“We seem to be quite adept at making each other feel uncomfortable,” I said, putting my hand over her fingers where they still sat on my arm. It was a pleasant sensation, and I wondered how long it had been since I had touched someone’s hand. “Let me at least relieve you of any guilt you might be feeling. My fiancée died a little more than nine years ago, so yes, perhaps that was a little flirting on my part. I will admit that I don’t have the easy manner that Rupert has with women, so I find things a bit difficult,socially speaking. Do you... er... want to be flirted with? By me, that is, since I know your goal is to have sex with one of the foreign contestants.”
She stared at me in growing disbelief, her fingers digging painfully into my arm before she released it. “I beg your pardon?”
“What have I said now?” I asked, feeling even more like a clod even though I’d just asked a simple question.
She hit me on the arm again. “You basically said I’m in the race just so I can hook up with one of you guys with plummy accents, and chests that could drive a virgin to drink, and butts that you just want to bounce quarters off of.”
“You yourself said—”
“I know what I said!” she snarled and, grabbing my wrist, hauled me through the doors to the sidewalk, where she must have noticed a limousine that had pulled up. “That was an aberration, and I’d appreciate it if you’d forget it. Dad, this is Dixon. He’s not my date, so stop puffing yourself up. He’s just one of the fellow racers who thinks women are trying like mad to get into his pants even when they aren’t. Dixon, this is Angela, my stepmom.”
She released my wrist and climbed into the back of the limo (exposing a lot of thigh in the process), leaving me on the sidewalk with a man slightly shorter than me but almost twice as broad. He wore a scowl that could probably darken the brightest summer day, and I was aware that another man emerged from the front of the car.
“Hello, Mr.—” I started to say, but at that moment the man behind me began frisking me, grabbing me under the arms, and roughly patting his way down to my legs, whereupon he proceeded to check out each leg before moving around to the front of me to pull open my suit jacket, pulling out first my wallet, then the small notebook inwhich I’m making these notes. He flipped open the wallet and studied it for a moment.
“Dixon Ainslie,” he said, and handed me back my things.
“What is country of birth?” Paulie’s father asked me.
“Might I inquire what—”
“COUNTRY OF BIRTH?” he repeated at a much louder volume.
“England, but I don’t see what that— Are you Googling me?” Outrage was, I’m sure, quite evident in my voice when I saw the henchman tapping away on his phone.
“Sure,” Paulie’s father said, eyeing me with profound suspicion. “You maybe don’t want to be Googled? You have something to hide?”
“I have nothing to hide—”
“Dad, come on! I’m starving, and I told you that Dixon wasn’t a boyfriend, so you don’t need to do a background check on him. He’s just one of the racers.”
“Is good to be careful. I have enemies,” he said darkly, his eyes narrowing on me. “You know what I do to enemies?”
“No, but I assume it’s something extremely violent and quite possibly illegal.”
“Right,” he said, giving me a push to the car. I thought about turning around and making my excuses, but the sight of Paulie’s legs had me climbing in. I was going to sit next to her, but her father gave me another shove, and he and I ended up on the seat facing the two women.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dixon,” the woman next to Paulie said. “I’m so glad Paulie’s made a friend already, and you’re more than welcome to join us for dinner despite what Peter may imply. You’re English? It’s been a long time since we visited that country, but I have fond memories of the Lake District. Do you live near there?”
“No, but I’ve been there, and agree it’s quite nice.”
Conversation to the restaurant consisted of Paulie’s stepmother chatting about her trip to England, and which BBC America shows she enjoys. Paulie was content to sit there and frown at her father, who spent his time grunting single-syllable replies to his wife, all the while watching me with so much suspicion, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had asked to see my passport and a copy of my fingerprints.
The restaurant was evidently a trendy place, filled with what Elliott would call the Beautiful People, most of them prancing about as if the paparazzi were watching their every move. Who knows? Perhaps they were, although I didn’t see anyone with a camera. We were escorted into an alcove set off the main dining area, providing privacy and yet still open to the rest of the restaurant, a fact I found comforting, given the reaction of Mr. Rostakova toward me.
“Well, isn’t this nice?” Angela said once we were seated.
“What are they doing here?” Paulie asked, staring pointedly at the two men who accompanied us. One was the driver, while the other was the man who’d patted me down. Neither was introduced.
Mr. Rostakova ignored her question. “Sit,” he told me, and pointed to a chair as far from Paulie as possible. I had a feeling he would have placed me in a nearby alcove, had he been given the chance.
“Oh, for god’s sake, Dad! I told you twice already: he’s not a boyfriend! Dixon, ignore my father, please. He’s deranged.”
“Am not deranged,” Mr. Rostakova said, clearly outraged. “Am protective. Is good thing to be protective.”
I sat next to Paulie, not wishing to give in to the sort of behavior performed by a man who has another manfrisked. “I’m looking forward to dinner. My internal clock is still a bit confused, and somehow I seem to have missed lunch,” I said conversationally.
“Yeah, I’m super hungry, too,” Paulie said, looking over the menu. I had a bit of a moment when I saw the prices, but decided that my savings account would withstand the hit it would take when I insisted on paying for dinner.
