"I offered you steak," he said.
Charli jerked her gaze from the card. She hated the look on his face, outwardly benign but with a touch of smugness that rankled the heck out of her.
On impulse she asked, "Were you raised in Japan?"
His eyebrows drew together. "No."
"Then chances are you remember your first taste of raw fish."
He studied her a moment. "Point taken. There's a first time for everything. Ah, here's our sake."
As Grant poured the liquid from a small ceramic flask into a tiny matching cup, he explained that while most people think of sake as a wine, it's actually a kind of beer, being fermented from rice, a grain.
Charli lifted the cup and took an experimental sip, mildly surprised to find the drink warm and smooth, sliding easily down her throat with the barest alcoholic bite. She smiled. "I like it."
The corners of Grant's eyes crinkled as he topped off her cup. "A little Dutch courage for the ordeal to come."
He really was quite attractive, Charli thought, when he smiled like that. It softened the stern lines of his face and hinted at something almost gentle within him. His eyes were that changeable hazel hue that never looked the same twice. They were dark now, in the muted lighting, almost the same pewter shade as his sport coat.
Charli found her gaze drawn to the modest amount of skin exposed by the open collar of his shirt. There was something uncompromisingly masculine about the sinewy neck and Adam's apple, the hollow of his throat and the light dusting of hair just visible in the V of white linen. She was careful not to stare too openly. Grant seemed content to sit quietly, sipping his sake. He didn't fill the air with ceaseless chatter, and for that Charli was grateful. He regarded her with polite interest, and she couldn't help but wonder what he saw. A frumpy, old-maid schoolteacher who lived with her parents? Or was it possible there was something about her that he found appealing? Her features were ordinary but not offensive, with the exception of her nose, just big enough to dominate the rest of her face. She knew it had to be the first thing people noticed.
Her body was nothing to crow about, either. She'd often wished she had Amanda's figure, tall and less average, Charli was on the short side, five-three, which probably explained why she looked dumpy no matter what she wore.
She turned her attention to the menu, with its mysterious references to sashimi and maki and— What on earth was a hand roll? "Any suggestions?" she asked.
"I'll order for us both." Grant signaled the waitress. "I'll get an assortment—you can try everything."
Great. Visions of octopus tentacles flashed through her mind.
When the lacquered platter of sushi arrived, blessedly devoid of tentacles, Charli had to admit it looked awfully pretty: pastel-hued strips of fish arranged on little beds of sticky rice, alongside piles of shaved ginger and green wasabi mustard. There were also round slices of maki, fish rolled up with rice and dark seaweed, some studded with sesame seeds, others with red caviar. She recognized cucumber and avocado in some of the maki, and was surprised to discover that a portion of it featured, not raw fish at all, but cooked shrimp and crab.
Grant refused to let her restrict herself to the cooked variety, however. With his chopsticks he lifted a piece of sushi, dipped it in the tiny bowl of soy sauce and held it near her mouth.
She stared at the slender tidbit of dark pink fish on its nest of white rice. "Um, what is it?"
"Tuna. It's very mild. Try it."
He wielded the chopsticks so proficiently. Charli had never gotten the hang of them herself; nevertheless, she started to take them from him. He shooed her hand away and moved the food closer to her lips. She looked at him. He was watching her closely, a curious glint in his eye.
Charli met his stare. If this high-handed man expected to be entertained by the sight of his sheltered bumpkin of a date struggling to choke down uncooked flesh, she refused to put on a show for him.
Charli's senses went on red alert as she leaned slightly forward and closed her mouth over the piece of sushi. If the sight of their shoes side by side had been disturbingly intimate, the act of eating directly from his chopsticks was practically sexual. Mustering her courage, she bit the sushi in half and began chewing.
To her surprise, the fish was indeed mildly flavored, almost overpowered by the salty soy sauce. More surprisingly, it was exceedingly tender. For some reason, she'd expected a chewy blob that would fight her all the way. After a few moments she relaxed and gave herself over to the experience.
