Read Online Burnt Offerings (ab-7) by Laurell Hamilton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laurell Hamilton
Tags: SF
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enamored of food as you are. It's almost a fetish with you."
"Hardly a fetish,
ma petite
."
"A hobby, then."
He nodded. "Perhaps."
"So just tell me what you like on the menu, and we'll negotiate."
"All that is required is that you taste what is ordered. You do not have to eat it."
"No, no more of this tasting shit. I've gained weight. I never gain weight."
"You have gained four pounds, so I am told. Though I have searched diligently for this phantom four pounds and cannot find them. It brings your weight up to a grand total of one hundred and ten pounds, correct?"
"That's right."
"Oh,
ma petite
, you are growing gargantuan."
I looked at him, and it was not a friendly look. "Never tease a woman about her weight, Jean-Claude. At least not an American twentieth-century one."
He spread his hands wide. "My deepest apologies."
"When you apologize, try not to smile at the same time. It ruins the effect," I said.
His smile widened until a hint of fang peeked out. "I will try to remember that for the future."
The waiter returned with my drinks. "Would you like to order, or do you need a few minutes?"
Jean-Claude looked at me.
"A few minutes."
The negotiation began.
Twenty minutes later I needed a refill on my Coke, and we knew what we wanted. The waiter returned, pen poised, hopeful.
I'd won on the appetizer, so we weren't having one. I'd given up the salad, and let him have the soup. Potato-leek soup, hey, it wasn't a hardship. We both wanted the steak.
"The petite cut," I told the waiter.
"How would you like that prepared?"
"Half well-done, half rare."
The waiter blinked at me. "Excuse me, madam?"
"It's an eight-ounce cut, right?"
He nodded.
"Cut it in half, and cook four ounces of it well-done, and four ounces of it rare."
He frowned at me. "I don't think we can do that."
"At these prices you should bring the cow out and have a ritual sacrifice at the table. Just do it." I handed him the menu. He took it.
Still frowning, he turned to Jean-Claude. "And you, sir?"
Jean-Claude gave a small smile. "I will not be ordering food tonight."
"Would you like wine with dinner, then, sir?"
He never missed a beat. "I do not drink -- wine."
I coughed Coke all over the tablecloth. The waiter did everything but give me the Heimlich. Jean-Claude laughed until tears trailed from the corners of his eyes. You couldn't really tell it in this light, but I knew that the tears were tinged red. Knew that there would be pinkish stains on the linen napkin when he was done dabbing his eyes. The waiter fled without having gotten the joke. Staring across the table at the smiling vampire, I wondered if I got the joke or was the butt of the joke. There were nights when I wasn't sure which way the grave dirt crumbled.
But when he put his hand out to me across the table, I took it. Definitely, the butt of the joke.
8
Dessert was raspberry-chocolate cheesecake. A triple threat to any diet plan. Truthfully, I preferred my cheesecake straight. Fruit, except for strawberries, and chocolate just muddied the pure cream cheese taste. But Jean-Claude liked it, and dessert took the place of the wine I'd refused to order with dinner. I hated the taste of alcohol. So Jean-Claude's choice of dessert. Besides, the restaurant did not serve plain cheesecake. Not artistic enough, I guess.
I ate all the cheesecake, chased the last chocolate curl across the plate, and pushed it away. I was full. Jean-Claude had laid his arm across the tablecloth, rested his cheek on his arm, and closed his eyes, swooning, trying to savor every last taste. He blinked at me, as if coming out of a trance. He spoke, head still resting on his arm, "You have left some whipped cream,
ma petite
."
"I'm full," I said.
"It is real whipped cream. It melts on the tongue and glides across the palate."
I shook my head. "I am done. If I eat any more, I'll be sick."
He gave a long-suffering sigh and sat back up. "There are nights when I despair of you,
ma
"Hardly a fetish,
ma petite
."
"A hobby, then."
He nodded. "Perhaps."
"So just tell me what you like on the menu, and we'll negotiate."
"All that is required is that you taste what is ordered. You do not have to eat it."
"No, no more of this tasting shit. I've gained weight. I never gain weight."
"You have gained four pounds, so I am told. Though I have searched diligently for this phantom four pounds and cannot find them. It brings your weight up to a grand total of one hundred and ten pounds, correct?"
"That's right."
"Oh,
ma petite
, you are growing gargantuan."
I looked at him, and it was not a friendly look. "Never tease a woman about her weight, Jean-Claude. At least not an American twentieth-century one."
He spread his hands wide. "My deepest apologies."
"When you apologize, try not to smile at the same time. It ruins the effect," I said.
His smile widened until a hint of fang peeked out. "I will try to remember that for the future."
The waiter returned with my drinks. "Would you like to order, or do you need a few minutes?"
Jean-Claude looked at me.
"A few minutes."
The negotiation began.
Twenty minutes later I needed a refill on my Coke, and we knew what we wanted. The waiter returned, pen poised, hopeful.
I'd won on the appetizer, so we weren't having one. I'd given up the salad, and let him have the soup. Potato-leek soup, hey, it wasn't a hardship. We both wanted the steak.
"The petite cut," I told the waiter.
"How would you like that prepared?"
"Half well-done, half rare."
The waiter blinked at me. "Excuse me, madam?"
"It's an eight-ounce cut, right?"
He nodded.
"Cut it in half, and cook four ounces of it well-done, and four ounces of it rare."
He frowned at me. "I don't think we can do that."
"At these prices you should bring the cow out and have a ritual sacrifice at the table. Just do it." I handed him the menu. He took it.
Still frowning, he turned to Jean-Claude. "And you, sir?"
Jean-Claude gave a small smile. "I will not be ordering food tonight."
"Would you like wine with dinner, then, sir?"
He never missed a beat. "I do not drink -- wine."
I coughed Coke all over the tablecloth. The waiter did everything but give me the Heimlich. Jean-Claude laughed until tears trailed from the corners of his eyes. You couldn't really tell it in this light, but I knew that the tears were tinged red. Knew that there would be pinkish stains on the linen napkin when he was done dabbing his eyes. The waiter fled without having gotten the joke. Staring across the table at the smiling vampire, I wondered if I got the joke or was the butt of the joke. There were nights when I wasn't sure which way the grave dirt crumbled.
But when he put his hand out to me across the table, I took it. Definitely, the butt of the joke.
8
Dessert was raspberry-chocolate cheesecake. A triple threat to any diet plan. Truthfully, I preferred my cheesecake straight. Fruit, except for strawberries, and chocolate just muddied the pure cream cheese taste. But Jean-Claude liked it, and dessert took the place of the wine I'd refused to order with dinner. I hated the taste of alcohol. So Jean-Claude's choice of dessert. Besides, the restaurant did not serve plain cheesecake. Not artistic enough, I guess.
I ate all the cheesecake, chased the last chocolate curl across the plate, and pushed it away. I was full. Jean-Claude had laid his arm across the tablecloth, rested his cheek on his arm, and closed his eyes, swooning, trying to savor every last taste. He blinked at me, as if coming out of a trance. He spoke, head still resting on his arm, "You have left some whipped cream,
ma petite
."
"I'm full," I said.
"It is real whipped cream. It melts on the tongue and glides across the palate."
I shook my head. "I am done. If I eat any more, I'll be sick."
He gave a long-suffering sigh and sat back up. "There are nights when I despair of you,
ma
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