Darcy sent him a deeply resentful glance. “Where’s the omelet pan? I’m going to whomp you upside the head with it.”
Ignoring her request, Griffin pulled a whisk from the utensil drawer and attacked the eggs. “Am I supposed to have a special pan to make an omelet? Can’t I use any old frying pan I have handy?”
Darcy glanced around the spotless kitchen. “I doubt you have anything here more than a couple of months old. Which is beside the point, of course. Just tell me why you feel you must play the private concert in Paris and be done with it.”
Griffin shook his head. “I should get dressed first. It wouldn’t be proper to come to the table without a shirt.”
“This is your house, Griffin, you can make clothing optional if you choose.”
“Not when you look so pretty in that lavender sweater.” He set the bowl of eggs on the counter and backed away. “It won’t take me but a minute to dress. Add whatever you want to spice up the eggs.”
“Another diversion,” Darcy muttered under her breath, but she found a bell pepper and onion in the refrigerator and began browning them in a pan. She’d never cooked on a commercial-size stove, and it was somewhat intimidating. Still, the bell pepper and onion were browning nicely by the time Griffin returned in Levi’s and a blue chambray shirt.
“That smells awfully good already,” he said. “Why don’t you fix the omelet? I’ll set our places at the counter.”
“Fine, but first, is there any bread for toast?”
Griffin found a loaf of wheat bread he’d tossed in the freezer, pulled out four slices and buttered them. “I hate to go away again,” he murmured softly. “But I’ll make every effort to get back as quickly as I can.”
Darcy moved the pan off the fire. “I’m unlikely to forget you in a week or two, but that’s not your real worry, is it?”
Griffin slid the bread into the toaster oven and turned the dial. “Let’s eat and then talk. Maybe you don’t need the strength, but I sure do.”
Giving in, Darcy replaced the pan on the fire, gave it a minute to reheat, and then poured in the eggs. When they began to set, she added the avocado slices and grated cheese.
“An omelet pan is hinged in the middle to make flipping half over a cinch, but it isn’t all that difficult to do it with a pancake turner.”
Griffin paid close attention as she gave a quick demonstration. “You’ve eaten one of my omelets. Short of dropping it on the floor, once you’ve got it cooked, does it really matter how it looks when it hits the plate?”
“A chef in a fancy restaurant would be big on presentation and undoubtedly shriek at your question, but I’m with you. This will taste as delicious as it smells, and that’s what
matters.”
Griffin set their places and, as soon as Darcy had split the omelet between two plates, with his the far more generous portion, he added toast and carried them to the counter. He ate half of his before she’d swallowed more than a single taste.
“I’m going to buy a generator for your building,” he said between bites of toast. “And lay in a supply of food, so the next time there’s a storm, you’ll be able to make more than a sandwich.”
“I didn’t realize you were so hungry.”
“Don’t say anything to Christy Joy. We were lucky she could feed us what she did, so I’m not complaining. I just want to plan ahead is all.”
He opened a fancy jar of orange marmalade, and she spread some on a slice of toast and insisted that he take her second piece. She doubted he was all that concerned about emergency preparedness, but finished the rest of her breakfast before giving him another nudge toward the truth.
“Why don’t we let the dishes soak and go on out to your Zen garden to talk?”
Griffin shrugged. “Sure, just let me grab a beach towel to dry off the bench.”
The ground was soft beneath their feet, but the sun was shining brightly now and drying up the scattered puddles. Griffin laid the towel on the bench, took Darcy’s hand and pulled her down beside him. “I flat out love this view,” he said.
He was gazing out at the ocean, but she was concerned by his preoccupied frown. “Tell me why this trip to Paris is different from all the others.”
He slid his thumb across her fingers. “The woman who approached me in Chicago is a known acquaintance of Lyman Vaughn. The card she gave me had the name Simon Jordan, but that’s probably the alias he’s using this spring.”
Alarmed, Darcy sat up straight. “He’s the arms dealer Interpol is tracking, isn’t he?”
“That’s the man. Apparently he feels secure enough in his Paris chateau to invite me to perform.”
She gripped his hand between both of hers. “Wouldn’t his friends be criminals too?”