Grant's perceptive gaze never left her face. He watched her chew, and swallow, and look expectantly at the piece of sushi still clamped between his chopsticks. There was that gentle smile again as he offered it to her.
After she'd downed that bit, too, he said, "I take it the verdict is positive?"
"So far." Sipping her sake, she peered intently at the pretty arrangement. "What should I try next?"
"Well, since you've discovered a fondness for tuna, why don't you have a go at the tekka maki?" He pointed out one of the rolled-up pieces.
Charli fumbled with her chopsticks, finally lifting it, only to have it slip from her grasp and plop into the bowl of soy sauce. Finally she managed to bring it to her mouth. She started to bite into it, and Grant said, "No, eat the whole thing at once."
It was more than her usual mouthful, but she complied, shoving the entire thing in and feeling her face heat as she envisioned how bovine she must look chewing that big wad of food. It was, however, absolutely delicious—surprisingly delicious.
Who knew?
Only millions of people around the world, Charli had to admit, while she'd taken the safe route all these years and avoided even trying the Japanese delicacy.
Taking the safe route was something she had a lot of experience with, but lately she'd been forced to question whether it had served her well. It had been Grandma Rossi, Charli's lifelong confidante, who had finally spurred her to action on the romantic front, encouraging her to cooperate with the Wedding Ring and let her closest friends introduce her to a potential future husband.
Always you think about duty, never about yourself, Nonni had told Charli during Raven and Hunter's wedding. You're a good girl, Carlotta, but sometimes you gotta think about yourself. Even when it's a lot less scary to think about duty.
Charli washed down the tekka maki with another sip of sake. The drink was deliciously warming and she drained the cup. No longer needing Mama's sweater, she slipped out of it, wriggling a little to get the sleeves off. The movement drew Grant's gaze to her chest for a fleeting instant.
Smoothly he refilled her cup and asked, "So you come home from the school every day and do housework?"
"Well, yeah, but it's a lot more than housework. For one thing, someone always has to go to the doctor—or the dentist, optometrist, podiatrist, you name it. Mama has to see a physical therapist twice a week for her sciatica. Papa goes to the chiropractor for a compressed disk. And Nonni's always at the cardiologist or the rheumatologist or the orthopedist."
"And it's up to you to take them everywhere?" He popped a piece of yellowish sushi into his mouth and motioned for her to do the same.
"Sure." She grappled with the chopsticks. "Between their declining vision and their various medical problems, neither of my parents drives anymore. You wouldn't believe how challenging it can be, juggling all the appointments. I have a system, though—it involves sticky notes and different colored pens and a master calendar I refer to as my Bible. Somehow it all works out."
"So you're the designated chauffeur."
"When I'm not handling the household finances," she said, "the bills and taxes and insurance and bank accounts, all of that. All the shopping, too, of course—groceries, clothes, medications. I keep up the property and make sure everything gets repaired and painted and whatnot."
"You must possess exceptional organizational skills."
He sounded genuinely impressed, prompting her to chuckle. "You don't know the half of it. H
ave you ever made Thanksgiving dinner for thirty hungry relatives? Or a ninetieth birthday party for eighty guests? I had to rent the Knights of Columbus hall for that one, but I did all the cooking myself."
His eyes widened. "You cooked for eighty people?"
"Five courses plus the cake. It was exhausting, but it was worth it. And I do love to cook. And entertain. So for me it's not work."
"Still—all that on top of your full-time job." He shook his head, incredulous.
She shrugged. "It's got to be done. My folks gave me life, took care of me when I was tiny and helpless. The least I can do is make sure they're comfortable and cared for now, when they need me." Gradually they worked their way through the large sushi platter, as well as the sake. Charli was feeling pleasantly relaxed, even a little tipsy. She asked Grant what kind of law he practiced.
"Matrimonial mostly."
"Oh. You mean like divorces? That's so sad."
"Not at the rates my firm bills."
