CHAPTER ONE
London Rose felt a surge of air rising out of her lungs.
Don’t yawn, she sternly told herself.
Whatever you do, don’t yawn.
She didn’t want to make her boredom any more obvious than she thought it already must be. But her boyfriend, Ian Mitchell, didn’t seem to have noticed. He just kept talking endlessly—and nervously—about his accounting business.
“I’m talking about the future, London,” Ian said. “And I think the future looks very good.”
The yawn now started retreating, collapsing on its own weight.
The future, London thought.
She wished she had Ian’s confidence in the future. She hadn’t told him that she had every reason to believe she was about to become unemployed. She wished she didn’t have to tell him eventually.
That might fit his plans perfectly, she thought as he kept talking.
“You know, I’ve been asked to prepare all the books for my corporation’s acquisition and merger …”
She’d been dating Ian for about a year now, spending time with him whenever she was here in New Haven, and he didn’t always drone on like this. She had an uncomfortable suspicion why tonight was different.
“All told,” Ian continued, “our business looks very sound indeed for the foreseeable future …”
London was sure that this buildup was poor Ian’s clumsy way of trying to get to a certain point. She had guessed his intentions when he told her he’d made reservations at Les Chambres, one of the finest and most expensive restaurants in New Haven. She’d been here a couple of times years ago, but she had never been ushered past the maze of rooms into a private nook like this before.
She and Ian even had their own small fireplace. In May, Connecticut evenings could be cool enough to enjoy a fire if you wanted the ambience.
The setting was perfect, with firelight and candlelight, a soft glow from the wall sconces, warm brown-and-cream-colored walls, and comfortable upholstered chairs drawn up to a small, elegantly set table.
The meal had been spectacular—chilled English pea soup with mint-marinated goat cheese, followed by a wonderful lobster tortellini.
The conversation, however, left something to be desired.
Ian was still carrying on about business.
“… you see, I’ve been doing annual projections for the company …”
As London tried to listen, she poked her serving of choux profiterole with her fork. The dessert pastry crumbled exquisitely, revealing an airy puffiness inside. She took a small taste, and it melted sweetly in her mouth.
It’s perfect, she thought.
As someone who’d traveled the world trying the most delicious foods of hundreds of different places, she knew she was a pretty good judge of fine cuisine.
In fact, the choux profiterole was so light and delicate that it seemed almost a wonder that it didn’t float off into the air. Surely she could enjoy it despite the awkward circumstances, just as she had the rest of the meal.
She only wished the evening wasn’t destined to end the way she expected.
“… and we are mapping out a ten-year plan and a twenty-year plan,” Ian continued.
Suddenly he paused.
Is he going to ask me now?
It would certainly seem like a non sequitur after what he had said so far.
He looked at her intently and smiled the warmest smile he could muster.
“You see, our business is all about stability. Predictability.”
He leaned toward her across the table and murmured, “And I think stability and predictability are important—not only in business but in life.”
He paused again, then added in a significant tone, “Don’t you?”
London swallowed hard and painfully.
What on earth am I supposed to say?
Fortunately, before she tried to say anything, their haughty French waiter approached their table.
“Is everything as you wish, monsieur, madame?” he said with a thick accent.
Before London could open her mouth to say everything had been perfect, Ian spoke up.
“Madame and I would each like a glass of your best cognac.”
“Very well, monsieur.”
As the waiter left, Ian forced out a chuckle.
“The waiter called you madame,” he said.
So did you, London wanted to say.
“Yeah, well, I’m not getting any younger,” she replied. “I guess the days when French men automatically called me mademoiselle are over.”
Although thirty-four isn’t exactly matronly, she almost added.
“Oh, I don’t think it’s an age thing,” Ian said. “You’re still young and beautiful. I’m sure the waiter thinks so too.”
The compliment didn’t make London feel any better. Unfortunately, she knew that the waiter had given Ian a near-perfect opportunity for a follow-up. If Ian had his way, French men would be calling her madame for the rest of her life. And a lot of other people would be referring to her as