The Shadow and the Night

The latest in Lila Dubois’ amazing Glencailty series, The Shadow and the Night, comes out tomorrow at Samhain. If you haven’t checked this series out, hop in now! It’s so cool.

Sins and secrets aren’t the only skeletons in the closet…

Glenncailty Castle, Book 3

London forensic anthropologist Melissa Heavey isn’t anything like the characters in her grandmother’s beloved television crime dramas. Especially since an accident left her crippled and weary. While in Dublin to rest and recuperate, she’s asked to help the local Garda Síochána identify bones found in a rural luxury hotel.

Curiosity-seeking bone gawkers were not the clients Tristan Fontaine anticipated when he took over the Glenncailty Castle restaurant. And a scientist taking over part of his kitchen for her lab? He’s having none of it. Yet she’s not backing down…and his pulse won’t stop speeding up when she’s near.

As their attraction flares, Melissa soon discovers why Tristan is so dismissive of the bones—he’s been talking to the ghosts themselves. But the bones aren’t Glenncailty’s only secret, and Tristan is hiding a tragedy in his past more frightening than what’s lurking inside the castle walls.

Product Warnings

Contains a sexy French chef whose gifts aren’t limited to his hands, and a dry-witted scientist with intellect as sharp as scalpels. Delicious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Excerpt:

Out of the corner of his eye Tristan saw Kris slide down one of the busy kitchen aisles. The maître d’s mouth was pursed, which was as close as the elegant man came to having a tantrum.

He turned away from the salmon fillets en papillote they were preparing for that night’s special.

“Kris,” he called out, and the other man turned. “What’s wrong?” he asked in French.

Kris shrugged. That wasn’t a good sign. With a curse, Tristan put a piece of plastic wrap and a damp towel over the dough he was working with, heading to a quieter corner of the kitchen where Kris met him.

“There’s a woman in the restaurant,” Kris said.

“We’re not open. Throw her out.”

“I cannot. Sorcha brought her here, and the woman, she says she needed a quiet place to work.”

“Then she can go to the library.” Tristan liked and respected the guest relations manager, but the restaurant and the kitchen were his domain.

“I think she came about the bones.”

The bones. Tristan cursed. He was sick unto death of hearing about these bones. The Irish were so dramatic, getting upset over a few ghosts and bones. They should go to Paris—the whole city sat atop bones and the French weren’t thrown into a tizzy by it. But the police, the Gardaí, had closed the west wing until they were dealt with, and that risked the whole hotel and what he was trying to build here.

“Then let her stay, put her out of the way.”

“I did, but she’s hungry.” Kris drew in a long breath through his nose. “She wants to see a menu from the pub.”

“Non. If she wants to eat pub food, then she will go there.” Tristan suddenly understood Kris’s ire. No one seemed to understand that the ambiance of dining was as important as the food, and that meant a beautiful room with well-appointed tables, candlelight and the aroma of fine wine, truffles and fresh herbs—not the stench of chips and meaty stew.

“Give that to me.” At his order, Kris handed over the pub menu, a laminated sheet of uninspired—though delicious, because if Tristan had to serve fish and chips, it was the best fish and chips ever cooked—pub fare.

Tristan stormed out of the kitchen into the restaurant. He took only a moment to appreciate the crystal chandeliers, cozy private areas created by half-walls and high-backed chairs, and headed for the darkest corner, a lost space where Kris seated those who wanted the utmost privacy or who weren’t dressed nicely.

Tristan’s brows rose in surprise when he saw who was seated there. A pretty blonde woman no older than thirty sat with her head bent over a castle map. She wore a tunic embroidered with geometric shapes in bold earth tones over a simple white turtleneck. A heavy brass medallion hung from a cord around her neck, and she toyed with it as she read. Her hair was straight, falling to just above her shoulder. She was lightly tanned, and when she looked up her eyes were a beautiful hazel rather than the blue he was so used to seeing.

She studied him, her gaze lingering on his face, but he could tell it wasn’t sexual—it was almost clinical.

“Hello,” she said, “I’m Dr. Melissa Heavey. You’re…” She did a second once-over. “…either the head chef or the poissonnier.” She was English and well-educated, from the sound of her accent.

Tristan stopped, taken by surprise. “I am the chef de cuisine.” He used the proper name for head chef.

“And you’re French. That explains the western European Caucasian bone structure but Mediterranean coloring.”