That remark was obviously meant to be witty, so Charli dutifully smiled, while privately she couldn't help but wonder if it ever bothered him, earning a living from people's shattered dreams.
She said, "I overheard you telling my father you've been with your firm for five years. What did you do before that?"
"I was an ADA—an assistant in the Manhattan district attorney's office." He smiled. "Prosecuting bad guys."
"How did you get from there to divorce work?"
"After I graduated law school, I clerked for two years with a judge handling matrimonial cases, so I got experience in that area. And the partner who recruited me at Farman, Van Cleave was impressed by my litigation background—he felt I was well suited to handling their high-profile divorce cases."
She noticed him furtively checking his watch. As little experience as Charli had with dating, she was more than familiar with that particular signal. She set down her sake cup. "Do you have to be somewhere? Because it's okay if you do," she added quickly.
He looked at her, and the truth kicked her in the gut. She hadn't misread the gesture. Or his intention to cut the evening short. She saw it in his eyes.
"Because I really should get home," she said, twisting the napkin in her lap. "I really didn't want to be out too late tonight."
He stared at her for long moments, his gaze too insightful for comfort. His eyes were greenish-gray now. She looked away.
A busboy removed their dishes. From the booth behind Charli came a burst of masculine laughter. Across the aisle, a Japanese couple ordered dinner in their native language. Charli waited for Grant to signal the waitress for the check.
At last he said, softly, "Your grandma says you can stay out as late as you like."
Charli glanced at him. His expression was neutral; only his eyes held the trace of a teasing smile. Was he making fun of her? While she groped for a response, he said, "Have you ever been to Bunny's?"
"What's Bunny's?"
"A club in the west Twenties. One of my clients is performing there tonight."
"Oh. No, I've never been there." Or to any club, but no doubt he surmised that.
"It's a private show, to promote his new album," he said. "By invitation only. We can get dessert there." Now he did signal the waitress.
Charli might not have a lot going for her in the romance department, but she had her pride. They both knew where he wanted to take her, and it wasn't to any club—it was right to her doorstep.
"I'd prefer to go home, Grant." She made herself look him in the eye. "I hope that doesn't disrupt your plans."
Grant started to say something, and stopped. She detected a morsel of contrition, which only made it worse. She didn't want him to feel guilty for unloading his dreary blind date this early in the evening, and she sure as heck didn't want him feeling sorry for her! The check arrived. Without so much as glancing at it, he thrust a platinum credit card at the waitress, who spirited it away. "Did I mention it's Phil Rivera?"
"Who? You mean…?" Phil Rivera was a well-known singer who'd gone solo when his band broke up last year. "That's your client? The one who's performing at Bunny's?"
Grant nodded. "I worked on his divorce. He's very grateful. Considering his probable future earnings, the settlement could've been disastrous. It wasn't."
Charli recalled having heard something about Rivera ending a sixteen-year marriage to the mother of his three children. So Grant had been his attorney.
Charli knew that divorce proceedings were generally skewed in favor of the wealthier party, in most cases the husband. Apparently Grant derived great satisfaction from chiseling down alimony and child-support payments on behalf of his wealthy clients.
He asked, "Do you like Rivera's music?"
"I do, yes. But I have to decline. I can take the train home. You can still make the show."
He gaped at her. "The train?"
"It's less than an hour's ride."
"You think I'd let you take the train home?"
"Look, it's no big deal—"
"That's not how it works, Charli. I picked you up, I'll drop you off." The waitress appeared with the charge slip. Grant scrawled the total and his signature, barely taking his eyes off Charli. "Half an hour," he said. "Give it half an hour at the club. Then, if you still want to go home, I'll take you right home."
"It's not—I don't—" Why did he have to make this so difficult?
"One song. We'll stay for one song." Rising, he came around the table and offered his hand. "Don't forget your sweater."
* * *
Chapter 2
«^»
"Seth, this is the nonsmoking section," Charli called over to the trumpet section leader.
