Four

Annie tried not to squirm as Julien interrogated the poor waitress about the wine list. From what she could tell, the restaurant had a broad selection of wines from Chile, Australia, Spain, Italy, California, and even Argentina. But apparently the handful of reds from France weren’t up to par.

The first time this had happened at a restaurant, Annie told herself that she was being oversensitive. Wine was obviously important to him, and Julien’s worldliness was one of the things that attracted her to him. But right now she just wanted to tell him that he was being an ass. They were in a remote corner of Scotland in a small seafood restaurant, and the waitress was probably eighteen, for goodness’ sake. What kind of extensive knowledge about Bordeaux did he expect?

But after their argument earlier, she didn’t want to ruin the special evening that he’d arranged to make it up to her.

She didn’t like the captain any more than he did, but neither had she liked Julien’s attempt to humiliate the other man, forcing him to apologize and then lying about contacting another company. If she’d noticed that captain’s confident, no-BS, “don’t even try to mess with me” silent strength in the contest between the two men, she didn’t mention it. Nor did she think too long about who had so obviously come out ahead in the exchange.

She didn’t know what was wrong with Julien, but the mean-spirited, childish behavior had reflected poorly on him. She’d told him so and he’d apologized, but it still bothered her.

The waitress finally gave up and the owner came out to talk to him. After a few apologies, the owner brought out the closest thing they had to a Bordeaux. Apparently it met with Julien’s rigorous standards. After going through the long, drawn-out process of tasting it, he nodded his approval. The same process had fascinated her the first time—she’d never gone out with anyone who knew anything about wine—but right now it was just adding to her irritation.

For once she wished he would just order a damned beer.

“Whatever lager you have on tap,” the Canadian captain—Dan—had said when the waitress came by to take their order earlier and Julien had asked whether he wanted a glass of their wine. He’d shaken his head. “Never acquired the taste for it.”

If Julien hadn’t disliked him enough already, that had ensured it. He’d smiled superiorly, and she knew he was thinking something along the lines of “peasant.”

When the waitress started to pour a glass for her, Annie felt a spark of rebellion. “I think I’ll have a glass of the rosé instead.”

Too bad they didn’t have a white zin, but the rosé was almost as “bad” in Julien’s book.

Annie didn’t care. She liked blush wines. She would tell him about the time at college she and some of her friends had done the “Tour de Franzia,” a drinking game played with the boxed “pink” wine, but he’d probably keel over and die of horror.

Instead he only gave a slight frown in her direction, before launching into another long series of questions directed at the waitress about the menu and how everything was prepared. When he started in about his girlfriend being a vegetarian, Annie stopped him. He wasn’t going to make her a part of this.

Smiling apologetically at the girl, who by now was looking as though she wanted to cry, she said, “I’ll just have the rocket salad to start, and the goat cheese and onion tart. Both sound delicious. Thank you.”

The young girl nodded back in gratitude. Annie would make sure to slip her an extra ten pounds the next time she went to the bathroom. Julien wasn’t a bad tipper, but whatever he tipped wouldn’t be enough for that ordeal.

Eventually he decided on the rabbit starter and the veal entrée—exactly what Annie guessed he would order when she’d first glanced at the menu. He liked cute and fuzzy. Annie couldn’t do it. She wasn’t a vegetarian for health reasons; she just thought that if you ate meat you should be willing to kill for it.

Her father had taught her that the first—and only—time they went hunting together. His lesson had backfired, however, when the ten-year-old Annie refused to pull the trigger and announced that from that moment on she wouldn’t eat meat. Her mother, never much on the hunting bandwagon herself, had thought it was hysterical and told him it was his own fault—Annie hadn’t gotten her stubbornness or fierce set of beliefs from her.

The rare happy memory of her childhood was interrupted by Julien, asking her about her wine.

They made small talk throughout the meal, but it wasn’t until she was pushing around the remnants of her fresh raspberries and chocolate mousse that Julien ventured beyond the “how is your” or “don’t you like your” questions.

“Why are you being like this? I told you I was sorry, and I’m trying to make it up to you.”

From his peeved expression, it was clear he thought she was being unreasonable. Was she? He had gone to the trouble of arranging a romantic dinner rather than having a curry with the rest of their group, and the prices were high for his starving-grad-student budget. But an expensive meal wasn’t what she wanted. What she’d wanted was an explanation.

