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Authors: J. T. Geissinger
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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.
He felt her shift in the booth next to him, heard the rustle of her silk dress against leather and bare skin as she moved, and handed over the glass without opening his eyes. She took it; he felt the sudden weightlessness in his hand.
“What I wanted to ask you is this,” he said quietly. He opened his eyes to stare with full intensity into her pale and unsmiling face. “What do you taste?”
It had surprised him that she was the sommelier, but it gave him hope. This line of work was not for those with dulled senses. It was a clue, a possibility...
Her brows, pale and finely arched, drew together. “Is this some kind of test?”
You’ve no idea
, he thought. But he only shook his head no and looked at her.
She licked her lips and swallowed, then let out a long breath through her nose. “After this, you’ll answer
my
questions.” She lifted her chin, defiant.
He finally allowed his lips to twist into a smile. He nodded.
She raised the glass to her nose and inhaled.
He saw it then, the way it came over her, the way she opened her senses to allow the flavor in. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parted. She held the breath on her tongue and stilled, every sense alight, every fiber and nerve attuned with perfect concentration to the bouquet of the wine in front of her.
Ikati
, the animal inside him whispered, rising up to strain against his skin. It was a pulsing sting of recognition, hot and strong and uncontained.
She is Ikati. Like me.
She took a sip of wine, rolled the liquid over her tongue, paused for one long, silent moment, then swallowed.
“Oh,” she said, letting out a little, astonished breath. “Oh, God.”
“Tell me,” he murmured. He
“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.
He felt her shift in the booth next to him, heard the rustle of her silk dress against leather and bare skin as she moved, and handed over the glass without opening his eyes. She took it; he felt the sudden weightlessness in his hand.
“What I wanted to ask you is this,” he said quietly. He opened his eyes to stare with full intensity into her pale and unsmiling face. “What do you taste?”
It had surprised him that she was the sommelier, but it gave him hope. This line of work was not for those with dulled senses. It was a clue, a possibility...
Her brows, pale and finely arched, drew together. “Is this some kind of test?”
You’ve no idea
, he thought. But he only shook his head no and looked at her.
She licked her lips and swallowed, then let out a long breath through her nose. “After this, you’ll answer
my
questions.” She lifted her chin, defiant.
He finally allowed his lips to twist into a smile. He nodded.
She raised the glass to her nose and inhaled.
He saw it then, the way it came over her, the way she opened her senses to allow the flavor in. Her eyes fluttered closed, her lips parted. She held the breath on her tongue and stilled, every sense alight, every fiber and nerve attuned with perfect concentration to the bouquet of the wine in front of her.
Ikati
, the animal inside him whispered, rising up to strain against his skin. It was a pulsing sting of recognition, hot and strong and uncontained.
She is Ikati. Like me.
She took a sip of wine, rolled the liquid over her tongue, paused for one long, silent moment, then swallowed.
“Oh,” she said, letting out a little, astonished breath. “Oh, God.”
“Tell me,” he murmured. He
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