There is no way to predict just when our heart's desire will walk into a room and say 'hello'. A person's longing for love and passion might go unfulfilled for many years, or it might find its target in a slightly built blond whose eyes are the color of sapphires, and whose accent regularly causes secretaries to swoon.
Amy Trudeau had never swooned in her life, but when Illya Kuryakin said 'Hello' at her Christmas party, the world was suddenly warmer and happier than she could ever remember. Napoleon Solo, Amy's nephew by marriage, was helpless to intervene as he stood by and watched his aunt and his partner walk away from him in obvious, instant infatuation.
Three weeks later the infatuation had grown into something like affection, intermingled with a generous dollop of lust and the much alluded to passion. Amy was a deliberate woman who had spent ten years married to an older man. Aubrey Trudeau had been a good husband, loving to his beautiful young wife and generous to a fault. It was to his credit that she also loved him, and had not sought to remarry in spite of many suitors in the aftermath of his passing.
Illya Kuryakin, younger than Napoleon's aunt by a few years, was not in search of love or marriage. He was no fool, however, and when he locked eyes with Amy, it was inevitable that the two would find themselves involved in a love affair. There was nothing to be done about it; fate had shown up.
It was within this surrendered state of passionate, fateful affection that the two lovers found themselves embroiled in an equally passionate discussion of the merits of white wine.
"I don't like whites. I find them lacking in a certain … robustness."
"Oh, my darling Illya, you just can't afford to drink white wine. You need a little contrast in your life…"
Illya smiled at that. He had contrast enough, thank you very much.
"You, my luscious Amy, are contrast of the best kind.'
He kissed her, no longer interested in the debate.
"But you must learn to drink the reds, they are so much more … classical."
Amy laughed, a sort of tinkling laugh that complimented her in a way that surprised the Russian. He didn't think he had ever appreciated tinkling laughter so much as he now did, listening to this woman.
"Red wine gives me a headache, and I don't like to taste the tannins. Sweet reds are all right, with a little chocolate perhaps…"
And just like that the two were tangled up in the covers once again, each one positioned to demonstrate just how little wine had to do with anything, no matter what color it was.