It pleased him that she wanted to improve her understanding of his language. Years of living in New York had taught him that few Americans were willing to make such an effort.

“Why is everything sectioned off this way?” Rowan asked after he had brought her back into the front of the kitchen. “Wouldn’t it be easier to do all the prep work in one area, have the storage units together?”

“Using la marche en avant, the staff assure that work is done in the correct order,” he explained, “with no clean foods coming near the unclean things like garbage and soiled dishes.”

Her expression cleared. “Okay. So everything moves clockwise until it’s plated and ready to be served: delivery, initial prep, storage, hot and cold prep, plating, then service.” She waited until he nodded. “Trash and bus bins are brought through the side door and go down that way to the sinks and the compactor, away from the food.”

He smiled at how quickly she comprehended what had taken the French three hundred years to perfect. “You must have worked at many restaurants.”

“To be honest, only a bakery shop—Emmanuel’s Pâtisserie,” she amended. “We had a couple of tables out in front for coffee, cakes, sandwiches, that kind of thing. Manny ran his kitchen the same way you do.”

“Then he was French, or taught by a Frenchman.” Dansant escorted her to the center cuisine island, where the bulk of the cooking was done, and explained the layout of the equipment. “Here we have cooktops and stoves on this side, rotisseries and broilers on the other. The brigade de cuisine work mainly here, but the garde-manger, rôtisseur, saucier, and pâtissier all have their own mise en place at their stations where they ready the food for final cooking. When the orders begin they will go through their provisions quickly and call for what they need from cold or dry storage. That is when you will collect it for them, and perhaps assist or plate for them.”

“Sounds good.”

“Later, after we have our family meal, you will help clean and sanitize the kitchen surfaces.” He saw her palm as she tucked back a curl that had strayed from the edge of her bandanna, and caught her wrist without thinking. “What is this?”

“It’s a hand.” She sounded puzzled. “I come equipped with two of them.”

So she did. Last night both of her palms had been grazed, but not deeply enough to mar her fair skin. Now he saw no trace of them.

“They weren’t as scratched up as I thought,” she said quickly, as if she had read his thoughts. “It was mostly blood from my knees. I must have grabbed them right after I crashed.”

She was lying now. “How are your knees?”

“Sore.” She checked the chunky watch she wore, deftly removing her hand from his in the process. “Who takes care of cleaning up the restaurant tables and stuff out front?”

“The front of the house,” he corrected. “A cleaning crew comes two days each week. The waiters and service manager see to the rest before they finish their shift.”

“So all we have to worry about is keeping the kitchen clean.”

“Everyone tends to their own stations. The rest we do together.” He regarded her steadily, trying to see what else he had missed last night. She had the unmarked, translucent skin of a child, and he saw no lines or other indications of her age. “How old are you, Rowan?”

“Twenty-one. Completely legal.” She didn’t like him asking. “What, you want to see my ID?”

Dansant wondered if it would be genuine. He had not intruded on her mind last night more than was absolutely necessary—he had violated her enough by holding and kissing her—but certainly she was young. Perhaps she spoke the truth, and was nothing more than what she appeared, but now doubt brought with it one possible explanation for what had compelled him to touch her. “Where is your family?”

“I told you last night, I don’t have any.”

He had to be sure. “No parents, brothers, sisters?”

“None.” Her tone grew bitter. “I was abandoned at birth, and raised in foster care. No one has ever claimed me as their daughter or sister or third cousin twice removed, but then, they probably would have gone to jail for child abandonment if they had.” She turned away from him.

Dansant felt like an ogre for pressing her, but from the scant details she had given him he would have to know more. Silently he decided to have Meriden perform a discreet background check on his newest employee as soon as possible. “I did not ask to be rude, Rowan. Je suis désolé.” His staff would soon be arriving, and he had yet to post the menu for the night. “How is your handwriting?”

“Readable, but nothing fancy.”

“Then it is a thousand times better than mine.” He took down the big blackboard and handed her a piece of chalk. “We offer a small menu each night, five plats principals with hors d’oeuvres and desserts that suit them. We list the main courses on the board in French and English.”

She held the chalk above the board. “Fire away.”