The high school AIDS benefit concert had just ended, and about half of the ninety-eight members of the symphonic band had descended on Wafflemania, the local greasy-spoon diner. All the students wore the requisite black tuxedo pants, pleated white shirt, blue satin cummerbund and matching bow tie—except for the girls, whose collars sported blue satin rosettes. Charli shared a table with Raven and Amanda, who had attended the concert and decided to join the band at their favorite hangout afterward.
Raven sipped her chocolate egg cream, one eye on Seth, who was puffing away. "He's pretending he didn't hear you."
Charli sighed. "Guess I've gotta go over there and play the heavy."
Amanda, stirring her jasmine tea, said, "Something tells me you needn't bother."
Charli watched as their friend Sunny, in her short-skirted, hot-pink waitress uniform, calmly deposited a round of sodas on Seth's table, snatched the cigarette out of his mouth and dropped it in his water glass.
"Hey!" he barked as his buddies guffawed.
"How do you have enough wind for your horn," she asked, "with your lungs full of tar?"
"Oh, I've got enough wind for a lot of things," the seventeen-year-old blustered. He wagged his eyebrows salaciously. "Use your imagination."
"Careful, Seth," Brad Davidson warned, with a nervous glance at Charli. "She's Ms. Rossi's friend."
In a lightning move, Sunny grabbed Seth's little finger and held on tight, bending it back just enough to secure his undivided attention. "I'm using my imagination," she said pleasantly. "I imagine you need this finger for that fancy valve work."
Seth's friends hooted their glee. Red-faced, he demanded, "Let go of me, you b—"
"Uh-uh-uh, is that any way to talk to the lady who's been making sure your fries are extra-crispy since you were in kindergarten?" She bent the pinky back just a tad more. "This is the clean-air section. Seth. I don't want to breathe your smoke, even if it's filtered through your lungs first. Did you want toast or a muffin with that omelette?" she asked Brad.
Charli chewed back a grin as she watched her friend put the audacious pup in his place. That was Sunny, supremely comfortable dealing with all sorts of people. Perhaps it came with the territory—she'd been waitressing at Wafflemania since the day after their high school graduation. But somehow Charli knew that even if it h
ad been her wearing that hideous uniform for twelve years, she'd never have Sunny's self-confidence or her way with people.
"That outfit looks sharp on you," Amanda told Charli. "Dramatic. Sexy."
Charli looked down at the tuxedo pantsuit. "You tell me that at every concert."
"You should wear black more often," Amanda said. "Pants, too. We'll go shopping—I'll help you pick out some new things."
"That's just what they need to see me in at the school," Charli said, with a wry smile. "Something dramatic and sexy."
Amanda was forever offering to help Charli shop for clothes, and Charli was forever declining. Amanda's preference for black no doubt stemmed from the fact that the color looked sensational on her, with her pale blond hair and willowy figure. If Charli put on a black dress, she'd look like Grandma Rossi.
Raven said gently, "There's more to life than the school, Charli. Maybe you should let her take you shopping."
"What did you wear for your date last night?" Amanda asked.
"Oh, just one of the dresses I wear to work." Charli bit back a smile, remembering last night.
Eagle-eyed Amanda shot forward in her seat. "Details, girl. I want details."
Grinning now, Charli dropped her burning face into her bands.
"Oh, now I really want details!" Amanda crowed.
"Shh!" Charli glanced around the room, filled with her music students.
"Down, girl," Raven told Amanda, but she, too, was grinning.
Charli knew her giddy excitement was plain for all to see. "There isn't that much to tell," she said, only to have her pals chorus a suggestive "Uh-huhhh…"
Sunny materialized by the table, coffee carafe in hand. "First things first. Where did he take you?"
"To a Japanese restaurant to start. I tried sushi."
Amanda blinked. "You?"
"And sake."
"Candy is dandy," Sunny purred, "but liquor is quicker."
"Oh, stop," Charli said, feeling her face grow hotter.
I DO, BUT HERE'S THE CATCH Page 2
