“Ah, Raoul.” I definitely remembered Raoul. At the time, I thought Raoul Luna was one of the most stunning men I’d ever seen. Picture a cross between Jimmy Smits and Antonio Banderas, with Paul Newman’s blue eyes. Tall, dark, and dreamy. Or as the French would say, Tout simplement magnifique. (That was years before I met Derek, of course, who is far and away the most handsome—and dangerous—man in the world.)
“Lucky Colette,” I said, still watching her. She was glancing around the room now as though she wasn’t sure what to do next. She reached for the necklace she wore around her neck and twiddled with whatever stone was hanging on it for a minute. Not seeing anyone else to talk to, she turned and walked back to the kitchen.
“I suppose,” Peter said. “They own their own restaurant in Florida and have a couple of kids.” With a hint of disdain he added, “Raoul is Colette’s pastry chef.”
“Nothing wrong with pastry,” I mused, envisioning Raoul doing…something…with a bowl of whipped cream frosting. I quickly shook away the image.
“No,” Peter said, “but there’s something wrong when a chef with his talent gives it all up to play with sugar and dough. Raoul was a true master chef, while Colette barely graduated.” He wiggled his eyebrows and added, “I’m guessing she made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.”
“Maybe,” I said. Peter clearly considered Raoul’s current position as pastry chef a subservient one, but I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Desserts were a vital part of a restaurant’s menu. To me, at least.
“I’m afraid I must return to the kitchen before Baxter beats me with an egg whisk.” Peter gave a quick nod to Derek. “But we’ll visit later.”
“Sounds good.”
He gave me a resounding kiss on the lips, then moved on to greet friends at another table. I was about to slide back into the booth when I heard a high-pitched “Yoo-hooo!”
I turned in time to see Montgomery Larue dashing toward me. Another chef I’d met in Paris. This place was crawling with them.
“My sweet petunia blossom!” he cried, then wrapped his big arms around me and lifted me off the floor in a powerful hug. When he put me down, I was weaving a little. The man had strong arms.
“It’s been forever,” he said. “And don’t you look fabulous!”
“Thanks, Monty,” I said. “I’ve missed you.”
It was true. Monty had been one of Savannah’s dearest friends from the first day they met at Le Cordon Bleu, and he still visited her at least once a year. Monty had been born and raised in the wilds of Louisiana and couldn’t escape from there fast enough. As he had once explained in that sweet-as-syrup Southern accent of his, “Honey, a large gay man with a penchant for drama and a taste for haute cuisine will not survive for long in the bayou.”
Monty had relocated to Boston and owned two popular restaurants there. I introduced him to Derek and they shook hands firmly. Then Monty patted his chest to get his heart pumping again. “Dear lord, girl, it’s a good thing I didn’t see him first.”
Derek looked mildly alarmed and I giggled. Montgomery always could bring out the giggles in me.
“Now, I would love to stay and chitter-chat with y’all.” He glanced warily over his shoulder. “But I’ve gotta run before Cromwell comes after me with a switch.”
“It’s not that bad, is it?” I asked.
“You have no idea,” he said darkly, as he wiped his slightly damp forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m telling you, he is on a reign of terror.” He turned and stuck out his tongue in the general direction of the kitchen.
“I’ll protect you,” I said in a teasing tone.
“Sweet girl,” he said, and shoved his handkerchief into his back pocket. “We’ll catch up later, won’t we?”
“I can’t wait.”
He blew me a kiss, then walked off rapidly toward the kitchen.
I slid back into the booth, almost exhausted by the exchange. “That was Montgomery. He’s wonderful.”
“Yes,” Derek said, and took my hand. “But, darling, you must’ve left out a few key bits of history when you recounted your summer in Paris.”
“Oh, you mean about Peter?” Apparently, Montgomery hadn’t been wonderful enough to distract Derek from my tête-à-tête with Peter a moment ago.
“Yes. Peter.”
I bit my lip and stared at the ceiling. “Did I leave something out?”
“I believe so.” He squeezed my hand. “You can fill me in on the rest of the sordid details over dinner.”
Our waiter arrived and both of us chose Savannah’s prix fixe selections. Five courses, each with wine pairings. I was tingling with excitement. I did love a good wine pairing.