The Second Lie (Immortal Vikings Book 2) (12 page)

“You underestimate the French obsession with their own wine. Two.” He looked at his watch. “Go.”

“You’re on.” She sipped her mineral water. “I win, you tell me how you made the fakes.”

“I win, you leave your shoes off for the whole meal.”

“What?” The tablecloth was as long as the waiter’s apron. No one would see her feet, but both of them would know. And there was more than a little heat left from the kiss in the alley.

“One minute.” He looked at her. “I have only a brief—”

“Monsieur.” A short man with in a charcoal-colored suit and striped tie appeared. “This is your bottle? You wish us to decant it for you?”

“For the mademoiselle.” Stig shrugged and locked eyes with her. “It is her bottle.”

The sommelier discreetly bent closer to Stig, forcing Christina to strain to hear. “You realize this wine, perhaps it is worth thirty thousand euro? We are an excellent local establishment, but this is—” He spread his hands, almost helplessly.

Obviously their change of clothing, while sufficient to secure a seat, did not proclaim them to be in the club of people who drank forty-five-thousand-dollar bottles. Or even recognized their value.

“Tell me.” Stig flicked his eyes from the sommelier to Christina and back. “Do you always ask others at the table to approve before you open a patron’s private bottle? Or only because mademoiselle brought the bottle?”

“No, no, of course we will be honored to serve this wine.” His face crumpled and his necktie jiggled from the speed of his breathing. “In honor of the finest French vintage of a hundred years, there shall be no
droit de bouchon.
” He raised his fingers, and another man approached carrying a tray holding decanting tools.

He’d waived the minimal corkage fee, but she doubted he would brush away the customary courtesy of offering the sommelier a small pour of the guest’s bottle. He’d probably never tasted an ounce worth eighteen hundred dollars.

The decanting process was one she’d performed or watched thousands of times, but each step felt new as the sommelier sliced the foil in a perfect circle, removed the entire capsule and revealed the full length of the glass neck. As he inserted his corkscrew with wrist motions that showed his forty years of professional practice, she found herself nodding approval. He was good at his job, obviously.

As soon as the waiter lit the decanting candle, the sommelier took a deep breath, like an athlete preparing for the starter pistol.

That was the moment when Stig gave a short cough into his hand.

She watched him and the sommelier have another silent male communication. Wine and men. She interpreted the tilt of Stig’s head toward her, the nod at the decanter resting on the table, combined with the way his eyebrows lifted toward the bridge of his nose to mean that he wished for her to do the honors.

Of course the Frenchman froze, Stig’s request more unexpected even than the wine itself. But he set the bottle delicately on the table and bowed with his head. She was to begin.

She smiled, because a world where this bottle was in her hand was one where she could smile at anyone. She positioned the lit candle closer, then picked up the empty decanter with her left hand and the full bottle in her right. If she could have let it stand upright unopened and undisturbed for two days, to settle the sediment, she would have. But clearly two days in one place wasn’t in the works, so she’d have to pour carefully.

The candlelight turned the dark green glass into emeralds. As Stig would say, rule number one of decanting was to keep her hands steady. To do this vintage justice, she couldn’t allow distractions to intrude, not even gratitude to the man across the table.

When she tilted the bottle, the dark liquid evened out and advanced. Heavier chunks of sediment swirled at the bottom but thankfully didn’t invade the neck. The flow going into the clear crystal had the dark sensuality of burgundy silk, pricked by the small candle flame so that the edges of the liquid almost lit a fire, they glowed so spectacularly.

She kept her pour smooth and steady. The change in angle as wine flowed from the ancient bottle into the new vessel was so slight, she knew her techniques instructor would have applauded. A semester of pouring bottles with a bean bag balanced on the back of her hand had culminated here, at this little table, with the audience poised on their toes watching her.

When the arrowhead of sediment moved toward the neck, she knew there was no more.

It was done.

She set the spent bottle on the table cloth first, reluctant to let go of the decanter with her prize.

The sommelier had his hands pressed over his heart, and his two staff had moved forward to flank him and watch. The moment she placed the carafe on the table, the waiters clapped silently and the sommelier tilted forward in a slight bow, acknowledging her feat.

