A Mom for Matthew. Roz Fox Denny
metabolism? Well, according to Grandmother, speedy metabolism runs in my grandfather’s family. I think my mom passed it to me.”
“You think? It sounds as if you aren’t sure. Is your mom skinny or not?”
It was Grace’s turn to fidget. “Hey, no fair. Discussing your background is off limits, but suddenly mine’s a hot topic?”
“Excuse me,” Zeke said stiffly. Straightening, he signaled their waiter who’d just served drinks to another table.
Grace wished she hadn’t sounded so snappish. Being virtually abandoned by her mother was still a touchy issue, even though she’d had a lifetime to get used to the idea and get over it. If she’d opened up, maybe Zeke Rossetti would’ve lightened up.
The waiter veered toward their table.
“We decided to have spumoni and coffee,” Zeke said. “Unless Grace wants to keep the tortellini, in case the ice cream doesn’t fill her up. You can box the rest.”
“Dessert will be more than enough for me.” She pushed away the tortellini.
“Shall I make that regular coffee for both?” the waiter inquired as he cleared their dishes.
“I’d better pass on regular,” Grace lamented. “Diving exacts a toll. I need to get a full eight hours sleep. So decaf for me.”
“I run on high octane,” Zeke admitted. He figured it’d be another sleepless night, even though his mother had said Matt was pulling at his ears less, so the medicine must be working. The pediatrician had scolded Zeke for staying up nights to rock his son, especially once Matt started antibiotics for his frequent ear infections. Zeke tended to pay little attention to the advice. The doctor had never experienced pain in a dark and silent world as Matt did. If Zeke’s sleeping in a chair, holding the boy against his chest, gave his son a measure of comfort, then no matter how exhausted Zeke felt the next day he wasn’t going to deprive his child.
“You’ve got that closed, forbidding look again,” Grace said after the waiter had scurried off with their order. “Are you plotting new ways to shut down my operation?”
Zeke emerged from his private thoughts. “It’s not up to me. It’s up to Pace Kemper and his lawyers to find loopholes in your paperwork. I can’t force you to leave the bay.”
“But you’d like to.”
“Of course. I won’t lie. My team has everything in place to start moving in a well undercarriage. You represent one damned headache after another. I’ll have to dicker with a hostile barge company, a disgruntled pipefitters’ union, to say nothing of listening to my crew bellyache over lost time.”
“So, go farther out in the bay. Jorge said he heard in town that Kemper’s planned a whole string of wells.”
Zeke slumped in his chair until the coffee was delivered. Sitting up, he turned his cup around and raised it halfway to his lips. “Bringing in an oil well isn’t like finding a vein of gold or copper and then mining it until the thread peters out. Finding pockets of oil anywhere, especially undersea, is a long, involved process. Sure, I can call in test engineers again, provided they haven’t gone to Louisiana to hire on with another outfit. That’s only a small part of my problem. I have a well ready to dig. Guaranteed to pump oil, understand?”
“I see.” Grace fiddled with her coffee cup. “I’m sor—”
“Don’t say that again,” Zeke burst out. “Sorry doesn’t cut it.”
“You needn’t shout. People are staring.” Grace tasted her own coffee, then set the cup down and with a shaking hand added cream.
Zeke swiveled his head left, then right. People were indeed watching. He hated being at the center of a scene. Trixie Lee had instigated plenty of them in public during the short time they were married.
Luckily, the waiter arrived with their spumoni and a sack holding Zeke’s leftovers. Well aware that the woman seated across from him had him over a barrel for the moment, all he could do was down the ice cream fast and get the hell out as gracefully as possible. His obligation, with regard to Grace Stafford, would end the minute he dropped her at Seaport House. From here on, dealing with her would be Pace Kemper’s problem, thank God.
Zeke only wished she hadn’t closed her eyes after her first taste of spumoni, and then made noises that brought visions of another kind of ecstasy. Her smile of satisfaction as she savored her dessert showed the barest tip of her tongue—which sent blood rushing to Zeke’s groin. He tried to tear his eyes away, but couldn’t.
Her eyelids popped open suddenly and Grace caught him gaping with an odd expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder. “Oh, did I embarrass you? If so, I can’t help it. This ice cream is heavenly.”
Zeke shifted his attention to his own melting ice cream, quickly stabbing his spoon into the center of his dish. He’d be damned if he’d admit to letting his mind drift to a different sort of heavenly experience. Obviously one he’d put on the back burner for too long, if watching a virtual stranger eat ice cream turned him on. “Eat up. I’m sure we both have to get an early start,” he said brusquely.
Grace didn’t know why, but it felt as if Zeke Rossetti was a Jekyll-Hyde personality. One minute he acted friendly; she even caught glimpses of compassion. The next minute, he was cold and distant. Well, she didn’t need that. She’d been dumped on by enough unpredictable, lying people, what with her mother, then that jerk of a science teacher, Stuart Mathias.
Bending her head, Grace matched her moody dinner partner in silently shoveling up ice cream. Trouble was, it was cold enough to freeze her tonsils, and deserved to be eaten with more care. However, a lot could be said for one’s own company. Grace was supremely glad that after tonight there’d be no reason for her to ever cross Zeke Rossetti’s path again.
Because she was feeling rocky, Grace pulled out her wallet when the waiter brought the check. “Since I’m causing you and Mr. Kemper grief,” she said as sweetly as possible, “I insist on paying my share. As you said when you phoned my room, I had to eat dinner anyway. I would never have tried this great restaurant if you hadn’t brought me here.”
Zeke scowled, raising his eyes from the folder where he’d already plunked down the company credit card. “Put your money away. I invited you, I’m paying. It’s final.”
“I want to confirm that there’s no obligation on my part,” she said stubbornly.
“I got your message loud and clear.” Zeke left an edge of his credit card sticking out as he closed the padded folder and set it on the edge of the table.
Flushing, Grace shut her wallet and returned it to her purse. “I just don’t want your boss to have any misconceptions.”
“Out of curiosity, what’s so damned important about this plane? I know you said it belonged to your grandfather, but what’s in the salvage for you? Did he go down with gold on board?”
“Not everyone is motivated by money,” she said stiffly.
“Okay. So, it’s an historic plane. Now what?”
Grace studied him for some time, then finally said, “My grandmother’s doctor told me her heart’s in bad shape. It’s giving out. He say’s she’s overtaxing weak artery walls—because she’s obsessively trying to set my grandfather’s war record straight before she dies. I wasn’t aware until recently how much time she’s devoted to writing letters and petitioning the navy to give her husband his due. He’s listed as missing. She needs remains or medals or something to bury beside her. Think what it’s like for her. He left to fly a wounded naval officer to Pensacola, Florida, and then a storm cut off his communication. The navy searched the waters off the Florida coast at his last coordinates. My research turned up reports from about that time of a plane crashing in Galveston Bay. The Coast Guard read my notes and they agree it’s possible the storm blew Albert Dugan’s Grumman Duck this far off-course.”