She’s changed since I saw her earlier, and knowing she changed for dinner, refreshed her makeup, even going so far as to apply a floral fragrance, gives me hope for the night.I also wonder…does she remember I told her I love her in skirts?Earlier, she was in a sweater with jeans and sneakers.And she, as always, looked lovely, but this…
She steps past me, through the doorway.
“You look beautiful.”
She lifts a bottle of wine and passes it to me.“Thank you for having me for dinner.”
The door closes behind me with a click that echoes down the hallway.
“Thank you for coming.”She steps to the side, waiting for me to lead the way, because she’s never been here before.
“The Sanctuary might have made more sense,” she says, those blue eyes glimmering with something…amusement, intrigue?Interest?
“I wanted you here, in my space,” I say, being as honest with her as I am with anyone.“Shall we?Would you like a glass of wine?”
“A glass of wine would be lovely.”
“You’re very formal tonight,” I say, meaning it as a tease.
“Well…I agreed to dinner, but it doesn’t change the fact one weekend doesn’t mean we know each other well, and?—”
“Be prepared for questions.I want to change that.”She’s behind me, following me into the kitchen.
“And you’re also a client.”
I set the wine she brought on the counter and the glass clinks on the marble.“Come now.Let’s not pretend the unofficial group you’re working with cares about corporate guidelines.”
I open the drawers until I locate the wine opener.
“Nothing more happened since yesterday, by the way.He’s not in the server room.He seems to be overseeing the dinner service, but if we were there, we could keep a closer eye on him.”
“Perhaps tomorrow night I’ll take you to dinner in The Blue Room.”Her right eye squints, and I answer before she can ask.“It’s the name of one of the restaurants within The Sanctuary.”
“The Blue Room,” she repeats, accepting the glass of wine I pour.“Let me guess—blue velvet banquettes and mood lighting?”
“Actually, it’s named for the Picasso blue period piece on the wall.The décor is more understated.”I gesture toward the kitchen table.“But tonight, I prefer this.”
She settles into the chair I hold out for her, and I catch another hint of that floral scent—jasmine, maybe gardenia.Something that reminds me of Monaco nights.Of course, everything about her reminds me of those nights.
“This is lovely,” she says, taking in the candles, the view, the careful table arrangement.“You didn’t have to go to this trouble.”
“It wasn’t trouble.Maria did most of the work.”I pour wine into my own glass, then move to retrieve dinner from the oven.“Lamb with rosemary, roasted vegetables, and something she called ‘proper potatoes’—though I’m not sure what makes them more proper than regular potatoes.”
A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.“Proper potatoes are usually roasted with duck fat and herbs.Very British.”
“How do you know that?”
“My mother.She lived in London for two years when she was with the State Department.She came back with strong opinions about proper cooking methods.”
“That’s interesting.Maria’s not British.”
“Is she your cook?”
“Yes.House manager.Cooks a couple of meals a week.I eat out mostly.”
I serve the plates, pleased when she takes an appreciative bite.“Tell me about your parents.The truth this time.”
“Military family.Dad’s a retired Marine colonel, Mom was a translator before she became a full-time military wife.”She swirls her wine, considering.“We moved every few years.I went to high school in three different countries.”