Once the staff departed, all in a row, the moment to pay her forfeit arrived. The thrill of decanting the Perlus urged her to make him work for his victory.

“I believe I won our bet.” Stig sipped his glass of mineral water.

“Did you?” They should wait several minutes before tasting the wine, but that wasn’t easy. She broke a slice of bread in half at the same time she slipped her feet from the oversized flats. His calf was within her reach, and his eyes were so fixed on her fingers lifting the bread to her mouth that she could catch him unaware. “You said two minutes. He was here in one.”

His lips twitched. “One should be included in two.”

“Who says?” Her bare foot stroked his pants.

The first touch made his gaze jerk to hers, and she read the flare in his eyes as she let her toes slide down the fabric almost to the floor, then up again, up and down his leg.

He lowered his eyelids and tilted his head back as if it had become heavy.

The table was sized for intimacy, bringing them close enough that she didn’t have to stretch to trace the inner line of his calf, brush the edge of his knee and reach his thigh. She paused when her toes bumped the chair seat.

He licked his lips. “Don’t stop.”

In a strategic retreat, she trailed her toes below his knee. “Tell me how you made the fakes.”

“You lost.” His voice was a low rumble.

“Double or nothing.” She pinched a small piece of bread between her fingers and parted her lips, wanting to wolf it down in her hunger, but his gaze slowed her movements. “Tell me.”

“You’re wicked.” He slouched in the chair, pushing his legs closer.

“Not as bad as you.” Her toes couldn’t resist climbing back to explore the muscle of his thigh.

“More, I hazard.” His legs spread farther, leaving an opening she wanted and feared to take. “The world knows I’m a sinner. But you, you’re a surprise. You’re like a fourth-story door that opens without a balcony. One unaware step, and a man breaks his neck.”

“Warn me beforehand the next time you’re going to compliment me.” She shouldn’t feel squishy inside, but he sounded like a man who was as flummoxed as she was.

Their first course arrived, and her foot hit the floor silently.

The server ignored her flushed cheeks, ignored Stig’s slouch and glower, ignored the air at the table, thick with the crackle that came before a storm. He placed plates of spring fava beans decorated with the plant’s own tiny white and purple flowers in front of them, recited the garnish of caramelized fennel and ramps, offered pepper, topped their water and crumbed the white cloth with a little scraper.

She wanted to scream at the amount of time the waiter lingered, but the knowledge of her own barely contained needs kept her nodding until he finally retreated.

“Shall we make another bet?” Stig’s flared nostrils betrayed his tension.

“You’re ready to lose?” She ate a forkful of the tender beans, and the flavor packed the intensity of renewal, the combination of sweetness and earthiness that people crave after winter’s long hold on their kitchens.

“The last one turned me into a hopeless punter. Hopeful, actually.”

She glanced at the wine carafe, knowing it was too soon. He was tempting her into another dangerous game to pass the time until the wine’s bouquet would be open and ready.

“A simple trade.” His rich chocolate voice promised many things, none of them simple. “You ask a question. For every answer I give, you tell me about yourself.”

“Anything I want?” She’d been bursting with questions since she’d walked into Bodeby’s.

“Your response has to be a fact I don’t already know. If I don’t answer, you don’t have to tell, Miss Christina Alvarez Mancini.”

She chased the last favas around her plate, considering the offer. Although he hadn’t told her the truth about the gunshot trick at Paddington, he’d been remarkably frank about the wine scandal. If she could respond with anything she wanted, she had nothing to lose, and perhaps much to learn.

“Deal?”

“How’d you make the labels?” He couldn’t have photocopied them from the bottles or they’d have looked distorted. She wanted answers, but her foot had its own agenda. His leg was warm against her toes, warmer than the stone floor.

His leg tensed to steel. “The old-fashioned way. Steamed off one of each, copied them on vintage paper.” She couldn’t look away from his eyes, which had become as hard and reflective as the butter knife. “Your turn.”

She opened her mouth to tell him she drove a seven-year-old Subaru because it had space for cases of wine, but heard something completely different leave her mouth. “I was a competitive gymnast for eleven years.”

