“What’s the dress code?”
“Not too dressy, not too casual. I guess you could say business casual, as this is a weeknight.”
“Okay.” Alex glanced at a watch probably worth more than Paul’s car. “I’ll meet you at the door in fifteen minutes.”
“That would be fine.” Sudden inspiration hit, and Paul fought a laugh at the scheme unfolding in his mind. “I’ll bring the car around.”
Unfortunately for Alex, with his back turned, he missed Paul’s evil smirk.
AQUARTERof an hour later Alex stood with his hands on his hips, glaring. “What the hell is this?”
Paul donned his best “cat that ate the canary” grin. “This is my car. I told you I’d pull it around, didn’t I?”
“This isn’t a car; this is a rusted-out piece of shit.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right. However, it’s my piece of shit, and if we’re going to make our reservation, you’d best get in.” Paul enjoyed every minute of Alex’s discomfort.
“There’s a whole fleet of cars in the garage. Why not take one of those?”
“Because they’re not mine,” Paul explained logically.
Alex huffed and glowered at the vehicle, as though he hoped the rust bucket might go away. In the end he opened the passenger door and squeezed his large body into the tiny car. “Could you have possibly found a more uncomfortable vehicle?”
“Well, there’s one smaller model I seriously considered. I ended up picking this one because it got better gas mileage.” Who knew taking Alex out could be so much fun? If Paul had to spend an evening with his worst nightmare, well, he’d make the most of his misery, scoring a few points for the home team whenever possible.
A disgruntled “Harrumph” was all the response he got.
His passenger remained silent and brooding while they wound their way through the less frequently used roads and alleys that helped them beat downtown traffic, finally arriving at their destination with minutes to spare.
When Paul reached Berkley’s, Alex swiveled his head, checking out the parking lot. “No valet parking?”
“No,” Paul replied simply, keeping to himself the “spoiled brat” comment aching to spring off his tongue.
“And you say this was Uncle Alfred and Byron’s favorite restaurant?”
“That’s right.” Paul shut off the engine. It knocked a few times before finally dying. “Alex, just because they had money didn’t mean they flaunted it. In fact, Alfred once told me that if all you experienced of the world was first class and room service, you’d miss out on the other 99 percent of what life has to offer.”
Having gotten the last word in, he climbed from his ancient vehicle, invoking the righteous anger of the driver’s door, which shrilly protested. Momentary embarrassment shallowed his victory. He tried to keep his car in good condition, a near impossible task given the frequent trips he’d made over the past few months. Excessive mileage and years took their toll, not to mention the road salt and damp weather the old girl endured in Bishop. With a sigh, he acknowledged that, like it or not, the time had come to consider a replacement.
The two men crossed the parking lot silently and then entered the quaintly decorated restaurant. The maître d’rushed forward. “Good evening, Mr. Sinclair. I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your uncle. Such a wonderful man.”
“Thanks, Henri.”
Snapping his fingers at a lounging busboy, Henri murmured, “Go tell Thierry an important guest is here.”
An imposing man in chef’s garb hurried out from the kitchen a moment later, embracing Paul in a breath-stealing bear hug and planting a loud kiss on both cheeks. “Paul Sinclair, how are you doing, darling?”
Paul fought the embrace enough to choke out, “I’m fine, Thierry, and you?’
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Don’t lie to me, sweetie, I know better.” Stepping back and grasping both of Paul’s slender hands in his own beefy ones, the stocky Frenchman bent to peer into Paul’s eyes. “You have my condolences. I’m truly sorry about your uncle’s passing. So sad, he was a sweet, sweet man. Lovely funeral, by the way. How’s dear Alfred holding up?”
Paul shook his head. “I can’t say for certain. He tells me he’s fine, and you know Alfred.”
“Yes, Alfred could be on fire and he’d tell you he’s fine.” Finally noticing Alex, Thierry’s eyes lit up. “Oh my; who’s this stunning creature, Pauly? Have you been holding out on your Uncle Thierry? I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
Heat crept up Paul’s cheeks. “I don’t!” he blurted, earning raised eyebrows from both men. Even the maître d’, discreetly pretending to ignore them, cast furtive glances their way.
Attempting to draw attention away from his hotly flaming face, Paul managed introductions. “Thierry, this is Alexander Martin, Alfred’s nephew. Alex, Thierry Guillaume, owner of Berkley’s.”
