Read Online Meet Me in Venice by Elizabeth Adler - Free Book Online Page A

enjoyed Paris so much,” Bennett said. “Thank you for a wonderful evening.”
    “Thank
you
for picking me up.”
    “Could you.” He hesitated. “I mean would you give me your phone number?”
    Preshy scrambled in her purse for a business card. Of course she couldn’t find one, nor did she have a pen so she wrote her name and number with a lip pencil on a tissue and handed it to him.
    He shook his head, smiling. “What kind of businesswoman doesn’t have her card handy?”
    “I’m not such a hotshot businesswoman, I just happen to love antiques.”
    He nodded, then instead of kissing her as she’d expected, he put a finger gently to her lips. “I’ll call,” he said, then he turned and strode out onto the street.
    As the courtyard gates clanged behind him, Preshy turned and ran up the steps, fumbling to unlock the door. Once inside she ran to the window, searching the street for any sign of him. But he was gone. Sinking into the sofa she checked her phone messages. There was just one. “Call me,” Daria said, “as soon as you get in.” Quickly, she dialed her number.
    Daria answered right away. “I couldn’t sleep thinking of you,” she said without waiting. “So . . . tell me what happened.”
    “Oh, Daria,” Preshy said in a voice that trembled, “I think I’m being swept off my feet.”

FOURTEEN
    A T ten the next morning the phone rang. Preshy pounced on it. “Hello?” she said, hoping it was him, yet surprised when it was.
    “Preshy, it’s Bennett.”
    “Ohhh . . . Bennett . . . hi . . . I mean . . . how are you?” Pulling her wits together, she said, “I hope you slept well,” then wished she hadn’t because it sounded as though she’d been thinking about him—which she had, but she didn’t want him to know that.
    “Not very,” he said. “I was too busy thinking about you.”
    This time words escaped her completely.
    “Listen, Preshy, I’m returning to Shanghai tomorrow. Will you have dinner with me tonight?”
    “Tonight? Why, yes, I’d love to.”
    “Tell me where and I’ll make a reservation,” he said.
    Preshy thought quickly. He was returning to Shanghai; she might never see him again after tonight; she could end up just a quick Paris fling . . . “No, I’ll make the reservation,” she said firmly. “Why don’t you pick me up here at eight?”
    “Eight. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
    “Hmmm, me too. See you then.”
    She smiled as she put down the phone. She would take him to Verlaine. Sylvie would keep an eye on her. She wouldn’t let her get into any trouble.
    VERLAINE WAS ONE OF THOSE small storefront bistros in a narrow tree-lined street near the church of St. Sulpice in St. Germain. Its walls were lined with faded silvery mirrors that reflected the rosy lamplight as though through a fog, and dark green taffeta curtains swept across the windows, keeping outsiders from looking in while at the same time making the dining room feel cozy. Everything else was very simple: pale green linens, small vellum-shaded lamps, green banquettes and sturdy gilt chairs with green cushions. A great bouquet of field flowers that looked fresh-picked from some sunny meadow—daisies, sunflowers, goldenrod, lilacs and cherry blossom, depending on the time of year—greeted you as you walked in. And the fact that Sylvie used only what was seasonal and fresh in the market, combined with her true talent as a chef, was what delighted her customers and kept them coming back.
    Sylvie was small and round and gamine-cute with merry brown eyes, short black hair and a temper when she was crossed. Which, in her job as chef and owner of the Bistrot Verlaine, meant a good deal of the time. Sous-chefs were the bane of her life and she had no doubt she was the bane of theirs because, as she told them frequently—and loudly—and truthfully—none of them lived up to her high standards.
    Every dish turned out at Verlaine had to be perfect: perfect ingredients perfectly prepared and most