sounded out the name. “Ah, yes, two for eight o’clock. Pizekee.”
“Close enough,” Natalie murmured.
“Your companion has not yet arrived, mademoiselle. Let me escort you to your table.” With a few quick and ruthless adjustments, André shifted Ryan’s reservation to suit his favorite customer, moving the seating from a small central table in the main traffic pattern to Natalie’s favorite quiet corner booth.
“Thank you, André.” Already at home, Natalie settled into the booth with a little sigh. Beneath the table, her feet slipped out of her shoes.
“My pleasure, as always. Would you care for a drink while you wait?”
“A glass of champagne, thank you. My usual.”
“Of course. Right away. And, mademoiselle, if I may be so presumptuous, the lobster Robert, tonight it is …” He kissed his fingers.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
While she waited, Natalie took out her date book and began to make notations on her schedule for the next day. She had nearly finished her champagne when Ry walked up to the table.
She didn’t bother to glance up. “It’s a good thing I’m not a fire.”
“I’m never late for a fire.” He took his seat, and they spent a moment measuring each other.
So, he owned a suit, Natalie thought. And he looked good in it. Dark jacket, crisp white shirt, subtle gray tie. Even though his hair wasn’t quite tamed, it was definitely a more classic look than she’d expected from him.
“I use it for funerals,” Ry said, reading her perfectly.
She only lifted a brow. “Well, that certainly sets the tone for the evening, doesn’t it?”
“You picked the spot,” he reminded her. He glanced around the restaurant. Quiet class, he mused. Just a tad ornate and stuffy—exactly what he’d expected. “So, how’s the food here?”
“It’s excellent.”
“Mademoiselle Fletcher.” Robert himself, small, plump, and tuxedoed, stopped by the table to kiss Natalie’s hand. “
Bienvenue
…” he began.
Ry sat back, took out a cigarette and watched as they rattled away in French. She spoke it like a native. That, too, he’d expected.
“Du champagne pour mademoiselle,”
Robert told the waiter.
“Et pour vous, monsieur?”
“Beer,” Ry said. “American, if you’ve got it.”
“Bien sûr.”
Robert strutted back to the kitchen to harass his chef.
“Well, Legs, that should have made your point,” Ry commented.
“Excuse me?”
“Just how out of place will he be in a fancy French restaurant where the owner kisses your knuckles and asks after your family?”
“I don’t know what you’re—” Natalie frowned as she picked up her glass. “How do you know he asked after my family?”
“I have a French-Canadian grandmother. I probably speak the lingo nearly as well as you do, even if the accent isn’t as classy.” He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled at her through it. “I didn’t peg you as a snob, Natalie.”
“I certainly am not a snob.” Insulted, she set her glass down again, her shoulders stiffening. But when he only continued to smile, a little frisson of guilt worked its way through her conscience. “Maybe I wanted to make you a little uncomfortable.” She sighed, gave up. “A lot uncomfortable. You annoyed me.”
“I did better than that.” Angling his head, he gave her a long, slow study. She looked like something a man might beg for. Creamy skin flowing out of a black dress, just a few sparkles here and there, sleek golden hair curving around her face. Big, sulky green eyes, red mouth.
Oh, yes, he decided. A man would surely beg.
Her nerves began to jangle as he continued to stare. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem. Did you wear that dress to make me uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
He picked up his menu. “It’s working. How’s the steak here?”
Relax, she ordered herself. Obviously he was trying to make her crazy. “You won’t get better in the city. Though I generally prefer the seafood.”
She pouted a bit
“Close enough,” Natalie murmured.
“Your companion has not yet arrived, mademoiselle. Let me escort you to your table.” With a few quick and ruthless adjustments, André shifted Ryan’s reservation to suit his favorite customer, moving the seating from a small central table in the main traffic pattern to Natalie’s favorite quiet corner booth.
“Thank you, André.” Already at home, Natalie settled into the booth with a little sigh. Beneath the table, her feet slipped out of her shoes.
“My pleasure, as always. Would you care for a drink while you wait?”
“A glass of champagne, thank you. My usual.”
“Of course. Right away. And, mademoiselle, if I may be so presumptuous, the lobster Robert, tonight it is …” He kissed his fingers.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
While she waited, Natalie took out her date book and began to make notations on her schedule for the next day. She had nearly finished her champagne when Ry walked up to the table.
She didn’t bother to glance up. “It’s a good thing I’m not a fire.”
“I’m never late for a fire.” He took his seat, and they spent a moment measuring each other.
So, he owned a suit, Natalie thought. And he looked good in it. Dark jacket, crisp white shirt, subtle gray tie. Even though his hair wasn’t quite tamed, it was definitely a more classic look than she’d expected from him.
“I use it for funerals,” Ry said, reading her perfectly.
She only lifted a brow. “Well, that certainly sets the tone for the evening, doesn’t it?”
“You picked the spot,” he reminded her. He glanced around the restaurant. Quiet class, he mused. Just a tad ornate and stuffy—exactly what he’d expected. “So, how’s the food here?”
“It’s excellent.”
“Mademoiselle Fletcher.” Robert himself, small, plump, and tuxedoed, stopped by the table to kiss Natalie’s hand. “
Bienvenue
…” he began.
Ry sat back, took out a cigarette and watched as they rattled away in French. She spoke it like a native. That, too, he’d expected.
“Du champagne pour mademoiselle,”
Robert told the waiter.
“Et pour vous, monsieur?”
“Beer,” Ry said. “American, if you’ve got it.”
“Bien sûr.”
Robert strutted back to the kitchen to harass his chef.
“Well, Legs, that should have made your point,” Ry commented.
“Excuse me?”
“Just how out of place will he be in a fancy French restaurant where the owner kisses your knuckles and asks after your family?”
“I don’t know what you’re—” Natalie frowned as she picked up her glass. “How do you know he asked after my family?”
“I have a French-Canadian grandmother. I probably speak the lingo nearly as well as you do, even if the accent isn’t as classy.” He blew out a stream of smoke and smiled at her through it. “I didn’t peg you as a snob, Natalie.”
“I certainly am not a snob.” Insulted, she set her glass down again, her shoulders stiffening. But when he only continued to smile, a little frisson of guilt worked its way through her conscience. “Maybe I wanted to make you a little uncomfortable.” She sighed, gave up. “A lot uncomfortable. You annoyed me.”
“I did better than that.” Angling his head, he gave her a long, slow study. She looked like something a man might beg for. Creamy skin flowing out of a black dress, just a few sparkles here and there, sleek golden hair curving around her face. Big, sulky green eyes, red mouth.
Oh, yes, he decided. A man would surely beg.
Her nerves began to jangle as he continued to stare. “Is there a problem?”
“No, no problem. Did you wear that dress to make me uncomfortable?”
“Yes.”
He picked up his menu. “It’s working. How’s the steak here?”
Relax, she ordered herself. Obviously he was trying to make her crazy. “You won’t get better in the city. Though I generally prefer the seafood.”
She pouted a bit
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