London Broil (9 page)

"Are those
quails' eggs?" she asked. "I've only had them once, at a
restaurant. They were in a salad, but I think they were hard
boiled, not poached." She watched as he expertly scooped each
egg out of the water, let it drain for a moment and set it
gently atop the salad. Although the whites were cooked, the
yolks were still runny. Then he shook a small jar of dressing to
emulsify it, and poured the contents over the salad. Finally, he
removed from the oven a bubbling casserole with browned cheese
on top, and from a separate compartment, a dish of tiny,
marble-sized brussels sprouts.

He handed her a
chilled bottle, a waiter's corkscrew and two white wine glasses.
"Open this, would you? I thought it would pair well with my
attempt at vegetarian lasagna." She looked at the label: a 2009
Jermann Pinot Grigio from Friuli-Venezia Giulia. She brought the
items to the table, applied the corkscrew, levering out the cork
with a practiced hand until it released with a slight pop, and
poured two glasses. They sat down, he at the end of the table
and she to his right. James' dishes were a pristine white china,
set off by green woven placemats. A couple of bread plates held
heavy candles of an emerald color, which he now lit.

"We ought to eat
the salad first, while the eggs are still warm," he said, as
they tasted the wine. The yolks in the eggs combined with the
mildly acidic dressing to make a luscious coating for the
greens, and there were thin, crunchy breadsticks with sesame
seeds to complement the salad. "The richness of the eggs is
great with this wine," she said. "It's citrusy, but there's also
something full in there, like ripe peaches."

"Yes, I thought
it would be just astringent enough to cut through all the cheese
in this dish. Balance, as you say. It will be ready to slice
now." And he served her a generous square of the lasagna, which
had alternating layers of noodles, a sharp tangy cheese sauce,
fresh white ricotta, and greens. Taking a bite, she said, "This
is incredible! You've got rapini in there. It's beautiful and
still bright green. How did you manage to keep the color and not
overcook it?"

"I blanched it
for just an instant in salty boiling water, and then plunged it
in an ice bath," he said, looking pleased. "The lasagna didn't
need to cook very long-- only just enough to heat all the way
through. Then I ran it under the broiler, to toast the cheese on
top."

"And the brussels
sprouts don't taste bitter." The flavor was buttery and mildly
cabbage-like, and they had little spots of brown where he had
sautéed them over high heat.

"Yes, the tiny
ones are the best."

"Well, I hate to
admit it, but you're at least as good a cook as I am. Possibly
better. But you're at an advantage. You have very good
equipment."

**

For dessert,
which he disconcertingly called "pudding," James brought out a
small plate on which were arranged French-style macaron cookies,
with pistachio filling sandwiched between two chewy chocolate
layers, and a few candied orange slices dipped in dark
chocolate. He handed her a snifter of Hennessy XO. She cradled
it in her hand, warming the amber liquid and feeling honored;
this was an expensive treat.

"I was going to
try my hand at a flourless chocolate torte, but I ran out of
time. And I'm no good at pastry."

"I'm surprised.
You seem so organized and meticulous. Look at this place. It's
spotless." By necessity, bakers had to measure everything
carefully and work methodically without straying from the
recipe, whereas cooking was a more intuitive matter.

He shrugged and
said, "I have a cleaning lady. It doesn't always look this
good." She would be willing to bet his cleaning lady didn't
alphabetize the CD's, or leave a rubber tray for shoes by the
door, but she let it pass. Predictably, he had cleared the
table, stacked the dishes in the sink, and put away the
leftovers before serving the dessert.

There was a
pause; the dinner was over, and now it was time for the sex.
Suddenly she felt awkward and hesitant in spite of her desire
for him. "Let's sit over there," he said, and taking her hand,
he led her toward an unusually wide, winged armchair with an
ottoman and side table. He set down his snifter on the table and
went to the stereo while she perched on the ottoman, still
holding her Cognac. In a moment, the deep, mellow voice of
Johnny Hartman filled the room, soon followed by Coltrane's
saxophone.

They say that falling in
love is wonderful

It's wonderful, so they
say.

He sat down in
the armchair and shifted the ottoman closer, so that she was
seated between his legs, facing away from him. He began to
caress her back and shoulders, gently trailing his fingers up
and down at first, and then touching her more firmly, so that
she could feel the heat in his hands. "How long has it been,
Laura? Since you slept with someone?"

"I'm not sure.
Over a year, I think."

"That long." She
couldn't see his expression, but his voice sounded thoughtful.

"I've come to
the age where men don't look at me as much."

"Not true. In
Roxana, men looked at you. I looked at you, but you always had
your nose in a book. Do you remember when we smoked the cigar,
in the park? There was a regular parade of blokes staring at
your tits, and you didn't notice."

"And were any of
these blokes people I'd want to sleep with?" As he continued to
massage her back, she felt her body relaxing and a growing
warmth in her lower belly.

"Not if I had
anything to say about it. I don't like the idea of your walking
about at night, when you aren't aware of what's going on around
you. You're not, are you?"

"Not often. As a
child, my mother thought I was autistic. She had me tested
because I spent so much time staring off into space, and never
made friends with anyone. I wasn't shy, I just didn't see the
need. If someone wanted to be friends with me, though, I liked
it well enough."

"And what did the
tests say?" He took the empty glass from her hand and set it on
the table. She put both hands on her knees, and as he continued
to rub her back, his fingers began to skim the sides of her
breasts.

"That I was an
extreme introvert. My father ridiculed the whole thing because
he had a brother who was exactly like me. Never married. Not
interested in kids. And quite happy to be just as he was."

