21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (18 page)

“Are you sure you’re not going to get into trouble?” Her voice was a smooth contralto, a perfect descant to his deeper voice, and wholly feminine.

“I’m positive. And it would be a crime to leave you sitting here alone.” He shook out the napkin, spread it over his slacks, and glanced at her plate. She’d left it be, exactly as he asked and he considered it for a moment, switching the plates so hers boasted the warmest steak on the coldest salad.

Shifting in her chair, she crossed one leg over the other and he fought the urge to glance down. The tip of one black heel peeked out from under the tablecloth, flashing a sexy, come-hither red bottom at him.

“Thank you and I apologize. I should not have dumped all of that on you.”

“I asked. I wanted to know.” The corner of his mouth tilted up at the wash of emotion dancing across her face—confusion, regret and a hint of exasperation. “Tonight is supposed to be special for you. I’ve picked a wide selection of dishes designed to tease and tantalize your palate, and none of them come with a side of misery.”

“I thought you said the owner chose my menu tonight….” The slow delivery suggested she’d already put the pieces together, so he refilled her glass before adding a generous measure to his own.

“I did.”

“You own
Lagniappe’s
?” Her lips parted in expressive wonder.

God, he hoped she was as delightfully open when he carried her off to bed. It was going to be a lights-on session, all hands on deck and his eyes on hers when he slid between her thighs. His cock jerked hopefully at the thought, but he ignored the urge to jump the gun. Strategy was about surgical insertions and definitive results. They’d not finished prepping the foundation yet.

Soon
.

“Yes, ma’am. Damon Sinclair at your service and as I said earlier, it is my pleasure to serve you. Now, shall we drink to new acquaintances and new experiences…?”

Her eyelashes fluttered twice and her lips stretched into a grin that promised delight. “Helena Blake, Mr. Sinclair.”

“
Damon
.”

“Damon.” She touched her glass to his, the gentle clink an almost musical note. “To new acquaintances and experiences.”

He watched her sip before taking one of his own, testing the flavor with a swish of his tongue. The
Châteauneuf-du-Pape
was an excellent vintage, its spicy undertones warming his mouth. A soft sigh pushed past her lips and he smiled again.

“You like the wine.”

“I
love
the wine.” She set the glass down with a little shiver. “But I’m not much of a drinker, not sure I could tell you the difference between a boxed variety, or a fine vintage. But this is magnificent.”

He barely held back the grimace at the mention of the boxed variety.

“What?” Her soft brown eyes narrowed and the glass lowered to the table. “You said you could tell a lot about a person based on the wine they drank. What does a box wine say about me?”

“You’re going to make me answer before I can coax you into trying this next dish, aren’t you?”

Releasing the glass, she sat back in the chair, arms folded. “Yes, I am. Because now I’m really curious.”

“You shop at a Kroger’s or an Albertson’s on your way home from the office. It’s always late when you swing in there, you always have work to do, and a box will keep for days if you need it to. You probably choose the zinfandel because it’s sweet, and if it’s an indulgence, then it should be sweet.” He cleared his throat and gave her silverware a pointed look. She reached out for the fork and sat forward, posture relaxing.

Nodding with approval, he continued. “You carry it back to the Styrofoam palace housed in your fridge. You probably drink it in a mug that you can rinse out and have fresh coffee in if you have to work late. But you have your cup while eating cold noodles from a dinner two days before and working at the kitchen counter.”

Yes. He could totally envision that.

Her mouth opened and closed. “I’m not sure whether to be impressed or terrified.”

“As I said, wine says a great deal about a person. But you are not dining at your Styrofoam palace, you’re having dinner with me.”

Her wariness gave way to a flash of trepidation that vanished under a wider smile. “I am, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and about your date….” Time to come clean, fantasy or no fantasy. It was her birthday and what began as a fanciful tease wasn’t fun anymore.

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. “No. Let’s not. I’m really enjoying this…now…just the way it is.”

His conscience argued against the idea, but she looked so pleased that he was hard-pressed to push the issue. It was dinner.

