Hands on hips, she confronted him. It was hard because she was five foot seven to his six foot two, but she did her best.

"Oh, yeah?" she challenged.

"Oh, yeah!" he returned.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah!"

"OH, YEAH?"

"OH, YEAH!"

They both began to laugh at the same moment. He took firm hold of her hand and said, "There was a last-minute crisis in the kitchen, and I couldn't get away. I was going crazy thinking of you here. Still, I knew you'd wait for me, no matter how long."

"I'd thump you if I could get my hand free."

"Great. I'll consider myself thumped. Now let's find something to eat."

She thought he meant a burger bar, but when she mentioned it, he said, "Burgers?" in such a tone of loathing that she knew him at once for a kindred spirit.

He took her back to the guest house where he lived, and where he partly paid his rent by cooking the evening meal twice a week. The rest of the time he had the run of the kitchen to do his own experiments. Pippa watched in admiration as he concocted a delicious salad, unlike anything she'd ever eaten before.

"I'll show you what real food is," he said with unashamed arrogance. "Burgers, indeed!"

"Hey, I'm a cook, too. I don't like burgers, either," she said.

"Then what made you think I would?"

"Well-you've got an American accent-"

He gave her a speaking look.

"Sorry, sorry!" she said hastily.

"I'm American, and it therefore follows that I have the taste buds of an ox and the refined sensibilities of a fence post," he said, sounding nettled.

"I'm sorry I spoke."

"You should be!" But he was grinning. "I thought prejudice against foreigners was outlawed in this country."

"It is, but Americans don't count as foreigners, despite the hideous things you do to our language."

She added provocatively, "After all, most of you are descended from us."