Naughty In Nice (A Royal Spyness Mystery)

match my eyes. Cautiously I opened the bathroom door and ventured out. Jean-Paul had been sitting waiting for me and sprang up.
    “ Voilà. You look magnifique . Come—Pierre has been working a miracle as usual. I have told him to prepare lunch. You must be starving after such drama and your courageous dive to safety.”
    He led me out of the house and down the steps to the small crescent of beach. There a table had been set up at the water’s edge with a white starched tablecloth, gleaming silverware and two wicker chairs. A bottle of champagne sat in a silver bucket with two glasses beside it.
    “I always eat in the open air when I can. Besides, you should return to the sea so that it no longer represents a negative experience to you. It’s like falling off a horse. You must get straight back on.” And he laughed. He had a truly wonderful laugh. His eyes absolutely sparkled.
    “You have sand on your beach,” I exclaimed, feeling the softness under my feet.
    “Of course. I had it brought in. One does not like to walk on stones. Most disagreeable for bare feet. And even worse to lie on.” And he looked at me in that special way again, as if lying on the beach was something that might happen later.
    Pierre pulled out a chair for me and put a white linen napkin in my lap. As if in a dream I sat. Champagne was poured. Jean-Paul held up his glass to me. “To an interesting woman, whom I look forward to getting to know better,” he said, clinking glasses with me. His eyes held mine for a long time and I felt a shiver of excitement. Had anyone ever looked at me like that before? Maybe Darcy, but I was trying hard to put him from my mind.
    Plates of hors d’oeuvres appeared: caviar, smoked salmon, oysters, stuffed mussels, pâté de foie gras, olives, tomatoes, an impressive cheese board and crusty bread to go with them. I looked at them with anticipation, waiting to take my cue from him.
    “Well, eat up,” he said. “I prefer little dainties like this to a heavy meal during the day, don’t you? Here, try the oysters. I have them flown in from Brittany.” He stabbed one with his fork then leaned forward and fed it to me. It was an incredibly intimate gesture and I shivered as the cold fork touched my lip.
    “You do not like oysters?” he asked.
    “I adore them.”
    “And caviar? You like caviar?” He spread a generous dollop onto melba toast and popped that into my mouth.
    “One moment,” he said. He picked up his napkin and touched my bottom lip, ever so gently. “One morsel of caviar was left behind,” he said.
    We continued to eat, with Jean-Paul feeding me every time I stopped and Pierre refilling that champagne glass.
    “Something is missing,” Jean-Paul said suddenly. He tapped his head as if an idea had just come to him. “Music. Pierre, where is the music?”
    A gramophone was produced and soon French café songs, sung in a throaty female voice, were echoing back from the cliffs.
    Jean-Paul got to his feet. “Come, ma petite . We should dance—no?”
    “Here?” I giggled nervously, conscious that I was wearing nothing under his silk dressing gown and that we were standing on a sandy beach.
    “Where else?” he asked, holding out his hand to me. He took me into his arms. I was horribly aware of his body pressing against mine. But our dance had scarcely begun when the first drops of rain fell. “Umbrella, Pierre!” he commanded.
    And miraculously a large umbrella was opened and held over us as we danced. It was romantic but at the same time bizarre to be dancing on sand with the lapping waves to one side and the raindrops pattering on the umbrella over us.
    It was a French café song, sung throatily and with great passion. I was feeling rather confused myself. Did I feel passion for this man? What would happen when the dance was over? He was smiling down at me, his eyes holding mine. Then slowly he leaned to me and his lips brushed mine. The effect was electrifying. Then he kissed me again, his lips playing with mine now, making me want to respond to him. And I knew I was responding. I could feel myself pressing my body against his . . .
    Without warning the heavens opened. Thunder grumbled nearby and lightning flashed.
    “I think we have to concede that the gods are not being kind,” Jean-Paul said. “A little rain is good, but this—to stay out in this is madness. We do not wish to be struck by lightning, and you have already had one soaking today. Come.” He took my hand