kind misunderstanding?”
“There was a mix-up. I thought he was someone else and I was embarrassed. So if you could all go back inside, that would be good.”
Five pairs of eyes, not including Natalie’s, stared at Max as if they wanted him to swear a blood oath that every word she’d said was true. To his credit, his smile almost seemed real.
“Go on,” she said, herding them back. “Someone’s probably stealing all the spoons. I’ll report in later.”
“You come back in,” Hanna said. “Victor will cook something special, okay?”
“No, thank you, Titka. I don’t want to go back now. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Vī pevnі?” Hanna asked.
Natalie widened her smile. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Her aunt leaned closer, and in a whisper that could have been heard in Times Square, said, “He’s very handsome.”
“I know he is, but someone’s waiting to pay for their meal,” Natalie said, then watched until the whole lot of them were inside.
Max cleared his throat. “I suggest we get the hell out of here before they change their minds.”
“Excellent idea.”
Halfway up the stairs, he touched her arm again. It was sweet. He was being sweet. It made her nervous and a little more excited than was wise.
Once on the street, he tugged her near the store behind them. “I don’t know about you,” he said, “but I’m hungry enough to eat my shoe. Let’s try this again. Start fresh. Eat. Have a drink. Talk?”
She should say no. It was utterly unlike her to even consider doing otherwise.
“Come on. We’ve already been through maximum discomfort, right?”
She didn’t argue, although she could think of half a dozen ways things could get worse. However, Max being such a mensch had her renewing her vow to never, ever go back to Oliver. Which meant getting back on the horse. No more running away like a child. “All right. But only under two conditions.”
His eyes narrowed and, damn, suspicion looked good on him. “What would those be?”
“You pick the restaurant. And when we talk, we don’t mention the cards at all.”
“Deal,” he said, his grin crooked and fine. “I know just the place.” Taking her hand in his, he walked her to the curb and hailed a taxi. He held the door for her, then gave the cabbie an address in the West Village.
* * *
THE LAST PIECE of pizza margherita was tempting, but Max let it go. He didn’t want to be too full, not for the night he had planned. Coming to Trattoria Spaghetto had been just the thing. It was an old-school restaurant—good food and decent house wine that had been served quickly.
“I still don’t know what kind of law you practice,” she said. “All we’ve talked about is movies.” She dotted her lips with her napkin and sipped her Chianti.
She’d been right to ban the mention of the cards. Not that he didn’t want to know things about her, aside from what she looked like out of that dress. The conversation had been easy once they’d settled in, and Natalie really was interesting. She could write a book about old films and restoration, a topic he’d never considered worth his time, but he’d read it cover to cover. Now that it was his turn to talk about work, he didn’t want to. Surprising, since he’d been basking in the praise from his victorious precedent-setting case.
“I’ve liked discussing movies,” he said. “It’s a lot more interesting than tort law.”
“I don’t know much about that. I mean, I know that tort is civil law, like personal injury or class-action suits, but I have no idea what you actually do.”
“Infrequently, I’m in court, which can be interesting and tense, although compared to trials in films, real court is long and plodding. It’s a great remedy for insomnia.”
“More frequently?”
“It’s a lot like having homework every day of your life. Looking up precedents, and not just recent ones. One time I actually used something from the ancient Greeks to help hone a point.”
“Huh,” she said. “That’s what librarians do.”
“Yeah, but they don’t get to bill for the hours.”
“And more’s the pity.” She pushed her hair back over her shoulder, turning her head to look at the neighboring table.
He took the opportunity to look down at the soft roundness of her breasts, the contrast between the scarlet of the dress and her pale skin. For the last forty minutes, he’d hardly looked away from her eyes. They were brown, not a particularly memorable shade, but with their passion and subtle drama they’d held him captive.
Jesus, the longer he was with her, the more he wanted her. Although he couldn’t help wondering if this level of attraction would have been there if he hadn’t been living like a monk for such a long time.
“I’m full,” she said, facing him again. “And glad we did this.”
“You’re not throwing in the towel yet, are you? It’s still early.”
“Maybe for you. But I’m very dull. By ten most nights I’m already in my PJs watching TV.”
“There’s nothing good on, trust me. But it is a great night out. What do you say we go for a walk?”
“In these heels?”
“Oh, right.”
“You look so disappointed,” she said, her delight clear in her voice.
“I am. I was looking forward to talking some more.”
“I suppose we could go for a few blocks. I’ll cry uncle when it’s too much.”
“You could just take them off.”
“Barefoot in Manhattan? I’m not sure if I’m caught up on my tetanus shots.”
He leaned across the small table and put his hand on hers. Her eyes widened as she stared, then a faint blush tinted her cheeks. “We don’t have to walk far to get to my place. I’ve got some Courvoisier, which goes great with a to-go order of the Italian cheesecake.”
Natalie’s blush deepened. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t really do things like that,” she said, pulling her hand out of his grasp.
“What, eat cheesecake?”
Pressing her lips together for a moment, her gaze swept over his face, everywhere except his eyes. “Cognac and cheesecake at your place? Perhaps to see your etchings?”
He didn’t respond immediately, knowing she’d eventually meet his eyes. When he got the look he wanted, he lowered his voice. “I don’t think guys use etchings anymore, but if I did, would that be so bad?”
Natalie cleared her throat, turned her wineglass forty-five degrees and gave him a hesitant smile. “It would be flattering. Also a waste of time.”
She sounded very sure and serious, and he wasn’t the kind to hear yes when a woman said no. But everything about her body language read that she wasn’t quite as certain as she’d like him to believe. Still, he nodded. “I know we decided not to talk about the cards, but I’m curious. You clearly do want to settle down. Get married. You seem young. Or maybe it’s just that the women in my field tend to be in their thirties before they start to think about marriage and kids. The career track in large firms is brutal.”
“I’m not that young,” she said. “Twenty-seven seems a good age,