Neither of them spoke, but she wasn’t still. This time her toes were bolder, advancing as if the pounding in her chest meant a race.

“The wine?” She rubbed the ball of her foot over his thigh muscle. To determine if it was as hard as the carved planes of his face, she pressed. His thighs tightened, no give to them as she kneaded. “What did you use?”

“Various. Decent South American reds, juiced with off-year French burgundies.” His words were chopped as if he was talking while running, and each fragment fueled the surging heat in her veins. “Middle-of-the-road California cabs blended with robust South Africans.” He leaned across the table, so close she could have touched his face without stretching. “I found the process of creation to be exhilarating. Like painting, stroke after stroke. Tasting. Blending. Combining.”

“Nice.” She couldn’t look away from his eyes; the pupils had dilated, the blue irises had darkened and she felt as if they’d become magnets, pulling her into his soul. She owed him a detail about herself. She owed him a taste of her torment. “I was too big for gymnastics at UC Davis, so I became a cheerleader. I used to be able to hook an ankle behind my ear.”

His lips parted, but he didn’t make a sound.

Finally he spoke. “You are diabolically wonderful.”

He clamped his hands on the edge of the table. She didn’t know if that was to brace himself for jumping across it or to keep himself in place, but either image made her heartbeat leap as if to meet him.

“Tell me. About the corks.” Her chest rose faster with each foray along the length of his leg.

“That’s not a question.” He lifted his water glass. The liquid inside sloshed side-to-side, a visible symbol of the trembling that this game was producing inside both of them. His smooth movements were gone. “Ask a question.” The glass bumped his lips and he gulped before he said his next word. “Please.”

“Please what?” Watching him made her hot and thirsty, but she couldn’t lift her glass.

“The deal.” His voice was pitched so low she could barely hear him over the pounding of her pulse in her ears, but she knew what he meant. What he wanted.

She couldn’t think of a question, even though she wanted to continue their game. Wanted it desperately. Dangerously. “When I do yoga, I can hold a standing split for six breath-counts.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t know yoga.”

“In that pose, I lean all the way forward.” The edge of the table pressed into her ribs, keeping them technically apart, but the treacherous toes stroked his thighs, and she knew they both felt the compulsion to adopt the rhythm with their whole beings. But they couldn’t, not here. “When my chest touches my thigh, I raise my other leg behind me. In the air. Like the splits. Can you see it?”

He nodded, his mouth slightly open as if he needed extra air.

“How did you fake the gunshot?”

“I didn’t. I told you. It was real.”

If he wasn’t going to be honest, she’d push him over the edge. “I like backbends.” His expression, close to pain, gave her a throb of power. “I tip over until my hands hit the floor behind me and thrust to the sky.” She made a chair-bound imitation of the move, letting her shoulders hit the chair back and her pelvis lift from the seat as she tightened.

His eyes dropped to her chest, and she sucked in a breath, then her words tumbled out too fast to stop, too fast to separate what was wise from what was foolish. “And downward facing dog. I like that too. Do you know that position?”

“Describe it.”

“What were you going to do with the wine money?”

“Refurbish a monument.”

That made no sense. But it sounded true.

“Downward facing dog. What is it?”

“I spread my legs.” She had to spread her arms instead, because her foot was on his side of the table. “And reach for the floor.”

His thighs closed and trapped her foot, pulling her closer until she balanced only on the edge of the chair. If she hadn’t had her other foot on the floor, she would be in a very precarious situation. Precarious indeed.

“Then I stick my ass in the air.” Her spine arched from the seat, completely unrelated to a yoga pose, but she felt as if only four thin connections tethered her to earth, her shoulders at the chairback, her tailbone at the seat edge, the foot on the floor and the other between his thighs. The rest of her body had disappeared into the atmosphere, leaving her panting and adrift until her curled toes brushed the hard evidence of his arousal. That was the solidity she wanted. That anchored her. Anchored her to him, to wanting more.

He tugged her foot closer to the bulge she’d found, and she flexed her arch as if to wrap around him through the fabric. His fingers found secret places on her instep that made her close her eyes and moan with pleasure.