Page 109 of Saxon

"I'm aware. But I'm speaking to the lovely Miss Terra Siobhan Connelly, at the moment."

"Of course, sir." I fork a few slices of prime rib onto my plate, as well as some salad. "You want anything, babe?" I ask Terra, working hard to sound casual.

Terra shakes her head. "I'm so nervous I'm a little queasy."

Jean-Paul laughs at this, sounding and appearing genuinely amused. "The first truly honest thing anyone has said in my presence in a very long time." He lays his hand on hers. "Just breathe, my dear. I'm a horrible, evil old dragon, it is true. But you, at least, have nothing to fear."

Terra glances at him. "You're not old."

Another uproarious laugh. "Ah, flattery. A weapon like no other, when wielded with sufficient skill."

He reaches for a small bowl, using the small spoon to dollop a few spoonfuls onto Terra's plate. "A truly decadent yet sprightly crème brûleé, my dear. You must try it. It soothes a fluttering stomach, I've found. I rarely eat much at these things, but this creme brulé is not to be missed."

"Two bites and my ass will go up three sizes," she says. "But thanks anyway."

Jean-Paul is displeased by this statement. "One cannot ruin perfection, my dear." His gaze is wickedly perceptive. "Are you a glutton? A food addict?”

Terra's silence is equally sharp—anyone else, and I'd be warning him against entering this particular danger zone. Kenny Loggins' theme song is playing in my head as it is, but I dare not interrupt Jean-Paul.

"No." Terra's answer is curt, bordering on rude.

"Have you been forbidden by a doctor from eating certain foods? Have you been told you must reduce yourself to a certain number or you will surely die?"

Terra swallows hard. "No."

"Are you seeking entry into a competitive sorority of some sort, in which one's weight is a barrier to success?" He pauses, thinking. "The Rockettes, for example. Or the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders?"

"Um…no."

Jean-Paul gestures at me. "Has my newly resurrected friend here made you feel inadequate because of your appearance?"

"God, no! The opposite." She takes my hand and gazes at me with that emotion she refuses to name. "I wouldn't have had the courage to come in here tonight if it wasn’t for him."

"I do understand hyperbolic exaggeration, but let's take your claim—that if you took two bites of this delicious crème brûleé, your backside would increase. Would Saxon, whom you so clearly adore, cease to be attracted to you?"

She laughs. Ducks her head. "The opposite, if anything."

"Well then. Q.E.D.” He takes a bite, speaking with his mouth full, somehow able to make even that seem elegant and sophisticated. “Eat the crème brûleé."

Terra picks the smallest, innermost spoon, delicately scoops a small bite, and tastes it. Her eyes widen. "Holy shit. Do you have the Keebler Elves locked up in your kitchen?"

Jean-Paul belly laughs. "You've discovered my secret! I'm afraid I'm going to have to kill you." He lets a beat too long of a silence to elapse before he winks at her. "A joke, my dear. A joke. You never know, with me, but it was a joke, I assure you."

Terra just rolls her eyes at him. "Well, hold off on the murder until I've finished my crème brûleé, please."

Jean-Paul directs a look at me. "You've managed to find a woman with wits to match her beauty, Saxon. I do believe you are outclassed."

"And well do I know it, sir."

"It was a question of honor, Mr. Jean-Paul." Terra puts her spoon down in the bowl and levels a bold, fearless look at him. "The thing with Camilla."

Jean-Paul freezes with his own spoon halfway to his mouth, blinks once, owlishly, and then replaces his spoon in his bowl and sits back. "Elaborate, if you please."

"I know nothing about your world." She waves a hand at him, at me. "But I've met her. Camilla, I mean. And from what Saxon has told me, she wasn't interested in being a part of this world."

"I am aware," Jean-Paul says, his voice dangerously quiet. "You said it was a question of honor."

"I know who Saxon was, before. He's told me. Not everything, of course, but enough. He did his job, and he did it well. You yourself just said he was an artist." She looks at me. "He drew a line, Jean-Paul. She was innocent. Not lily-white—she knew where the money she spent came from. But her hands were clean. He was faced with a choice. It was a question of honor, and he chose." Her gaze goes to Jean-Paul, and I feel the dice rolling, ones and sixes, ones and sixes. This gambit of hers will either mean snake eyes—a hole in both of our heads—or double sixes.