Jenna reached out and delicately pried the bottle free from the sweaty death grip he had on it. “Gently, will you! You’re mucking up the sediment, it’ll be all cloudy—”

“For God’s sake, woman, just go!” he practically shrieked into her face.

Jenna paused, the realization dawning that somehow her fortune had turned and the balance of power had tipped to her favor. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew who was responsible for this sudden change.

“Geoffrey,” she said and looked him square in the eye.

He clapped both his hands over his face and then shook them apart over his head, a dramatic, silent What?

“Get out of my way.”

He spun around, collecting Tiffany by the arm as he went, and barged a path through the crowd of visibly disappointed onlookers. “Back to work, you dégueulasse animaux, before I fire you all!” he crowed.

Jenna looked down at the bottle of Latour. He wants you to serve it...

You want it, you got it, she thought grimly. But be careful what you wish for, Earl McLoughlin.

She squared her shoulders, raised her chin, stalked out of her office and through the kitchen, holding the Latour in her arms like a child.

Without another glance backward, Jenna strode through the swinging doors.

Leander watched her approach with equal parts fascination and awe.

It wasn’t her figure or her gliding walk or her regal carriage, the determined way she held her head. It wasn’t her ivory skin or the shape of her jaw or the mass of shiny golden locks cascading over her shoulders that set her apart, that drew admiring glances from every male as she passed by.

It was simply that she shone like a flame, a flawless diamond breathing living fire among so many dead lumps of coal.

As she moved gracefully through the swinging doors of the kitchen, past the tables of diners, coming toward him through pools of warm candlelight and patches of dappled shadow, slender and lovely and tall, she blazed brighter and more brilliant than the noonday sun, illuming the air around her like a torch.

She stepped past the bar, lifting her arm with the grace of a swan to snare a Bordeaux glass as she passed. The Blood of the Ikati was clearly visible in her figure, the sensual lines of her body, the way she floated like a panther hunting its prey in the forest. She was lissome and sleek and glorious.

Her beauty made his skin prickle.

But it was those Eyes that drew him in, strange and clear and haunting, that look of something carefully hidden, something guarded. She was brittle and brash on the outside, full of poise and confidence and strength, but her every glance was oddly wounded. Even as she mocked him and called him pathetic, there was some fathomless depth of...

“I suppose I owe you both an apology and a thank you,” Jenna said primly, eyes downcast as she presented the bottle of Latour, label up, for his inspection.

Her voice, quiet and melodious, sent a fresh shiver crawling up his spine. He was glad for the stiff leather of the banquette against his back, real and grounding. He made a conscious effort to keep his body relaxed, his breathing regular.

“You’ve already apologized. And no thanks are necessary.” Leander stroked a thumb over the fine layer of dust on the Latour’s label, keeping his own eyes focused on the bottle.

He nodded toward the bottle, approving.

She set the Bordeaux glass on the white linen tablecloth and used a foil cutter to remove the foil cap over the cork. A corkscrew appeared in her hand.

“I’m sure you must have said something to the maître d’. My job has miraculously been restored.” An elegant turn of her wrist released the cork from the bottle. “Not that I deserve it,” she added, almost inaudibly.

Leander glanced up at her face. His acute hearing had allowed him to overhear every word that dreadful little rat of a man had spoken to her in the kitchen. He had wanted to take Geoffrey’s neck between his hands and squeeze very, very hard.

“I informed him that I plan to dine here every night for the remainder of my...vacation...and simply made clear my expectation that his talented and insightful sommelier would be on hand to assist me with my wine selections.”

He accepted the cork she held out to him without further comment. She watched him stroke a finger up and down the slender stem of the wine glass.

“Shall I decant?”

“No,” he replied, raising his gaze to the poem of her face. “But you should bring another glass.”

“Is someone joining you?”

“Yes. You are.”

He saw how that surprised her. Her slender fingers tightened around the neck of the wine bottle. She shifted her weight to her opposite foot.

“Ah...” She shot a glance toward the kitchen doors. “I don’t really think that would be the best—”

“Come now,” he interrupted with a small smile. “I don’t think your maître d’ would approve of you denying the request of His Holy Dignity, do you?”

It was a provocation—and a deliberate one. He wanted her to be curious, wanted her to wonder how he knew the ridiculous moniker Geoffrey had called him, wanted her to want to get closer—

Jenna slammed the Latour down upon the table with a jarring thump, the wine sloshing in the bottle. Hectic spots of color stained her cheeks.

“Is this some kind of joke?” she said through stiff lips. “Am I on camera or something? How did you hear that?”

Leander made a mental note for future reference that she didn’t like being provoked. Nor did she appear to have any problem being direct. He forced back the smile that wanted to curl his lips.

“Why don’t you sit with me and I’ll tell you?” he murmured, holding her fierce gaze.

A fighter, he thought. Magnificent.

She remained tense and silent at the edge of the table, breathing raggedly with that flushed face, those glittering eyes.

“Please.” He gestured to the empty seat next to him. “I have something I’d like to ask you, at any rate.”

Jenna continued to assess him with a long, measuring look, as if she could pluck the very thoughts from his mind.

He hoped to God she could not.

He was close to conceding defeat when she suddenly bent her knees and elegantly slid into the booth next to him. She reached out, picked up the bottle of Latour, and poured it into his glass. A perfect arc of liquid swirled into a pool of smooth claret within the crystal bowl. The color was dark and rich, ruby fading to amber at the edge.

She set the bottle on the table, grasped the stem between her thumb and forefinger, and slid it smoothly across the tablecloth toward him.

“So,” she said, turning to fix him with her sharp stare. “I’m sitting. What is it you wanted to ask me?”

He did his best to ignore her eyes of frost that seemed able to strip every secret from his soul. Instead he picked up the wine glass, swirled the wine around in the bowl, and lifted it to his nose.

He closed his eyes.

First: the aromas of game, smoky oak, herbs, and vanilla, something indefinable, wild and powerful. Next: truffle, leather, mineral, and sweet, jammy aromatics, viscous texture, cedar, blackberries, currant. Finally: the thick and caressing finish, lingering on his tongue like ambrosia. He tasted the sun and the rain that had nourished the vines, the gravelly soil, the wood barrel it had aged in, harvested from an ancient forest in France.

Tronçais, he thought. No–Jupilles. The toasted vanilla flavors had more finesse than wine aged in Tronçais oak.

It moved him every time, this thing of perfect beauty, this work of art, the glory of nature confined within the shape of the bottle.

His father had had exquisite taste. The ’61 Latour was quite possibly proof of God’s existence.