"So you don't
have children?"

"Oh no. I like
fat little babies just before they learn how to walk and talk.
At their age it's all about the world of the senses. And of
course, everything goes into the mouth."

"A bit like
you."

"Very funny. And
after that stage, I don't want anything to do with children
until they reach the age of reason."

"I raised my
daughters, after their mother died. They're lovely, but
sometimes I think they still haven't reached the age of reason.
They always brought home these dodgy characters with the
trousers hanging off their arses. I think Claire's finally found
a decent lad, but Chanda's still messing about with a parcel of
ugly pimples whose only interest is in rogering her."

"Whereas you,
upstanding citizen that you are, would never dream of rogering
anyone."

"You have a
point there. But I
can
claim to be upstanding."

12.
Déjeuner sur l'Herbe

He turned her
around and pulled her onto his lap so that she straddled him;
her skirt rode up around her thighs. The chair was so wide that
she had plenty of room, and she wiggled her bottom slightly as
she settled onto his lap, the crotch of her panties in direct
contact with the fabric of his jeans. He made a groaning noise
and then took her by the hips under her skirt, adjusting her
position. Now her breasts were almost level with his mouth. He
slid his hands up her teeshirt. "Take this off," he said. She
did, and he draped it carefully over the side of the chair.

"I've been
waiting for this moment ever since we met in Roxana. Since
before we met, as a matter of fact. I've not seen one of these
before," he said, touching the clasp at the front of her bra.
"How does it work?"

"Slide your
finger under it, and pull toward you," she replied. First he
eased down the bra straps from each of her shoulders, and then
gently worked his index finger under the clasp. It sprang open,
freeing her breasts. She pulled her arms out of the straps and
he placed the bra on the chair next to her shirt before turning
back to grasp her torso with both hands, and rub his face from
side to side over her chest, breathing in deeply. She could feel
a slight stubble rasping over her sensitive skin, and his hot
breath sent little shivers of delight down her spine.

"Is my beard too
rough? I should have shaved again before you arrived, but I was
preoccupied with the dinner," he said. "I like it," she replied,
running her fingers through his hair.

"Your nipples
hardened the minute I touched them." He began to kiss her right
breast, opening his mouth wide to pull in her nipple and caress
it with his warm tongue. She let out a little whimper and he
smiled up at her before covering the right breast with his palm
and moving his mouth to the other.

"Kiss my mouth
like that," she said, squirming on his lap and feeling darts of
pleasure from the movement.

"Not just yet."
After a few more minutes, her whimpers were turning to moans,
and she was starting to push herself against him harder than
before. He took her by the waist and helped her off the chair.

"What about
protection?" she said. "I've brought some condoms in my
handbag."

"We can use a
condom if you like, but we don't need it for birth control. I
had a vasectomy before I married Magda. One of the things we
always fought about," he said. "She was interested in trying for
a baby. Wanted me to get it reversed."

"I didn't know
such a thing was possible," she replied, as he unbuttoned her
skirt and pulled the zipper down, sliding it over her hips. She
stepped out of it and laid it on the chair. She'd need to wear
it again tomorrow. Now she was naked except for her panties and
jewelry, and he was still fully clothed, though she'd managed to
open a few buttons of his shirt while they were in the armchair.
He had a light scattering of hair on his chest, not as black as
she expected given the dark hair on his head.

"Up the stairs
with you," he said. "I'd carry you up," he added dryly, "but it
might unduly tax the strength of a man my age." The unaccustomed
pose in which she'd been sitting, along with the substantial
amount of alcohol in her bloodstream, caused her to walk a bit
unsteadily. As she climbed the stairs, he followed her closely
with both his hands on her behind, and her overnight bag on his
arm. In the center of the mezzanine sat a large bed with a
duvet, already turned down, and a nightstand to either side. On
the right she saw a dressing area with a closet, a bench, a
mirror and what looked like the door to the bathroom.

As he set her bag
down by the bed, she embraced him, trying to pull his shirt from
his jeans. He caught her arms and shook his head. "No. Take your
knickers off." So he really was excited by
déjeuner sur l'herbe
,
she thought, not displeased by the idea.

She removed her
panties and tucked them into her bag, then stood facing him
expectantly, hands loosely at her sides. He ran his eyes over
her body, slowly, and then drew her toward him and kissed her
deeply, cupping her bottom in his hands and drawing her lower
belly up and against his erection. This time he didn't resist as
she pulled his shirt out and opened the last buttons, running
her hands up his stomach to his chest, and pressing her bare
breasts against him. At last, she thought, skin touching skin.
He nibbled her neck as she inhaled through her nose, with her
face pressed to his chest.

"You smell like
leaves," she said. "In the Fall, the maple leaves come off the
trees and they have a spicy scent. That's what you remind me
of."

"What, not an
artichoke? And not even something edible; I'm surprised at you.
But you smell delicous. You don't wear perfume, do you? Is it
your soap?"

"Probably.
Perfume interferes with food and drink, but I love my buttermilk
soap. That's what you smell," she said, pulling at his belt
buckle.

"That and your
skin. You smell sweet, and you taste even better. Lie down on
the bed." She sat on the firm mattress, then lay back on the
pillows propped against the headboard, watching him quickly shed
his belt and jeans. Uncharacteristically, he left them on the
floor. He removed his navy blue boxer briefs and climbed onto
the bed beside her, very aroused. "Primo equipment," she
commented appreciatively. "You can pose for me any time."

He knelt beside
her. "Glad you like it. Now open your legs and close your eyes."