She was lying. Memorizing the recipes? Offering tips on the preparation? When he combined that with her excitement over lobster thermidor, he was certain Alice did more than observe Angelo. He smoothed his trousers and affected a casual tone. “You must be a quick study. When I was in Paris, I tried to learn how to make a béchamel sauce and I ended up scalding the milk every time. By the fifth batch, they told me to give up.”

She chuckled. “The first time I attempted a béarnaise, the bain-marie was too hot—”

Horror filled her expression, and they stared at each other for a long moment. While he felt victorious, he sensed there was a reason Alice had lied. So if she wasn’t ready to confide in him, he wouldn’t press.

She seemed to collect herself, bit by bit, her armor rebuilding as the seconds ticked by. “Angelo tries to teach me every now and again, though I am terrible at everything.”

He doubted it. She was smart, observant and clearly loved food. If he had to guess, he would say she was probably quite competent in the kitchen. However, he’d already pushed her enough today by answering the door in his dressing gown. He needed these lessons to continue as much as she did, and offending her was not the way to collect Franconi’s recipes.

He adopted his most charming grin. “It is nice to have friends who are willing to teach you.”

“Yes, it certainly is.” Her eyes flicked to his mouth for the briefest of seconds before returning to meet his gaze.

Well, well. That couldn’t have been more obvious. Was his pupil considering another type of lesson, one that involved lips, teeth and tongues?

That suited him just fine. Last night had been altogether too personal from his point of view. He was not interested in spilling secrets or having his choices dissected again.

Your expectations seem very high.

Resting his elbows on the armrests, he steepled his fingers. “Let’s skip the questions today. I think we should focus on practical examples, rather than theoretical.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning real-world experience. Not merely information.”

“Like the hand-holding?”

“Exactly.” The possibilities were endless, but they should start with the basics. “I assume you know how to dance, so what about flirting?”

Her brows lowered, her gaze suspicious. “You can teach me to flirt?”

In his sleep. “Of course. I am quite proficient at it—and a woman or two has flirted with me over the years.”

“I bet. Does it work?”

“Depends on what you consider success, but generally yes.” He edged forward, more eager than he cared to admit. “So, would you like to learn how to flirt with a man?”

“I suppose I should, if I want to attract the right husband.”