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 Besides, you should return to the sea so that it no longer represents a negative experience to you.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?”