Southern Belle. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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on the subject of horseflesh. My mother claims that I can become a dead bore.”
Elm laughed and as she did so, Johnny leaned back, sipped his brandy and relaxed. All in all, it was turning out to be a very agreeable dinner.
Elm grinned, enjoying the easy intimacy between them, so deliciously alien yet somehow also familiar. She was deeply intrigued by the reserve she sensed behind his relaxed manner. Gioconda had said something about having a long story to tell her when they had a moment. And she supposed he must have been married at some point, since he had a sixteen-year-old son.
“What about your ex-wife?” she asked suddenly. “Didn’t she like it at Graney?” The words were out before she could stop herself. Deeply embarrassed by her rude question, she cringed as his eyes shuttered and he carefully chose a cigar from the waiter, who happened to stop by the table at just that moment with a humidor.
“Do you mind?”
“Of course not, go ahead.” Elm wished the floor would open up and swallow her as the end of the cigar was carefully clipped off and lit. Perhaps she should just change the subject. How could she have been so gauche? It was none of her business what his ex-wife liked or didn’t like.
“I’ve never been to a place like your castle. I’ve visited quite a few English country houses, but that’s not the same, is it?” she remarked hastily.
“Very different,” he agreed blandly, fully concentrating on pulling on the cigar. “Actually, when Marie Ange was alive, we didn’t live there. We split our time between London and Paris.”
A rush of horrified realization made Elm look straight at him. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea. I—it was extremely bad manners of me, I—”
“Don’t. He reached across and laid a hand over hers. “How could you possibly have known? It was a natural conclusion to think I was divorced. You may remember Marie Ange. We met at Rosey. Anyway, it all happened a long time ago, so don’t feel bad.” He squeezed her hand.
Elm mustered a smile, still chiding herself. Then she glanced uneasily at the snifter the waiter had placed before her. It was foolish to accept an after-dinner drink, but she could use it after her faux pas.
“Now, tell me some more about your life in Savannah,” Johnny said, deftly redirecting the conversation. “I imagine a politician’s wife has an inordinate amount of duties to perform?” He quirked a brow and raised his glass.
She shrugged, thankful for the change of subject. “There are lots of political and social functions, but I try to limit my involvement where I can. I far prefer to work on my own projects. At present, I’m restoring the gardens at Oleander with the help of some residents from the local shelter for abused women.”
“That sounds very laudable.”
“Not at all. I hope I can help restore some harmony in their lives, that’s all.”
“I didn’t mean to sound condescending. I’m sure it’s a very worthwhile thing you’re doing for these women. And the gardens,” he added with a smile.
“Well, I discovered the original garden plans purely by accident while cleaning out the attic one day and that’s how the idea was born, thanks to a good friend of mine who runs the shelter. We both agreed it might be a wonderfully therapeutic experience for these women to be involved in the restoration project.”
“And what do you do with the rest of your time?”
“Oh, the rest of the time I paint.”
“What medium do you paint in?”
“Oils. I do some abstract, but mostly landscapes. The occasional portrait.”
“Do you exhibit?”
“Now and then. But organizing an exhibit is time-consuming. Somehow, other things always end up taking precedence.” She paused a moment, staring into the distance. Then she shrugged and gave him a rueful grin. “I’m not going to let that happen again. Let things get in the way, I mean. Indeed, Gioconda won’t let me. She’s been trying to persuade me to commit to an exhibit in Italy—I’m half afraid she’s going to lock me in a room with only my paint brushes until I cry uncle and allow her to organize the opening party for me in Florence.”
Johnny watched as she eyed the cognac, biting her lip as though deciding whether or not she should drink it. The gesture was so unintentionally erotic that he almost lost his focus.
“This meal was perfectly delicious,” she said, laying her napkin on the table. “You’ll have to roll me out of here if I’m not careful. I haven’t stopped eating since I arrived.” She glanced about the restaurant, seemingly enchanted by the atmosphere, the open fireplace, the low-beamed ceiling and the intimacy.
“That’s what Gstaad’s all about—relaxing, eating and having fun.”
“I guess you’re right,” she agreed. “I’d forgotten how people here in Europe know how to enjoy life.” Her huge chestnut eyes had taken on a wistful expression that gave her an air of vulnerability. She was a compelling and complex woman, he decided, with an intriguing layer of uncertainty beneath that well-bred confident exterior. She was also perceptive, he mused; she’d sensed his discomfort at discussing Marie Ange and had immediately tried to redirect the conversation. Usually he deeply resented personal questions, and yet he hadn’t minded Elm’s. For some reason he didn’t feel threatened—although part of him knew he should, for she was entirely capable of upsetting his well-ordered world.
He hadn’t come to Gstaad for a fling, but he felt a surprisingly strong sexual attraction to her, and he hoped that the subtle undercurrents he’d sensed signaled an equal interest on her part. The question was whether either of them was in a position to do anything about it. The prospect was both alluring and dangerous. He’d be willing to bet that if they acted on their impulses, they’d both be getting far more than they bargained for.
He watched as she took a fleeting look at her wrist. “Oh, dear. It’s almost eleven-thirty. Time’s flown. Maybe I’d better be getting back to Gioconda’s.”
“Already?” he asked, surprised at the regret he felt that the evening was coming to an end.
“It’s getting late.”
“Really? Gosh! I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t realize Gioconda had turned into such a stickler—an eleven o’clock curfew’s pretty strict.”
Elm laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not good at this,” she admitted, pressing her long, smooth hands together again in an elegant yet nervous gesture. “It’s been a long time since I went out to dinner with anyone except my hus—ex—oh, God, when will I get this right? Soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“How long?” he asked softly.
“Well, let’s see.” She twiddled the snifter. “I married Harlan right out of college, so a long time. Twelve years, still more if you count the engagement.” She gave a nervous laugh and glanced quickly up as the waiter hovered solicitously, seeing if they needed anything.
Smiling, Johnny reached across the table and took her hand in his, casually turning her fingers. “I was thinking that perhaps we could either go to the Bellevue—probably meet up with some of our old pals.” He grimaced comically. “Or preferably we could go somewhere else on our own for a nightcap. That is, if Gioconda won’t get too worried about the lateness of the hour.”
“Oh, shut up,” she giggled, allowing his bronzed hand to stay put over hers,
“Well?” he prodded, “any thoughts on the matter?”
“Perhaps,” she murmured cautiously, and he wondered if she was conscious of his fingers lightly clasping hers.
“I’ve got a perfect compromise,” he said temptingly. “How about going to the Green Go at the Palace Hotel for old times’ sake?”
“You mean dance