was actually beginning to look forward to dinner.
* * *
THE EVENING STARTED well. Emily brushed her hair in a cloud around her shoulders and wore her new black lace underwear, one of two sets Jane had splurged on with her money.
“Always have a backup set,” Jane had told her. “You never know, he may rip this stuff off you with his teeth in the throes of passion.”
Emily visualized it. “Sounds good.”
She topped the underwear with her best short black dress, dabbed on some nonheating Sizzle, and was just congratulating herself on how sophisticated and adult she looked when the doorbell rang and she went cold with nerves.
This is just dinner, she told herself. He’s a Hun. You don’t care. This is meaningless.
It didn’t work.
As much as she hated to admit it, the anticipation she’d felt earlier had grown the more she’d thought about Richard. For the first time in a long time, she was really looking forward to an evening with a man. “So much for a meaningless fling,” she told herself, and fought down another little spurt of panic as the doorbell rang again.
Her panic subsided when she answered the door and saw him there, solid and familiar. He stood still for a moment when she opened the door, and then he swallowed and said, “You’re beautiful.” He brought her gardenias. He handed her into the cab as if she were made of porcelain.
This is good, Emily thought. He looks like a god, and he treats me like a goddess. This could work.
He took her to the Celestial for dinner.
“George said this was your favorite restaurant,” Richard told her as they sat down.
Emily clamped her lips together. You could have asked me where I wanted to eat, she thought, and then sighed. Be nice, Emily. He’s being nice. And you need him on your side. And he’s paying; he has a right to choose the restaurant. Besides, it is your favorite. Besides, he’s gorgeous.
“I’m starving.” He motioned to the waiter. “Let’s skip drinks and go right to dinner.”
“I wouldn’t mind a glass of wine,” Emily said, but Richard was already ordering.
“Sweet and sour soup. Mongolian beef.”
“I don’t care for Mongolian beef,” Emily said politely.
“Mu-shu pork.”
“I like garlic chicken.”
“Su-san shan.”
“I really hate su-san shan.”
“Princess prawns.” He beamed at her. “How does that sound?”
“Have you had your hearing checked lately?”
Richard was already handing the menus to the waiter. “That’ll be fine.”
“Plum sauce on mu-shu pork?” the waiter asked.
“No,” Richard said.
“I like plum sauce,” Emily said, and the waiter smiled at her and nodded.
Thank God, she thought. I was afraid I’d suddenly gone mute.
“We needed to get away from the office.” Richard smiled at her. “Too many aggravations there.”
The only aggravation there just ordered dinner for me here, Emily thought.
“Your hair looks wonderful.” He looked at her, his eyes shining, and then smiled that sexy boyish grin that made her breathing quit every time. “You’re lovely in the office, but tonight you’re absolutely gorgeous.”
He’s not that aggravating, Emily thought, remembering to inhale. He has potential. Be nice, Em. “This is really nice of you.” She leaned forward. “It really shows me how much you want our partnership to work. And I’m glad you’re concerned about our working relationship, because I think we can do much better.”
“Absolutely.” Richard took her hand. “I agree with you absolutely.”
His touch startled her. He had nice hands. Nice warm hands with tapered fingers. His nails were beautifully manicured, she noted, trying to concentrate on details so she could ignore the warmth spreading into her from his fingers. She breathed a little harder and met his eyes. He was looking at her with naked adoration. He really was sweet.
Do not become emotionally attached to the Hun, she told herself. Simply use his body mercilessly and then fling him aside.
“Tell me about yourself.” His hand tightened on hers. “I want to know everything.”
Emily blinked. “Why?”
He seemed taken aback. “Don’t you think it’s important for people who, uh, work together to get to know each other?”
“I guess so.” Emily thought about it. She and George had worked together for eight years, and he’d never even asked her where she lived, let alone gotten to know her. This was an interesting side of Richard. “All right.”
She answered his questions through the soup and the pork. By the time she was finished, she knew why Richard was so successful. He asked the right questions and, this time, listened to the answers. Midway through her life story, she realized he was piecing together the things that made her the person she was; he was doing in-depth research on his latest project—her. It was intensely flattering and not a little disconcerting.
But at least he was listening.
He was also charming, intelligent and polite. Emily relaxed and enjoyed herself with him, and the more she relaxed the more he opened up, so that by the time the pork was gone, there was a vulnerability in him she hadn’t seen before. It was devastating. Emily found herself fighting against falling in love with him. And losing.
Don’t be a fool, she said, and then she looked into his incredible blue eyes, eyes so plainly adoring her, and fell some more.
“Mongolian beef, princess prawns, su-san shan,” the waiter said, putting the dishes on the table.
“Great.” Richard ladled Mongolian beef onto her rice.
Emily looked at the stuff. She didn’t care for beef in general, and she hated beef cooked in oil. The onions looked like worms. Richard added several spoonfuls of vegetables, also glistening with oil. Then he served her prawns, and she began to eat, carefully avoiding the beef and vegetables.
“You’re not eating your beef.” Richard frowned. “Is there something wrong? Should I send it back?”
“I don’t like Mongolian beef.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
“I did. You didn’t listen.”
He looked at her plate. “Su-san shan, too?”
“Yes. The waiter heard me. That’s why I got plum sauce on my mu-shu pork.”
“You like plum sauce?”
“Yes.” Emily sighed, patient to the end. “I mentioned it.”
“I don’t listen.” He looked at her with eyes like a scolded puppy’s.
“No, you don’t.” She couldn’t bear to see him so unhappy so she smiled at him. “Work on that.”
“I will,” he promised.
“Good. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about you.”
He hesitated, but she was a good researcher, too, and by the time the fortune cookies arrived, Emily knew everything about his past. They had a lot in common. They both agreed, for instance, that Walt Disney should have been shot, instead of Old Yeller, because they’d both been traumatized by the movie. They’d both been president of their senior class in high school.