“I’ve always observed that the truly great chefs distinguish themselves in simple meals, rather than complex ones.”

“I feel exactly the same.”

He smiled at her. “Madame—Sophie, I hope you will not consider me very forward if I say that it is a real pleasure for me to have you with us. And indeed, I hope that once you have returned to your home—if you truly feel you must—that you will not be a stranger to us.” He paused. “Well, to own the truth, I want you not to be a stranger to me.”

Sophie laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I would say you were flirting with me, Monsieur.”

“Ah! No, Madame,” he said, seriously. “Not that—not flirting.”

She blushed and took refuge in another forkful of salad.

“Excuse me,” Lazard said ruefully. “I am out of practice, not very good at this. For me it has been too long. Forgive me.”

“Oh,” Sophie said. “You’re doing very well. I mean—I wasn’t offended.”

“But I said things too fast. You know already how beautiful you are, and do not need an old fool like me to tell you so. I will just hope we can become friends.”

Sophie’s mouth felt dry. It had been so many years since she had been talked to like this. In fact, she wasn’t sure she ever had been. Lazard was strong, tall, handsome, and clearly a successful businessman, and yet he seemed to be genuinely fascinated by her. He was sitting there all discomfited—over her. Of all things!

She began to feel herself uncurl, a little, in the unaccustomed warmth of male appreciation. And there was no guilt. She was a widow, she was a free woman. Not that it would go that far. . . .

Although, why not? Why shouldn’t it? said a very small voice inside her.

“I believe we are already friends, Gregoire,” she said, smiling shyly.

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Judy was proud of herself. Everybody had been watching, she knew that much. It was simply too delicious a piece of gossip to pass up. The widow and the mistress; very well, one of the mistresses. But the only one that worked in this company. House Massot was a small, close office. Few people were hired here and fewer fired; many of the secretaries had been working here when Pierre was still around, courting her boldly, the fresh flowers—orchids and other costly out-of-season blooms—landing on her desk every day.

Life at Massot was not that interesting lately. Nothing much had happened since Hugh Montfort and Mayberry had come sniffing around like wolves, but the last time he had tried had been a few years ago. Damn Montfort; Judy couldn’t get a thing noticed right now because his blasted citrines were everywhere. The fashion was for all things spiky and chunky, not for Massot’s sedate, important pieces.