Tristan tilted his head to the side. “You’re a doctor?”

“A Doctor of Philosophy, yes. I’m a forensic anthropologist.”

“And you are here for the bones.”

“So you do know about them. I wasn’t sure if the staff had been told.”

“I am not staff. I am the chef.”

“Of course, my apologies. I did a research project on the social stratification within kitchens while I was at university. It’s very structured, almost caste-like, but with huge potential for upward mobility.”

“And that is how you know poissonnier.” Despite his irritation, Tristan smiled. The pretty English woman was intriguing.

“The fish chef, yes. You have the air of command necessary for a head chef, but you smell a little like raw fish and there is something shiny on your apron, which I assume is scales.”

Tristan’s gaze narrowed. “You are a detective.”
“No, of course not. I’m a scientist.”

Tristan shrugged. She sounded like a detective. “As you say.” Down to business. He held up the pub menu. “If you want to eat this food, you must go to the pub.”

“I need quiet. I won’t be here long.”
“Then you may stay, but you will not eat.”
“But I’m hungry.”

“Then go to the pub.” She was arguing with him. No one argued with him—no matter how beautiful they were. He wanted to shake her. Then kiss her.

“I want to eat here.”

“And I will not serve bangers and mash—” The inelegant words made his lips curl. “—in my beautiful restaurant.”

She tilted her head, hair swinging. “You’re quite serious.”

“Oui.”

She sighed, folded the brochure she’d spread out on the table. She then carefully replaced the silverware, napkin and glasses back in their proper spots and grabbed an ugly black case off the floor. She brushed past him.

Tristan nodded in satisfaction that he’d maintained the rules he’d set for his restaurant but was a little sad to see the interesting woman go. She wore loose pants that tied at the hips, and they were just tight enough across the derrière that he got the feeling that under the loose tunic top was a nice body. It had been a long time since he’d been drawn to a woman the way he was drawn to her. And it wasn’t just physical attraction—she was intelligent and strong.

He was so distracted by her derrière and his unexpected reaction to her that it took him a moment to realize that she wasn’t headed for the front door, but deeper into the restaurant.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, jogging a few steps to keep up with her. “Where are you going?”

“I’m hungry.” She stopped for a moment, looked around and then headed for the kitchen.

Tristan darted ahead of her, positioning himself in front of the swinging doors. He folded his arms. Pretty or not, intriguing or not, she wasn’t going to interfere with his dinner prep.

“This is my kitchen.”

“I can tell. I’m excited to see it.”

She tried to push past him, and he grabbed her upper arms. She made a little noise, and her eyes widened with pain. The case she carried fell from her hand.

Tristan released her. He’d barely touched her, yet it seemed he’d caused her pain.

“I’m sorry, did I hurt you?”

“I…have a bruise there.”

Tristan raised a brow. “From another chef whose kitchen you tried to disrupt?”

“The result of killing the last man who tried to come between me and my dinner.”

Her expression was so deadly serious that Tristan had a moment of real worry. Then she smiled and laughed. It changed her whole face, making her seem less serious and disconnected—more warm and approachable.

“You looked quite alarmed,” she said as her laugh faded.

“I do not understand English humor.”

“Too bad, I’m quite funny.” With a smile, she grabbed her case and slid past him into the kitchen.

Cursing, Tristan followed her.
“Hello everyone.”

The busy sounds of the kitchen stopped as everyone looked up at the strange blonde woman standing in the doorway. “My name is Melissa Heavey and I’m hungry. Is there someone here who might be able to—”

Tristan grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back out through the doors.

“You are…crazy,” he said as he set her down. He was too surprised to be really angry.

“You’re not the first to mention that.”

Resigned, Tristan threw his hands in the air, then planted them on his hips. “Fine, I will bring you food. You will have stew, fresh bread, a salad.” That was as far as he was willing to relent.

“That sounds lovely.” She stooped and picked up her case. “Thank you very much…?”

“Tristan, Tristan Fontaine.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Tristan.” She held out her hand. “As I said, I’m Melissa.”

Rather than shaking, he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

He was both surprised and pleased when she blushed. He’d expected her to laugh.

“Enchanté, monsieur,” she replied.

He held her hand for a moment longer than was casual. When she pulled back, he let her go, watching her walk to her table with a smile. Tristan was looking forward to learning more about Dr. Melissa Heavey.

The Shadow and the Night is available at Samhain.