Secret Whispers (Heavenstone 2)

“What does ‘and then some’ mean?”

He didn’t answer.

“Ethan?”

“Another twenty thousand dollars,” he muttered.

“Twenty thousand! Where did you get that?”

Again, he was quiet.

“Ethan?”

“Our wedding gifts,” he said, then groaned and turned on his stomach.

“What? You gambled away wedding money besides what Lucille gave you?”

He lifted his hand and dropped it. “Let me sleep a little,” he said.

I stepped back as if the bed were about to burst into flames. It was as if another person had gotten into Ethan’s body. Where was the responsible, loving young man I had married? If Daddy heard about this, he’d be very angry, I thought. I plopped into a chair and stared at his unmoving body. The longer I looked at him, the angrier I became. I decided to finish dressing and go down to the restaurant to get myself some breakfast. He didn’t move or make a sound the whole time. I glanced at him once, decided it would be a waste of effort to try to get him up, and slammed the door behind me.

While I was looking at the menu, I sensed someone standing just behind me and to my left.

Ethan, I thought happily, but when I turned and looked up, I saw the thin, tall, elegant man I had met at the casino.

He smiled and nodded. “Why is it,” he asked, “that every time I see you on your honeymoon, you’re alone?”

“My husband is sleeping off a night of disaster,” I replied.

“I see. The dangers of temptation. Well, would you like some company?” He gestured at the seat across from me.

His question took me by complete surprise. I fumbled for a moment and then said, “Yes.”

I will always wonder why I said yes to a stranger in a different country. I didn’t even know his name, and he didn’t know mine, but there was something in his face, some soft, vulnerable look, that stepped over any fear I felt. He sat, smiled, glanced at the menu, and signaled the waitress. He ordered café au lait and a croissant with jam.

He looked at my plate of eggs and bacon, a roll, cheese, and coffee, and laughed.

“American breakfast. We French favor what we call petit dejeuner. Where are you from?”

“Kentucky.”

“Ah, the Bluegrass State, no?”

“Yes.”

“You have horses, too?”

“Not on our property, but my father owns some.”

“Some?”

“Some,” I said. Cassie always told me not to sound too wealthy to strangers.

“My name is Henri Beaumont,” he said, extending his hand across the table.

“Semantha Heaven . . . Semantha Hunter.”

“Enchanté,” he said.