“I know, and I appreciate it. But I guess what happened earlier bothered me more than I realized. It wasn’t like you.”

At least she didn’t think it was, but then again, how well did she really know him? Maybe that was what was bothering her most of all. She’d run off to Scotland on a wild adventure with a man she had known for two months, and the reality of that was catching up with her. She wasn’t usually impulsive.

He’d been acting different since they arrived. Or had he? Could it be that she was only seeing him clearly now because everything else was different, too? Alone in a way they’d never been before—without her familiar surroundings and other friends around her—what she’d excused as foreign or eccentric was now just rude and . . . weak.

The much-hated word resonated in her ears. It had been the worst criticism her father could level on someone, and she’d always reacted against it. Just because not all men wanted to play superhero like him didn’t make them weak. And ironically being a superhero had made her father exactly that.

Julien wasn’t weak. He was kind and compassionate and thoughtful. He’d always treated her with consideration and respect. He was always a perfect gentleman—even when they made love. He took his time—foreplay was the national sport of France, he liked to jest—always seeing to her pleasure first. She’d never had someone spend so much time kissing her shoulders and arms. If she sometimes wished he would just hurry up, she told herself not to be ridiculous. She was lucky to have someone so considerate and romantic in her life.

She was being unfair to him. And she realized how much when he reached over to take her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before bringing it to his mouth. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. But I was jealous.”

“What?” Annie was incredulous. “Of the scruffy captain?”

Julien gave her a searching look from under his indecently long lashes. “I saw the way he looked at you, and I thought you might be attracted to him.”

He couldn’t be serious. She might have noticed the captain’s longshoreman’s physique and size—it would be hard not to—but that wasn’t what attracted her to a man. Admittedly he had amazingly sharp and piercing eyes, and the part of his face she could see beneath the threadbare cap and heavy beard appeared to be good-looking in that tough-guy fashion that could be appealing, but physical appeal wasn’t what was important to her.

Or rather, it wasn’t usually all that was important to her.

“How could you think that? You are what I’m attracted to. You are drop-dead gorgeous”—not to mention clean-shaven—“sophisticated, cultured, smart, and the most charming man I have ever met.” The captain had about all the charm of a rock. “Not to mention that you care about the same things I do like politics and the environment.” She shook her head. “Didn’t you see him washing out that oily engine part in the sea? God only knows how many carbon emissions that old guzzler of a boat he captains is giving off. He probably has an old pickup truck or SUV to go along with it. A guy like that?” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine anything we’d have to talk about.”

“You seemed to talk about diving long enough,” Julien pointed out. She bit her lip, realizing he was right. She’d felt bad for excluding him, but it was rare she had the opportunity to talk with someone who knew as much about diving as she did. Julien held her gaze and added, “And I don’t think talking was necessarily what he had in mind.”

The realization of what he meant made her blush. And for a moment she imagined what it would be like having that big, muscular body on top of her—naked—and that sizable column she’d had her hand wrapped around slowly pushing inside.

No. She immediately knew that he wouldn’t be slow. He’d be hard and fast and probably a little rough. Just the way she imagined when she was alone in bed at night.

The wave of heat that passed through her was so powerful, so intense, she almost shuddered.

Maybe Julien was a little more right than she wanted him to be. The physical attraction had been stronger than she wanted to admit. But it didn’t mean anything.

She returned the squeeze of his hand with one of her own. She rolled her thumb over his finely boned fingers. He had good hands, even if they were a little soft. But she wasn’t Jerry Seinfeld; she wasn’t going to get skeeved out by something as silly as “man hands”—or rather, the lack thereof.

The captain’s hands had been big and rough with calluses. She frowned, remembering the cuts and burn marks as well. She’d noticed a few marks on one side of his face as well that looked recently healed. Had he been in some kind of accident? Was that why he seemed so grim?

Why was she thinking about this?

She turned back to Julien. “I think you are reading far more into it than there was. I don’t think Captain Dan likes me any better than I like him. But none of that matters. The only man I have in my mind is you.”

