Vicki's Work of Heart by Rosie Dean

out to adjust the heat, without taking my eyes from his.
    ‘Well, you got impatient when I was delayed picking you up…’
    ‘I was soaking wet.’
    ‘…You’re eager to see me eating a healthy diet…’
    ‘I know – Mrs Stafford.’
    ‘…You put your heartbreak behind you and travel to another country to pursue your ambitions; you get to work straight away on your paintings…’
    He had a point. I picked up the whisk and began beating the eggs furiously.
    He continued, ‘I don’t believe a woman with such passion can be fulfilled by work alone.’
    I took a deep breath and slowed down on the egg-beating front. I turned and looked him in the eye. ‘Is that so?’ I poured the eggs into the pan so they filled the gaps between the vegetables. ‘Well, I am also a very determined woman.’
    He looked back at me, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, gently stroked the feather down my cheek and whispered, ‘I believe you,’ before slipping off the work surface to go and pour himself more wine.
    I stirred mechanically, as my insides liquefied and my head span. The guy’s charm was lethal. And I was pretty sure he knew it. Well, he might find that kind of trick worked in his bachelor world – and good luck to him – but I didn’t have to fall for it.
    Christophe headed out of the kitchen to put some music on, and I completed the frittata without further discussion. We sat at the kitchen table and, in my determination to act naturally, I brightly rattled on about how beautiful the countryside was in the Limousin region, ‘It’s so rural, it reminds me of England.’
    ‘Then you should feel at home.’ He refilled my glass. ‘Tell me, how many paintings do you think you’ll paint this year?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘You have no target?’
    ‘It’s not that simple. It depends whether I’m swept away on a wave of inspiration…or not.’ I lifted my glass and gestured to him. ‘But what about your ambitions, Christophe? Is there a cup you haven’t won or an operation you haven’t performed?’
    ‘Oh, many.’
    ‘What are you goals?’
    ‘Hah! There’s always something more to be achieved. It’s what keeps mankind going, don’t you think?’
    ‘Yes, probably, although that’s very non-specific. Are you avoiding the question?’
    ‘What do you want to know?’
    Who is the woman in your life – or are there many? Why is your house so sparsely furnished and am I imagining it, or are you flirting with me? And, if I succumbed, do you think we could just be physical without getting involved?
    I cleared my throat. ‘You’re how old, thirty-four?’
    He nodded.
    ‘You live here, all alone with your two dogs…’
    ‘And you.’
    ‘Okay, and me, at present. What does the next five years hold for you?’
    ‘What you really want to know is, do I want to get married, non?’
    ‘No.’ I ran a hand over my hair. ‘Although, it’s a perfectly reasonable question – but I wasn’t exactly asking that.’
    ‘True, you were being non-specific.’
    ‘And the answer is?’
    He smiled. ‘I guess I’ve decided I like things the way they are.’
    There was a groan from the corner as Boz stretched his legs in sleep.
    I’d had enough of this subject. ‘Would you like some lemon mousse?’
    ‘Pudding as well?’
    ‘I made it last night, but you had to rush off.’
    ‘Ah, yes.’ A frown creased his brow. ‘Lemon mousse sounds delightful. And then, I think I will take the dogs for a walk. I missed it this morning and it’s such a beautiful evening.’
    ‘Yes, it is,’ I said, rather more wistfully than intended.
    ‘Then you should come, too.’
    Should I? I shrugged. ‘Okay.’
    We headed off towards the town and turned up a narrow lane, past a shabby house where an old sheep dog staggered from its kennel to greet us. We waited as all three dogs pushed their snouts up against the fence. ‘Bonsoir, Emil,’ he said to the ragged old collie. ‘Poor thing, he’s