“Loup de mer rôti aux herbes,” he told her as he moved to stand beside her and watch.

“Roasted sea wolf?” Her grin reappeared. “Is that with or without the fur?”

“Roasted sea bass,” he corrected, “with herbs only.”

“Then why not just call it bass?”

“It would be confusing.” He loved to see her smile. “In French, bass is un instrument de musique.”

“It is in English, too,” she assured him, “and we never get confused.”

He pointed at the board. “Loup de mer, if you please.”

Dansant gave her the rest of the menu, throughout which she joked and even constructed a kind of story. His poulet demi-deuil was not a chicken with a truffle-stuffed skin, but a depressed widowed hen; the filet de boeuf au vin had done something unspeakable to the hen’s coq, probably by stewing him in the petits pois aux morilles, or dropping him in with the cabbage and potatoes to make trinxat.

“The poor chick,” Rowan sighed as she finished writing the last item on the board in English. “She loses her guy to a side of beef, stuffs herself with high-priced ’shrooms, and then ends up roasting for it.” She chuckled as she gave him a sideways glance. “Ain’t love grand?”

Dansant’s amusement faded. Love was not grand; it was tragedy, it was horror. For him, there could never be love.

Last night, when Rowan had been in his arms, she had murmured something against his mouth, and another voice woke inside his head.

This life was never yours. Neither is she.

In dousing his need, that voice had been as effective as a fire hose. Dansant had groaned as he pushed Rowan from him, holding her arm only to keep her from collapsing. Commanding her made her pliant but also temporarily stripped her of her power of mind and will; she would do nothing but respond willingly to his desires. Even in that she had no choice, and once more Dansant was reminded of the monster that he was beneath his civilized veneer, that he could do this to a being as helpless as she.

“Before I kissed you,” he said to her, “did you want me? Give me your truth, Rowan.”

She nodded slowly, and then shook her head.

It seemed she shared his confusion. “Do you have a lover or husband?” Another shake of her head. At least he had not trespassed on another man’s claim. “You will remember nothing of this. As before, you will feel safe and at ease with me. You will trust me as you do a friend.” He couldn’t help adding, “More so than any of your other friends.”

He’d taken his hands from her, and knelt before her, and after releasing her from his control had tended to her injuries. She would never remember the kissing or the touching. Or how close she had come to being stripped and dragged to the floor and fucked until she screamed for him.

“Dansant?” A slim hand waved in front of his face. “You keep zoning out on me.”

“Forgive me.” Not for the first time he wished he could erase his own memories. “Talk of love . . . it is not always so grand.”

“You got burned?” Her chin dropped. “Come on.”

“It was a friend,” he lied. “He lost his beloved one, and it sent him into hell. I did what I could; I tried to bring him back to life, but he . . . he suffers still.” Part of it was true. They had both suffered, each in their own way, after discovering what had been and never would be again.

Her eyes became distant. “That’s why they call it true love, I guess.” A rumble came from the alley, and she put down the chalk. “Sounds like the first delivery is here. I’ll get it.”

As Rowan went to the back door, Dansant looked up the shadowy flight of stairs, almost expecting to see Meriden there, waiting, listening. He could almost see his black eyes, staring at him, knowing everything, despising him for what he had done to Rowan. Hating him for what he was, wanting to kill him.

It was a pity, Dansant thought, that he was already dead.

“Whadayawanmista?”

Meriden glanced at the menu board over the counter. “Large black coffee and a bow tie.”

The tired-eyed girl nodded, cracking her gum as she punched the picture keys on her register. “Three-ohseven.”

He handed her four bucks. “Keep the change.”

She worked up a smile for him. “Thanks.” After she’d poured and handed him his coffee, she went to the doughnut racks. “Oh, crap. Mister, the bow ties aren’t out yet.”

Which was why he’d ordered one. “I’ll be sitting over there.” He nodded to a corner table.

“Yeah, okay.” She turned to the next customer. “Whadayawanlady?”

Meriden sat down and sampled the coffee, which was drinkable, and took out his notepad and the photo of Alana King. When the counter girl walked over with his bow tie wrapped in a two-sided bag, she saw the photo.

“That your daughter? She’s cute.”