30
He was already here.
Pulse picking up, Diane paused inside the door of the French bistro and homed in on Martin, who was seated at a table for two in a secluded corner, his attention focused on the menu in his hand.
All at once he raised his head, looked her direction, and slowly stood. As if he was afraid any abrupt move might frighten her off.
But she wasn’t backing out of this Friday lunch date, even if she’d been tempted to do so a dozen times in the eleven days since he’d invited her to meet him.
Forcing air into her lungs, she crossed the restaurant, weaving between tables.
As she approached, he pulled out a chair for her. “Thank you for coming.”
“I said I would, and I always keep my promises.”
“I know. Better than I have.” He held her gaze for a moment, then motioned to the chair. “Have a seat.”
She did as he asked—but shored up her defenses. His strategy to begin with an admission of fault was smart, but she wasn’t going to be swayed by any attempts to soften her up.
Keeping her tone businesslike, she smoothed a wrinkle out ofthe pristine cloth on the table. “I only get an hour for lunch, and it took ten minutes to get here. I have to leave by twelve fifty.”
“Understood.” He motioned to the menu in her place. “Why don’t we order before we talk so they can get our food going?”
She picked up the menu, gave it a fast skim, and set it down. “I read it online earlier in the week. I just needed to confirm that nothing had changed.”
“Actually, quite a bit has. But not on the menu.” He looked at her for a moment, then signaled to the server, who headed their direction.
“What can I get for you folks today?” The young man gave them a cheery smile.
“I’ll have the quiche.” She handed him her menu.
“Make that two.” Martin passed his menu over as well.
Once the server departed, Martin put his napkin on his lap. Straightened his knife. Pocketed the cell phone resting on the table beside him.
Interesting.
Nothing usually flustered her husband, but he seemed to be almost as nervous as she was.
Several beats ticked by, but she remained silent. If he was hoping for encouragement, her presence alone would have to suffice.
He swallowed. Cleared his throat. “I’d like to hear about your job and the show, but I have a few things to say first.”
Keeping her expression as impassive as possible, she draped her napkin across her lap. Waited.
Instead of launching into whatever speech he’d prepared, however, he picked up his water and took a sip.
She frowned as the ice rattled.
That was strange. Why would it—
Wait.
She zeroed in on the glass, and a jolt ricocheted through her.
His hands were shaking.
Mercy.