It’s her birthday
….

“Very well, it’s your birthday. We’ll do it your way.” He turned away from the niggling worry of common sense and focused on the fantasy. “Now, what you see in front of you is a filet, butterflied thin and cooked slowly with red wine. A burgundy.” He emphasized his earlier selection and grinned at the warm sparkle in her eyes. “And
au jus
, allowing the meat to absorb the flavors of both as it’s slowly turned on a low fire. The lettuce is romaine, cooled to thirty-eight degrees to preserve freshness. The idea is to slice into the steak, spear a small section along with the lettuce and to bite into both simultaneously.”

He demonstrated, spearing a sliver of his steak with one crisp lettuce section and leaned toward her, fork aloft. His gaze never left hers as her mouth parted beautifully, accepting the offering and he glided the meat home to her tongue. His abdomen tightened as her lips closed on the fork and she took the whole bite.

Her low groan lacked any hint of artifice or drama. Instead, her eyes shimmered, surprise filling them. With two fingers to her lips, she chewed and spoke at the same time. “Oh, my God….”

“The steak is rich, but the lettuce is cool, it’s an assault. Save the wine for when you are done, or it will change the flavor subtly on your palate.”

“I’ve never had anything like this before….”

“That’s why tonight is all about new experiences.” She picked up her knife and fork and began to cut into the steak. The echoes of Blue Star’s experimental melodies rolled into the quiet air around them, muting the hum of the restaurant beyond the heavy curtains.

Yes, sitting down to dinner had been the best plan. Her pink tongue flicked out to catch every morsel of steak.

He couldn’t wait for the next course.

***

In very fine restaurants, and she’d eaten in enough of them, the salad didn’t come until after the meat, and the cheese typically came after that. But nothing about this evening or the meal, seemed to be following what she would normally expect. By the time the hedonistic steak and salad course was swept away and a bread bowl laden with soup was set before her, she didn’t care.

She immersed herself in the evening, in her pretend date with the waiter, and the wildly delicious food. It was past eight, she should be home reviewing case files, but Judge Albert was going to issue a continuance in the morning no matter how prepped she was, the plaintiff’s case wasn’t ready and her client had been dealing with nuisance suits for years.

Damon poured a third glass of wine and gestured to the bowls. “Sweet potato bread, cooked hard, cored out to serve as the bowl for sweet potato soup. There’re diced Idaho potatoes with a dash of paprika and a pinch of salt for flavor. The soup is a palate refresher, it will relax your taste buds and prepare them for the next course.”

She loved the way he talked about the food and didn’t hesitate to dip her spoon for a taste. The soup was rich and creamy with a hint of sweetness, but to her utter surprise she could taste the paprika.

“You like?” He swirled the wine in the glass, leaning back in the chair. He’d angled his seat until they were sitting closer together. The stretch of his long legs beneath the table warmed hers and she’d compensated to sit slightly twisted, taking advantage of her front row view. He really was the whole delicious package from the white shirt contrasting with his olive complexion. Although not a huge man, the elegance and precision in his movements emphasized his musculature.

And then there were his eyes.

She’d never understood the phrase ‘drown in his eyes’ until she was able to feast on the sight of his. They were the most perfect shade of midnight blue. The sound of the restaurant beyond the curtains might as well have been miles away for all that it failed to intrude on their intimate tête-à-tête.

“If I forget to mention it later,” she murmured, “I think this is my favorite birthday.”

He grinned and her pulse thudded. “We’ve just gotten started, don’t give away the prize until the mission is complete.”

Laughter bubbled up and she took another spoonful of soup, her gaze skating over to watch his hands as he began to eat. His expression was neutral as he sampled the flavors.

“It’s not quite perfect. I think we should have added the Idaho potatoes later.”

“I think it’s wonderful. But now I am very curious.”

“And what are you curious about?”

