything so that they could sample at will. Brice vetoed the idea, saying that she would feel like a cochon , a pig, and feared ending up on the menu herself.
    Damien acquiesced. They didn’t stint too much, though. They began with pâté, artichokes in hollandaise and les champignons violets. Neither being fearful of strong flavors, they rounded out the appetizers with some baked goat cheese. The edge knocked off their appetites, they readied themselves for the subtler flavors of the main course by cleansing the palate with lemon-fennel sorbet.
    Damien had squab with roasted shallots and lingonberries as his entree and Brice the salumon a la Griggia with roasted asparagus. Throwing caution to the wind, they ordered both the Puligny Montrachet Latour and a Chateauneuf du Pape Beaucastel. As expected, the wines and food were all excellent.
    For dessert, they shared berry ice cream cake and a praline bombe with rich espresso and brandy. It was decadent, a pleasure to cause guilt—hell, with the sorts of calories she was consuming, Brice decided that it might even be a mortal sin in the world of cellulite. She wasn’t treating her body like the temple she was exhorted to worship in; she was using it as a combination wine cellar and candy kitchen.
    She looked up once while savoring a last spoonful of creamed sin and caught a glimpse of someone in a tarnished mirror that hung on the wall, mostly masked by a spray of white tuberoses. The person in the glass looked vaguely familiar, and stared quite pointedly as Brice studied her. Puzzled, she stared harder at the woman, trying to place the face. It was her own reflection, of course. Yet not. There were differences. This woman’s eyes were focused, her cheeks flushed with something other than cold. And she was half smiling, as though fighting to contain some excitement that she wasn’t quite ready to share with the world. It was, she realized, the face of a younger Brice Ashton, one who hadn’t lost faith in