Rebecca Winters - The Baby Proposal

“He didn’t mean any harm,” Andrea whispered. “Let’s go.”

She could feel the rigidity of his body before he put his hand on the back of her waist and ushered her out of the hotel. The heat of his touch seemed to burn through her top.

When they’d walked past the adjoining patisserie he said, “I’m sorry you were subjected to that. I won’t leave you alone again.”

Andrea turned to him. “I’ve met boys like him before.”

Gabe’s jaw hardened. “He’s no boy, Andrea, and he’s on the make for any willing female.”

“So are a lot of guys his age.”

His eyes studied her features. “I suppose after the way you defended Bret, I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“No, you shouldn’t.” She smiled as she said it. “I’m sure he feeds the same line to all women young or old who stay at the hotel. An extenuation of his job. Keep the customers happy.”

One dark eyebrow quirked. “Did it make you happy?”

“Well—yes, in a way. It’s a fun memory to take home with me.”

After a long silence he said, “I’ll have to remember that.”

His dark mood had passed.

For half an hour they made desultory conversation while they walked beneath the cathedral of trees. The soft, warm summer air played havoc with her senses and seemed to be affecting him, too. Andrea took care not to brush against him. The slightest contact of his leg or arm sent a live current of electricity through her body.

She should have been relieved when Gabe broke the spell by stopping to speak to one of the fishermen around a bend in the river. The older man didn’t seem to be having any luck, but whatever her boss said brought a light to his eye.

From his tackle basket he drew out another type of lure and put it on the end of his line. Then he began casting. Before long he had a fight on his hands. After he’d reeled in a nice-size fish, he grinned and patted Gabe on the shoulder.

“What kind is it?”

“Carp.”

“I’ve never tasted it.”

“Smoked carp is out of this world.”

“You’re full of surprises,” Andrea said as they started to circle back. “Were you born here in France to know what kind of bait would catch it?”

He darted her a curious glance. “No, I’m a native of St. Pierre et Miquelon.”

She frowned. “Is that in Belgium or Switzerland?”

“Neither. It’s a French territorial collectivity off the coast of Newfoundland.”

The mention of the Canadian province rang a bell.

“That’s right!” She stopped walking. “I remember my junior high geography teacher telling us about some islands being the only French possessions remaining in North America. A big fishing industry. As I recall, she said Al Capone used to hide out there during prohibition.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “You have a keen memory and know more about it than ninety-nine percent of the world. I’m impressed.”

“I’m flabbergasted. I’ve never met anyone who came from there. Your English is so perfect, I had no idea.”

“My mother’s an American. I hold dual citizenship.”

“Is your family still there?” She wanted to know anything and everything about him.

A shadow entered his eyes, but it was fleeting. “Yes.”

“So how come you left?”

“I had a yen to explore the world.”

“And look what happened!” she blurted with a smile. “But your fishing roots still have a hold on you.”

He nodded. “I serve on the French Fisheries Board. As a result, I’m aware of problems on the Marne after last year’s champagne harvest.”

Andrea was totally intrigued. “What happened?”

They began walking again.

“The heavy September rains washed pomace and excess grapes into the river. There’s been a massive cleanup effort to get rid of the dead fish lining the banks. I’m glad to see the old man was able to catch something.”

So his chat with the fisherman was no idle conversation.

“What’s your specific job on this board?” By now she had so many questions to ask, she couldn’t fire them off fast enough.

“To help settle maritime boundary disputes between France and Canada’s fishing territories.”

Good heavens. That would be a full-time job in and of itself. Only a man of his extraordinary abilities could take that on and run a billion-dollar corporation in the process.

“Is your island’s fishing industry in trouble?”

He stared hard at her. “If you really want to know, I’ll answer your questions while we eat dinner.”

As if he did it every day, he slid his arm around her shoulders and guided her toward an adorable sidewalk café a few doors up from the hotel. It was the kind of place just for lovers, with bistro chairs and small round tables covered in red and white checked cloths.

A few couples were dancing to an old French love song played by a roving accordionist. As soon as Gabe seated her, a waiter appeared with two glasses of white wine. Another waiter brought some freshly baked bread still warm from the oven.

“They only serve one entrée here so there’s no menu,” Gabe explained when they were alone. “You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted their fried moules.”

Andrea decided she hadn’t lived until she’d entered this land of enchantment with Gabe. She feared she was in the middle of a fantastic dream and was going to wake up at any second.

WHILE they sipped their wine and ate the mouthwatering bread, Andrea cast Gabe furtive glances.

The flicker of candlelight revealed the amazing color of his eyes. She’d always thought them a solid gray, but tonight the outer rim of his irises gleamed silver. With his head of swirling black hair and a five o’clock shadow covering the lower half of his face, he was the most sensational looking man she’d ever seen.

“Bon appetit,” the waiter said after placing side dishes of French fries and a hot platter heaped with mussels in front of them.

Gabe’s eyes met hers. “They’ve been cooked in a sauce of white wine, garlic and cream. Try one and you’ll understand.”

The fragrance tickled her nose. After she took her first bite, she couldn’t stop.

“My grandmother used to cook moules this way. My brothers and I would have contests to see who could eat the most.”

Andrea chuckled, wishing she could have been witness to such a sight. “I can see why. I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.”

The confidences coming bit by bit were starting to fill in the gaps that explained the man behind the corporate mask. When Andrea was finally full she put down her fork. “So, when did your grandmother pass away?”

He finished off his wine. “Two years ago.”

“I’m sorry.” Maybe he didn’t like all her questions, but she was hungry for answers only he could give. “Do you have a big family?”

“I’m the second of four brothers, two of whom are twins.”

Twins—

“How lucky for you. I’m an only child.”

“They’re all married. At last count I have seven nieces and nephews. There’s my father Giles, of course; my grandfather Jacques, two aunts with husbands, children and grandchildren.”

No mention of his mom…

“Everyone lives in the same neighborhood in St. Pierre and derives their livelihood from the sea. The first Corbin we know of came from Brittany and was fishing those waters when Jacques Cartier stopped there on his return to France in the mid-fifteen hundreds.”

Fascinating. “What about your mother’s side of the family?”

“I have a lot of relatives in Chicago.”

“How on earth did your parents meet?”

“Mother was coming home from a trip to Europe when her plane had to be diverted to Halifax. She and my father were both stranded at the airport for the better part of a week due to a ferocious Atlantic storm. One thing led to another and he took her home to meet the family. They married, had children. She divorced my father when I was eighteen.”