Free Evan and Elle by Rhys Bowen Page A

back to her conversation. Evan lingered around until the woman led her child away by the hand.
    “So how was your weekend?” he asked.
    “Very nice, thank you. We’re thinking of doing it moreoften,” Bronwen said. “It makes a change to be with stimulating company.”
    “I was thinking we never set a date to go to that French restaurant, did we?” Evan persisted.
    “Funny, but I’ve gone off French food,” Bronwen said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” She hurried over to break up a fight.
    Evan went home even more despondent and confused.
    That evening in the pub Evans-the-Meat was waving a copy of Monday’s
Daily Post
featuring a half-page write-up of Chez Yvette with a photo of Yvette standing at her stove, managing to look sultry and sexy as she stirred something in a large pot. At the bottom of the article was an added note that Chez Yvette had received a nomination for Best New Restaurant from the Taste of Wales committee.
    “Would you look at that?” Evans-the-Meat threw down the newspaper as he came into the pub that night. “Nominated for Taste of Wales! How can a bloody French restaurant be called a Taste of Wales—that’s what I’d like to know?”
    “She’s using classic Welsh ingredients, so she says,” Betsy commented, pulling the butcher a pint of Robinson’s without being asked. “Get that inside you and you’ll feel better.”
    Barry-the-Bucket peered over the butcher’s shoulder. “See, what did I tell you? She’s a sexy bit of stuff, isn’t she? Good pair of knockers on her—”
    “Do you mind?” Betsy demanded. “This is a respectable establishment. We’ll have none of that talk here.” Shethumped a glass down none too gently so that froth spattered onto the bar top. “In fact I don’t think I’m interested in hearing any more about that woman and how sexy she is. Nothing but trouble, if you ask me.”
    Evan had been drinking his pint, too caught up in his private depression to be interested in the conversation. Now he looked at Betsy with interest. Betsy was not one to fly off the handle like that. She usually liked to trade risqué banter with the customers. Something about Madame Yvette had upset her. He heard an echo of Bronwen’s unusually sharp retort, “I’ve gone off French food.”
    Madame Yvette—that had to be the reason for Bronwen’s strange behavior. The local grapevine must have been at work again and reported that he had visited Yvette late at night. He was stupid. He should have told Bronwen himself before the gossipmongers started.
    He put down his glass and slipped out of the pub.
    “Where’s Evans-the-Law off to in such a hurry?” he heard someone call after him. “Don’t tell me there’s another fire.”
    “More likely a craving for a little Taste of Wales,” Betsy retorted.
    A strong wind blew in Evan’s face as he ran up the street.
    Bronwen came to her door in her flannel dressing gown and slipper socks. “What is it?” she asked, her eyes darting nervously. “An emergency?”
    “It is an emergency when you’re angry with me and I don’t know what I’ve done.”
    She shrugged. “If you don’t know what you’ve done, then I can’t help you.”
    “Bronwen—is this something to do with going to Madame Yvette’s late at night last week?”
    A spasm of hurt crossed her face, but then she tossed her head defiantly. “What you do with your spare time is no concern of mine.”
    “Bronwen”—his voice rose—“I was called out. She got a threatening note and she was upset.”
    “Called out at eleven, I understand, and didn’t get home until she kicked you out at one?”
    “Kicked me out? Who told you that?”
    “She did.”
    Evan could feel the heat rising to his uniform collar. “The nerve of it! Kicked me out? She asked me to stay because she was scared and upset.”
    “And so you, being the good boy scout as always, stayed to comfort her?”
    “Yes, I did . . . until I found out what she really wanted from