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I shook my head, putting the glass down. "One sip won't be enough." I stroked my belly. "But once this baby is out, could we have Chef cook for us again?"
He took my hand, looked into my eyes, and said, "Anything you want,ma douce. You ask for it, and if I can give it to you, it's yours."
I licked my lips. "Really?"
"Yes."
"Anything?" I challenged.
"Anything." He picked up his wine glass and toasted me.
"Tonight, I'd very much like to be ah… how do you Americans say…oui, fucked six ways to Sunday.Merci."
He spluttered out the wine he'd just taken a sip of. "Jesus, Elsa."
I grinned. "You kiss me. You make me come. But I'm pregnant, Duncan. I need—"
"To be fucked six ways to Sunday?" he grinned.
"Yes." I suddenly felt shy because his eyes were gleaming with arousal. "Butafterthe meal, okay? Because I'm not missing one bit of this food."
The next course was a casserole of veal sweetbreads, my favorite. Each bite was heaven, and thankfully, the courses were small. Otherwise, I'd have trouble fitting it all in. I wouldn't stop eating, oh, absolutely not. Still, it wouldn't be easy, what with our daughter insisting I use the bathroom often.
"Okay, this is pretty impressive," I admitted, smiling at Duncan between bites of smoked duck served with caramelized onions. "I thought my life was over when that stupid nurse told me I had to be careful or I'd get gestational diabetes."
He reached across the table and took my hand. "I know you've been worried about your diet and the baby. I just wanted to show you that you can still eat amazing food."
"Only Chef Bettencourt won't be cooking every day," I teased.
"If you want that to happen, maybe not Bettencourt, but he can find another chef who'll—"
"I was joking!" I patted his hand with mine.
"You tell me you want something and I'll get it for you."
I believed him. Lord, but I did. He had made amends. He had. He regretted what he'd done; I knew that. He loved me; I could see that.
After dinner, Chef Bettencourt brought out the dessert—a beautifully crafted, sugar-free chocolate mousse.
"I think you'll find this quite satisfying," he said, placing it in front of me.
I took a bite and closed my eyes, savoring the rich, creamy flavor. "Oh, mon Dieu! C'est la nourriture des dieux, Chef !"
"Food of the gods, indeed," Chef smirked. "Anytime, Duncan, you want to make your wife happy, you call me.D'accord?"
After the Chef left, I stroked my belly, now full of the best food money could buy, and a baby who was thankfully resting for the moment.
Soft music had been playing all night, and as I looked out at the beautiful city of Paris, the music picked up. The familiar strains ofQue reste-t-il de nos amoursby Charles Trenet floated through the air, bringing a nostalgic smile to my face.
Duncan extended his hand toward me, his eyes full of love and warmth. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice gentle.
I took his hand, feeling a flutter of happiness despite my growing belly. "Of course.” I allowed him to lead me to the center of the rooftop.
We swayed gently to the music, the soft lights of Paris twinkling around us. The Eiffel Tower stood tall in the distance, its lights reflecting in the Seine. It was a perfect moment, almost dreamlike.
"You know," I began, resting my head against his chest, "Mamman used to love this song. She would hum it while shecooked or when she was just in a good mood. It always made me feel safe and happy."
Duncan smiled, his hand gently caressing my back as we moved to the rhythm. "I know," he said softly. "Thierry told me."
