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ago, had invented a dessert for each of his four daughters.
    “Crème brûlée à la Charlotte, made with bourbon and a praline topping,” he read aloud. “That’s the hotel manager’s name—Charlotte Marchand, the woman we met last night.”
    “Neapolitan pour Sylvie,” Kerry took up the recitation, “three kinds of ice cream with a drizzle of white and dark chocolate on top and an almond tuile cookie on the side.”
    “Pavlova Renee is a frozen meringue filled with warm raspberry-peach sauce, served with Chantilly cream and fresh raspberries. Man, that sounds great. I ate pavlova every place we had dinner in Australia when my family took a vacation there. That was years ago,” he added at the thoughtful glance Kerry gave him.
    “Wait till you hear this one,” she said with a teasing grin. “Piquante Melanie. A molten chocolate brownie on a bed of sweet cream and laced with the slightest touch of chili peppers.”
    They burst into spontaneous laughter. Kerry fanned her mouth with her hand as she had at the Cajun restaurant when her tongue was burning from the spicy food.
    Matt caught the envious glance of a couple of men at a nearby table. Instinctively he lifted his hand to lay it over Kerry’s, a gesture that would tell the men this woman was his, then stopped himself in time.
    Back off, he warned his libido, suppressing the possessive urges he kept experiencing around her.
    “Okay, that’s the one for me,” he told her, “Piquante Melanie. Definitely.”
    She sighed. “I want some of each.”
    When the waiter came back, Matt asked, “Would it be possible to get a sample of each of Chef Remy’s specials? They all sound so delicious, we can’t decide.”
    “Of course.”
    “And a glass of milk, please,” Kerry requested.
    The waiter nodded. “You, too, sir?”
    “Why not?” Matt said, as if drinking milk at midnight was a daring feat, which caused Kerry to laugh.
    When they were alone, Kerry explained that her grandparents had run a dairy farm and she’d grown up drinking milk at every meal. “It just seems to go with dessert.”
    He thought of the five-course dinners, a different wine served with each course, that were typical for formal occasions with his family. Otherwise meals hadoften been trays for him and his sister in their shared sitting room. Their parents would either be out for the evening, or ensconced in their suites, preferring to be alone rather than with their children, or even each other.
    Forcing the memory from his mind, he studied Kerry. It sounded old-fashioned to say she was wholesome, but that was the term that came to mind and lingered—Kerry was “whole” in mind and spirit, loving and caring toward others, yet with an appealing independence and spunkiness he liked.
    The squeezing sensation attacked his chest again. He tried to figure out why, and knew it had something to do with Kerry.
    “Look at that!” she said suddenly. “It’s a work of art. I’m not sure we should eat it.”
    The waiter grinned as he placed a huge platter in the center of the table. Each dessert sample had its own plate or crystal bowl. Flowers, fruit and fresh water-cress decorated the platter.
    “You must taste each one,” he told them, arranging dessert plates and silverware before them, “and give me your opinion on the best.”
    “We will,” she promised, picking up the fork.
    After the server placed glasses of milk on the table and refilled their coffee cups, he left them with an admonition to “enjoy!”
    “How can we help but enjoy?” she said. “Which do you want to start with?”
    “Maybe the spicy one? Or should we save it for last, the pièce de résistance?”
    “Let’s see how hot it is,” she suggested wryly.
    “You first.” Matt broke off a piece of the brownie with his fork, raked it through the thick layer of cream and held it out to Kerry. With a grin, he dared her to taste it.
    She bravely took the bite, chewed thoughtfully, then pronounced it one of the