“You know so much about food and you obviously enjoy it, but why a restaurant? There’s so much more to running a restaurant than just the food.” She’d seen the unfortunate results of what happened of creative passion overwhelmed by the demands of running a business. It wore a person down. In at least two cases, she’d seen those same passionate people lose their appetites for creating altogether because the work of ownership carried too much pressure.

“My mother was passionate about food. She believed in the family table, the breaking of bread and the joy of serving. Every Sunday, we came home from church and she’d serve food, the neighbors came over, and brought dishes with them. You could always find food at our house. Saturday nights were always about the preparation. It was a party to stand in the kitchen, sampling the different flavors, putting together the combinations. Even when the steel factory layoffs came and Dad was out of work, she could turn potato and leek soup into an experience. ‘Damon,’ she would say, ‘food is for the soul. Your belly only thinks it is in charge. Never let hunger determine your meal.’”

“That sounds amazing.” Her parents favored microwaveable meals in front of the television or she ate at her desk in her room as she pored over her books. They’d never dragged her away to
experience
a meal, often as not, leaving her to study when they went out to meals and bringing her back some take out. “I can’t imagine spending hours cooking. My culinary skills extend to opening a pot pie box and nuking it for five minutes.”

“And why don’t you cook?”

“You think all women know how to cook?”

“Absolutely not. One of the women in my unit burns water and a buddy of mine pays his wife not to cook because he’s had food poisoning twice.” His quick grin lit her own and she couldn’t help the laughter.

“That’s awful.”

“But true. So no, I don’t
expect
a woman to know how to cook. But why didn’t you learn?”

She glanced down at the nearly empty bread bowl and wondered if it would be impolite to begin to nibble on the soup-soaked bread. As though reading her mind, he reached over and tore off an edge, drenched it in the creamy bottom and held it up to her lips.

She caught his gaze as she took the offered bite, her tongue just barely grazing his finger, but he didn’t pull away, instead, catching a stray drop sliding over her lower lip and offered it to her. Boldness flooded through her and she drew his finger into her mouth until she cleaned off the drop.

“You were saying?” The hint of teasing drifted along the thick undertones of his voice and she sighed.

Yep. No matter how this evening ended, it was definitely the best birthday ever.

“I was something of a prodigy when I was younger. By the time I was seven, my parents had to enroll me in a private school and I skipped several grades. By the time I was twelve, they hired a private tutor because I was a freshman in high school. I graduated at sixteen, but only because my mother was reluctant to allow me to graduate at fifteen. I finished my Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice at nineteen and law school a month before my twenty-second birthday. I’ve been an associate at my law firm since then, and I just got offered partner last week. I haven’t had time to look at anything except books or legal briefs.”

His expression dimmed at her sigh and she fought for a smile.

“I’m whining and I’m aware of that. I never really paid attention to anything else, it’s not that I was denied the opportunities, I was just….”

“You were focused. You had an objective. I get it. I skipped the college experience. Went straight into the Corps the day after I graduated high school. Family tradition. My grandfather, my father. My great-grandfather was a Navy man. My uncle was in the Army, and I have a kid brother who went Air Force, something about liking to play with his stick.”

A shiver washed through her at his easy grin.

“So you were a Marine….”

“No, ma’am. I
am
a Marine. I’m just not on active duty.” He picked up his wine glass and she mirrored him, barely aware of the waitress stealing away their plates and replacing them with a platter of steak and steamed vegetables. The scents creeping up from the plates set her mouth to watering and her stomach cheered.

Unless she planned to spend eight hours on the treadmill the next day, she’d never burn off so many calories.

“Thank you, Mindy.” He never lifted his gaze from Helena’s and her cheeks began to ache from smiling, the muscles of her face locked in a permanent grin.

“Yes, thank you.” She managed a quick glance at the waitress who winked and slipped away as quietly as she’d come. The parting curtain revealed dimmer lighting beyond and the haunting blues of a lone jazz horn.

“Oooh, you have live musicians, too.” Her heart did a little fist pump. She’d had one case take her to the French Quarter a year before, just a week after her birthday and a street musician’s performance brought her to tears. She’d never heard such a mournful, beautiful sound before.