“Ah, I had the wine steward at the Dakota
procure it for me. Will it work?”
“Oh, I should think so.” Emily shook her head
at the extravagance, secretly flattered by Derian’s efforts toward making the
evening special, and went back to chopping.
Derian set the red aside to breathe and
settled onto the high-backed stool to watch Emily work. Her hands flashed, the
gleaming knife blade a blur, and small piles of colorful vegetables appeared as
if by magic. Although the area was small, it was easy to see it had been laid
out with care by someone who actually intended to use it. The range was a new
compact high-end commercial model. Gleaming pots and pans sat on several
burners and hung from a copper rack affixed to the ceiling. She watched as
Emily efficiently assembled items into a roasting pan and slid it into the
oven. “Looks like you have a calling. Ever considered being a chef?”
“I’ve always loved to cook. But the books
captured me first.” Emily nodded toward the wine. “Would it be a sin to try
that prematurely?”
“I’d say it’s breathed enough. Besides, there
can be no sin in shared indulgence.”
Emily regarded her silently, and Derian held
her gaze. She couldn’t be anywhere near Emily without that stirring of
excitement, and tonight she didn’t want to avoid it. The last days had been
hell. Meeting Emily was the only good thing to come out of the whole nightmare,
and for a few hours, she intended to bask in the pleasure. Derian poured wine
into the two glasses Emily set on the counter, then lifted hers and held it
out. “To Henrietta.”
“To Henrietta.” Emily lightly touched her
glass to Derian’s. A high, clear chime of crystal rang out. “Thank you for
calling me this afternoon.”
“Not at all.” After Derian had visited
Henrietta in the recovery room, she’d called Emily at the agency with an
update. Henrietta was stable, but not yet awake. She wouldn’t remember Derian
visiting, holding her hand, informing her that all was well. That didn’t
matter. She’d been there, as she’d needed to be—for herself as much as
Henrietta. “Tomorrow she’ll be more aware and you can visit.”
“I hope so.”
“So,” Derian said as the warm, sharp taste of
the wine teased all her senses, “who taught you to cook?”
Emily made a wry face. “I always wanted to
spend time in the kitchen when I was young, but my parents thought trailing
after the cook was unseemly. They didn’t mind, however, when I took cooking
lessons as soon as I was old enough.” She shrugged, her expression distant. “I
stole off to the kitchen at the embassy as often as I could when they were
entertaining foreign dignitaries, trying to master as many national dishes as I
could.”