toward each other that we were practically falling off our stools.
Straightening, I pushed my demitasse in between us at some attempt of defense. “How long what took?”
“At what point I slept with a woman depended on how long it took her to say yes.”
My mouth must have dropped open because I found myself closing it. I’d heard about people like him, been warned about people like him, but I’d never actually met one. Known one. Been friends with one.
He settled back onto his stool. “And they usually did.”
“What?”
“Say yes.”
To his credit, he didn’t look very proud of his past behavior. His slouching shoulders and hanging head actually indicated embarrassment.
But how do you respond to something so egotistical? So far was it from my way of thinking that he might have been speaking in Swahili.
“Well then let me give you a tip, Cranwell: The nice girls, the kind you didn’t used to date but now want to marry? They generally look for love before they succumb to want or need. It seems to me you need to look for a woman who’ll say no.”
He shrugged. “I like women. Liked them. Like them still. I just don’t know how to relate without trying… well…” He finally gave up.
My answer wasn’t immediate because I couldn’t tell how earnest he was. Thinking of his sheepish looks, his lack of usual confidence, I decided to offer my opinion. “That’s the problem. You’ll have to give up women if you ever want to find a woman.” I looked in his eyes once more, impervious to the danger. “Maybe you’re just scared.”
The doors to his soul slammed shut. “Maybe.” He drained the rest of his espresso and called to Lucy.
As she rose to her feet, he slid off the stool. “See you in the morning.” He turned around as he reached the stairs. “Freddie?”
“Hmm?”
“Would you sleep with me?”
“No!” My indignation mounted as I heard him chuckle. Evidently the familiar Cranwell had resurfaced.
“Maybe there’s something to that advice you gave.”
25
Cranwell wore a thyme-colored wool polo-neck sweater over a pair of nice fitting jeans. He’d folded a heavy coat over his arm and had squatted to rub Lucy’s stomach when I reached the bottom of the stairs. Severine was leaning against the front door watching Cranwell. Considering the way Lucy always snarled at her, I didn’t blame her for keeping her distance.
Cranwell looked up when he heard me.
His chest hairs were peeking out of the collar of his sweater.
Swallowing, I focused my attention on Lucy. I’d never said the man wasn’t handsome. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
We walked to the garage together. It was his idea, so Cranwell insisted on driving. I offered no argument; his black Jaguar beat my cream soda-colored Mini hands down. And his heater probably worked too. Though I still had money left from the settlement of my parents’ estate, I didn’t choose to invest it in a car. What I owned had four wheels, and it got me where I needed to go.
As I settled myself into the beige leather passenger seat, I sighed in pure bliss as Cranwell pushed his coat into the space behind our seats. He glanced over at me and started laughing.
At that moment, I didn’t care: I liked the smell of leather, I liked the look of burled walnut trim. I liked nice cars; it just wasn’t a priority for me to own one. “How do you come to be driving a Jaguar?”
“I like Jags. After I bought my first one, I promised myself I’d never drive anything else.”
“So you had this one shipped to you?”
“No. I bought it in Paris and then drove it over here.”
“And what will you do with it when you leave? Sell it?”
He shrugged. “Probably give it to a friend.”
“Nice gift.”
“I have nice friends.”
He’d alluded before to the fact that he had friends in Paris, but he hadn’t left my chateau for the city except when I’d forced him to in the middle of the month. Maybe, like most smart rich people, they spent their winters in places farther south.
Cranwell pointed out the heated seat feature and let me play with the adjustments while we sped away from the chateau. The ride was heavenly. The weather wasn’t the best, but cocooned inside the Jag, it didn’t matter.
The trip took three hours.
By noon, we had motored into Douarnenez, the site most closely connected with the ancient Legend of Ys. A quaint fishing town in the old Breton style, its fishing port is brightened by a string of buildings with colorful facades topped with black roofs facing off against the ocean. We checked into the hotel and had lunch at a restaurant at the Port de Rosmeur along the water. Heat lamps made it warm enough to eat outside.
Then we drove to Pointe du Raz.
Cranwell parked his Jaguar at the far side of the parking lot. Can’t say that I blamed him; with a car like that, I would have been worried about bumps and scratches too.
We walked together past the gift shops and snack bars and then began the hike over the hills and up toward the rocks until we could see the surf break now and then over the tops of jagged, jumbled stone.
When we reached an abandoned concrete slab at the start of the point, I crossed my arms and hugged myself, trying to trap some body heat inside my pea coat. “So how did you know they weren’t married?”
“I know them.”
“Know them?!”
“Not personally. But I know of them. Enough to know that Sophie has never been married.”
Although I sent forth a fist to punch him, he captured it before it reached his arm and took it and tucked it into his coat pocket. Then he turned to me and smiled the most self-satisfied smile I’d ever seen him make.
And rascal that he was, I had to smile back.
Inside his pocket, he worked my fist apart and then entwined his fingers with mine.
I began to berate myself for not putting up a defense against him, but with the wind whipping my hair and the waves breaking far above the rocks, I decided that I didn’t care anymore. Apparently he was like this with everyone. If flirting didn’t mean anything to him, then why should it mean anything to me? Besides, it felt good to have my hand held; I had missed my companionship with Peter.
To cement my decision, I gave Cranwell’s hand a squeeze.
He tightened his hand around mine for an instant, pulling it close.
Thinking he wanted to say something, I turned toward him and in doing so, my hair blew between us.
He backed away from the stinging strands, releasing my hand.
After using it to tuck my hair inside my coat, I turned back to him, but he was already several yards away, staring seaward.
Suddenly, he turned to me and yelled across the wind, “Come on!” grabbing my hand and yanking me forward. He wasn’t content to just look at the edge of Continental Europe. He wanted to stand on it.
“Cranwell, I don’t think-”
“Nothing says we can’t climb out there.”
