He went back to his hotel in a haze of thought. The cool drafts of skepticism which had whispered around him began to reward him with the exhilaration of walking on the thin ice which they created. He was a fool for danger, and he always would be.
This was danger, as real as a triggered guillotine. It was true that she had no choice about accepting his terms — out loud. But it wasn’t in keeping with her character as he knew it to accept them finally. And she had been just a little too evasive at one point and too acquiescent at another. It didn’t balance. But when the catch would show was something he could only wait for.
He went to her apartment the next afternoon, laden with the brown paper bags of marketing. She made him a drink in the kitchen while he unpacked and went to work with quick and easy efficiency.
“What are we having?”
“Oxtail.” He smiled at her lift of expression. “And don’t despise it. It was always destined for something rarer than soup.”
He was slicing onions and carrots.
“These — browned in butter. Then we make a bed of them in a casserole, with plenty of chopped parsley and other herbs. Then, the joints packed neatly in, like the crowd at a good fire. And then, enough red wine to cover it, and let it soak for hours.”
“When does it cook?”
“When you come home tonight. I’ll drop in for a nightcap, and we’ll watch it get started. Then it cools overnight, and tomorrow we take off the grease and finish it... You’d better let me have a key, in case you’re late.”
“Why don’t you just move in?” He grinned.