Her words seemed to convince him, and things felt back to normal as they walked back to the room hand in hand. She even felt a slight flutter of excitement when he closed the door behind them and started to kiss her. Until he turned on the light and moved on to her neck to begin the long, drawn-out process of unbuttoning her blouse.

With Julien everything was long and drawn out.

He must have sensed her withdrawal. He lifted his head and looked down at her. “What is it?”

He really was good-looking with that dark hair slumped over his brow, his dark eyes, full lips, and clefted chin. If physical attraction was so important to her—she thought with frustration, recalling her reaction to the captain—why wasn’t she into this?

“Nothing,” she said. “Don’t stop.” She tried to move his head down to her breast. She liked the way he circled his tongue on her nipple and sometimes sucked, but apparently it was too soon for that. He began to press slow kisses around her clavicle. Not the clavicle, she nearly groaned. He would be there for an hour.

Impatience rose inside her. She couldn’t hold back and blurted, “Do you think we could, um, go a little faster tonight?”

He lifted his head again, his eyes narrowed. She could tell right away that she’d made a mistake. He looked mortally offended. As if she’d just impugned his honor as a lover and a Frenchman. “What do you mean? Do you not like how I make love to you?”

“Of course I do!” she exclaimed vehemently. “It’s just that I’m a little tired—”

Wrong thing to say. He released her as if she were a . . . box of pink wine. His expression held the coldness that reminded her of his friend Jean Paul’s. “Go to bed, then. But it won’t be with me until you figure out whether you want that. All in—isn’t that how you Americans say it? But you better figure it out fast. I went out on a branch for you, but there are plenty of others who can take your place.”

Limb, not branch. But she didn’t correct him. She’d never seen him so angry. But what was he talking about? “Julien, wait!”

But it was too late. He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

•   •   •

It was after midnight when Annie realized that she was going to have to find Julien and apologize. In addition to being sensitive, he apparently had a stubborn streak. As that was a character trait she understood, she figured it was up to her to make it right—even though she hadn’t really done anything wrong.

But she was feeling guilty, suspecting that her less-than-amorous response to Julien might have more to do with her illicit thoughts about Captain Dan than she wanted to admit.

She didn’t know what had come over her; she never should have blurted out her request like that. It was easy to see how Julien had taken it the wrong way. She hadn’t been rejecting him or criticizing his lovemaking . . . exactly. She’d just wanted a little more “rip off the clothes” and not quite as much “romance.”

He’d clearly overreacted—and she didn’t appreciate his threat to find another woman to “replace” her if that was what he meant by that strange comment—but guilt propelled her to throw on jeans and a sweatshirt, head down into the still-crowded bar, where Sergio and Marie told her Julien had gone down to the camp with Jean Paul and some of the others, and venture out into the cool, starry night.

She sighed at the fresh brace of air. She could definitely get used to this. She loved how the temperature dropped at night here even in the summer. Because she had only lived in the South—Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and Louisiana—it was a new experience for her. Summer in the South meant hot and humid—day or night. Although at this time of year, Scotland didn’t have much night. Even though it was after midnight, the sun had set only a couple of hours ago, and would rise again in about four hours. It never really got that dark in the summer—it was more like perpetual twilight.

Unfortunately, despite the more temperate weather, she hadn’t escaped bugs. Instead of annoying mosquitoes, the Isle of Lewis had midges—which might even be worse. The dreaded things had swarmed them on their walk back from the restaurant earlier in the evening.

Conscious of the late hour, and used to big cities, where walking alone at night was never a good idea, Annie hurried down the waterfront street toward the ferry building. She had to go past a bar with a few men standing around smoking outside, but other than stare a little too long for politeness’ sake, they didn’t bother her. Her confident smile and bold “Hi” had done the trick, making them turn away like startled rabbits. Objects weren’t supposed to talk.

Still, her heart was beating a little fast by the time she reached the makeshift campground and started to look around for Julien in the throng of activists. There were probably around a hundred people here now. Her nose wrinkled. From the stench, most of them seemed to enjoy smoking pot. It was a part of activist culture—which definitely leaned toward hippie—but drugs had never been her thing.

Tents filled most of the cement parking lot, but in the center a large area had been left as a communal area for cooking and eating. To one side was a large fire pit—ironically fashioned out of an old oil drum—with blankets, cheap lawn chairs, and a few ratty pieces of upholstered furniture probably recycled from a Dumpster strewn around it.

