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willed her pulse rate to slow down.
Soon they arrived at an upscale Georgetown restaurant renowned for its award-winning cuisine and stunning views of the Potomac River. Marcus helped Samara from the Bentley, relinquished the car to the valet, then guided her inside with a warm hand at the small of her back. The maître d’ greeted him by name and ushered them to a candlelit table in a private corner of the elegant restaurant. A fire glowed softly in a stone fireplace nearby, and tall French doors opened to a terrace that boasted the best waterfront views in the city. In warmer weather, customers lined up to enjoy the outdoor seating. It was perfectly romantic, the kind of restaurant Samara had envisioned in her fantasy about Marcus. And
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even as she reminded herself that this was not a date, she couldn’t help but wonder what else the night had in store for them.
    As soon as they were seated, a white-jacketed waiter materialized to take their drink orders. “We have an excellent wine list,” he proclaimed, then proceeded to recite his recommendations.
“I’ll just have a club soda,” Samara told him.
    Marcus ordered a glass of Burgundy wine and appetizers. As the waiter bustled away, Marcus gazed at Samara across the linencovered table. Candlelight flickered across his face, softening the hard angles and planes and accentuating the lush, sensual contours of his lips. He was too fine for words. It would take some serious willpower to keep her mind on business. At the moment, all she could think about was climbing across the table, straddling Marcus and riding him like a champion thoroughbred.
    “I’m going to ask you a personal question,” he said, “but please feel free to tell me to mind my own damn business.”
A rueful smile touched her lips. She already knew what he was going to ask, so she saved him the trouble. “I’d love to tell you that I don’t drink alcohol for religious reasons, but I think you’ve already figured out that I’m not a good little church girl. The truth is, Marcus, I’m a recovering alcoholic. I celebrated three years of sobriety this past January.”
His expression softened. “Congratulations,” he said quietly.
“Thank you. Of all the things I’ve accomplished in my life, sobriety is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to work for, which is why it’s an accomplishment I’m especially proud of.”
“You should be. It takes an extraordinary person to overcome an addiction like that, Samara. You have my utmost respect and admiration.”
Samara could have leaned across the table and kissed him. Later, when they were alone, she would. And she wasn’t so sure she’d stop at just kissing him.
The waiter returned with their drinks and appetizers, then took their meal orders.
As they began eating their crab bisque, Marcus said, “I met Richard Yorkin at a local fund-raiser a few years ago. I remember how passionate he was about the Institute. I was kind of surprised to learn he’d retired.”
Samara swallowed her soup, mentally deliberating how much information to divulge about the founder’s real reasons for retiring. She finally decided honesty was the best policy, especially if Marcus—as a potential donor—was to understand that the Yorkin Institute hadn’t simply fallen on hard times due to negligence or misappropriation of funds.
“Long before Richard decided to retire, which was a very difficult decision for him, he suffered a personal tragedy in his life. He lost his wife of thirty years to breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Marcus murmured.
“Naturally it devastated him. They had no children, so he pretty much had to grieve alone.” And with the support of the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous, where he and Samara had met, they both found themselves barreling down a path of self-destruction.
“The Institute suffered financially during this period,” she continued, “and by the time Richard rebounded from his grief, it was too