It took her a while to find Julien. With good reason. He and Jean Paul were off to the side seated opposite each other at a picnic table where the light from the fire didn’t quite reach them. But she recognized the shadowy profiles of the two men. What she didn’t recognize, however, was the third profile. The third profile that was bent very close to Julien’s and belonged to a woman. The three of them appeared to be deep in conversation.

Thick as thieves.

Annie felt her skin prickle. There was something about the intensity of the conversation that made her uneasy. What were they talking about? And who was the blond-haired woman who was practically sitting on Julien’s lap?

It couldn’t be what Annie was thinking. But there was something intimate about the way they sat together that didn’t feel right.

The woman inhaled from a cigarette before tapping the ash into a soda can. Annie didn’t miss the three bottles of wine and the half-full glasses that were next to them. They’d obviously been here for some time. To Annie’s surprise, the woman passed the cigarette to Julien. He took a long drag before handing it back as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Since when did he smoke?

Strangely it was the sight of Julien smoking rather than the proximity of and the apparent intimacy with the woman that upset her. He’d told her he didn’t smoke. Like her, he’d claimed to have a grandmother who died of lung cancer. Had he lied to her or was there another explanation?

As much as Annie wanted to storm over there and confront him, she forced herself to take a few deep breaths before she made her way around the bonfire.

“Make it happen,” she heard the woman say as she approached the table from behind Julien and the woman. “I have faith in your persuasive abilities.”

Something about the way she said “persuasive” made Annie’s breath catch. Jean Paul, who was opposite her, looked up at the sound.

Clearly her sudden appearance had startled him. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Overhear anything interesting, Mademoiselle Henderson?”

She didn’t like the way he was looking at her—or his threatening tone. He made it seem as if she were intentionally spying on them. She hadn’t intended to overhear anything. It was they who’d been too caught up in their conversation to notice her.

So much for trying to give Julien’s teacher another chance. She didn’t like him.

But she wasn’t going to let him bully her. She gave him an overly cheeky smile. “Not yet, but don’t stop on my account. You all seemed enthralled by something.” Julien and the woman next to him had turned to stare at her as soon as Jean Paul spoke. Annie turned to the woman, who was older than her long blond hair had suggested. Late thirties or maybe even forty. But whatever number, she was striking, with the ageless beauty afforded by good bone structure. “We haven’t met,” she said to her. “I’m Annie.”

“Sofie,” the other woman said, briefly meeting her gaze in the dim light before turning back to Julien. “Your boyfriend has been telling me all about you.”

Annie couldn’t place the accent, but it definitely wasn’t French like Jean Paul’s and Julien’s. She would guess some part of Scandinavia. Swedish maybe?

“He has?” Annie looked at Julien, who wasn’t quite as good at hiding his emotions as the other two. He definitely looked anxious about something.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I came to find you. I was worried. It was getting late.” She turned to the other woman, who had lit another cigarette. “How do you all know each other?”

The woman shrugged. “Here and there. It’s a small world with what we do.” She started to get up. “I should go.”

Julien and Jean Paul started to object.

“Don’t go on my account,” Annie said. “I’m not staying.”

She looked hopefully at Julien, but he either hadn’t gotten the hint or had chosen to ignore it. Instead he looked relieved that she wasn’t going to ruin his night. “Don’t wait up for me. Some of the guys are going to sing later, and they asked me to play.”

Julien played guitar. Not well, but enough to strum along.

“I can walk you back if you’d like,” Jean Paul offered.

Good God, no! Every instinct revolted at the thought.

Annie shook her head—hopefully with less vehemence than she felt. “That’s all right. I’ll be fine. It’s only a few blocks.”

Before anyone could argue, she gave a short wave. “See you later.” And took off back through the crowded parking lot of partiers.

She had a few offers to stay along the way—“Hey, beautiful, what’s the hurry?”—but after extracting her arm from a couple of playful grabs, she was back out on the waterfront street inhaling fresh, un-cannabis-laced air.

Angry, and more than a little hurt by Julien’s dismissiveness, she wasn’t paying attention to her surroundings. Too late, she realized someone was behind her.