Dear Rita. Simona Taylor
They were escorted into a reception area by a Thai girl clad in silk wraps of hummingbird colors: gold, emerald, turquoise and rose pink. Despite her headache, Rita was entranced by the grace with which the girl moved, and the butterfly flutters she made with her slender hands as she gestured to a corner of the room before she bowed and disappeared.
Standing there, looking nervous, was a slightly-built man in a silver-gray suit, with sandy, thinning hair, pale gray eyes and a hopeful half smile. He had been staring intently at the doorway, and when he saw them, his face brightened.
“That’s him,” Cassie hissed.
Rita’s brows shot up. “You didn’t tell me—”
“That he’s white?” Cassie interrupted defensively.
“That he’s old, ” she responded, just as quickly.
“He’s fifty-one,” Cassie retorted. “That’s not old.”
Your dad’s fifty-four, Rita would have reminded her, but they were within earshot now and Clark stepped forward, both hands outstretched. “Cassie! I’m so glad you came. You look lovely!” He blushed madly as he said it and grasped Cassie’s hands in his.
Rita looked at Cassie properly for the first time this evening. She did look lovely. Her short natural hair gleamed as though washed in sunshine. Her makeup was flawless, as was her manicure. She wore a deep green wrap dress with long sleeves and a high collar, a surprising choice for the normally unconventional Cassie. She even had a large silver brooch pinned over her left breast. Although it did little to disguise her outrageous figure, it made her look several years older. She tried not to feel too weirded out by the fact that Cassie was disguised as her own mother, and allowed herself to be introduced.
“This is my best friend, Rita Steadman.” Cassie indicated her with a sweep of her arm. “Rita, this is Clark Burrows.” She added unnecessarily, “He’s the guy I told you about.”
Clark engulfed her hands in both his warm ones. “Rita. Delighted, delighted! Cassie has told me so much about you.”
“Really?” Rita murmured the standard response. “I hope it was all good.”
“Oh, it certainly was.” He beamed. “We talked on the phone for hours yesterday, and trust me, half the conversation was about what a great friend you are, and how much you’ve been through together.”
Rita cast a glance at Cassie, who was doing nothing but standing there, smiling. She’d known that Clark had called yesterday, but she had no idea that the conversation had gone on for hours.
There was an awkward silence, where everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to say or do something. Clark rushed in to fill it. “I think we’d better have a seat, ladies. Dorian called—that’s Rita’s date.” He smiled reassuringly at Rita. “He said he’d be a little late. He suggested we go ahead and order, and he’ll be here as soon as he can.”
She couldn’t help but feel a bit irritated. She’d made the effort to come along on this little caper, even though she was halfway through death’s doorway. So why couldn’t this Dorian guy?
Their table was large and ornate, laid with gold-rimmed china and bright silk napkins, and brushed by feathery fronds that hung down from potted plants on the wall. A water feature tinkled nearby, and small brass chimes swayed idly overhead, even though there was no discernible breeze. Rita accepted the chair that Clark held out for her, and, glad for the distraction, began to peruse the menu. She listened with mild amusement as Cassie and Clark discussed the choices, knowing full well that Cassie was doing rapid calculations in her head about fat grams, sodium content and such. She pitched in with suggestions of some of the more innocuous items on the menu for their communal dishes. Eventually, they agreed upon several simple dishes, although Clark did persuade her to order a spicy green curry to share with Dorian, promising that Dorian was a more adventurous eater.
Over hot lemongrass soup, the conversation became more relaxed. Rita found herself liking Clark. Though hardly a sparkling wit, he was charming in a Midwest farm boy sort of way. Even his nervousness was endearing.
But by the time the main courses arrived and there was no sign of Dorian, Rita’s irritation rose again. It was an awkward, left-at-the-altar kind of situation, made more uncomfortable by the fact that Cassie and Clark kept trying to draw her into their conversation, as though they felt sorry for her sitting alone like the cheese. She was thankful, but inwardly she seethed. If this Dorian person thought she’d be all sugar and spice when he did turn up—if he turned up at all—he had another think coming.
As sweetly as she could, she asked Clark, “Are you sure nothing’s happened to Dorian?”
He frowned slightly, as if the idea hadn’t occurred to him. “He’s usually not this late, but you can’t always put a time frame on legal matters. If you forgive me for using the phone at the table, I’ll give him a call.” He withdrew a small cell phone from his breast pocket and was just dialing it, again murmuring apologies, when he looked up, past Rita’s shoulder, and smiled. “There he is now.”
In spite of herself, Rita turned in her seat, toward the entrance, wondering if she would be able to guess which of the patrons entering through the doorway would be him. Would her date for the evening turn out to be another soft-spoken, homegrown Idaho farm boy old enough to be her father? But there was just one man standing there, and this was no Idaho farm boy.
The man in the doorway was so tall, he had to dip his head slightly in order to clear the low-hanging silken ropes curving down from the lintel. His skin was darker than dark, and as he drew closer she could see that so, too, were his hair and eyes. One image ran through her caffeine-addicted brain: coffee…black. The man’s skin made her thirsty.
Rita sat up straighter in her seat.
The breadth of his shoulders gave balance to his height, and the sedate navy of his suit was offset by a shirt the exact color of a cloudless winter morning sky. He walked quickly without seeming rushed, and made his way directly to their table, where Clark was already on his feet with his hand extended. The two men shook hands warmly, with Dorian uttering apologies as fast as Clark could brush them aside. Introductions were quickly made, and Rita found her hand engulfed in Dorian’s huge one. Closer now, she could examine his features in greater detail.
His brows were dense and arched, and unbelievably black eyes were framed by lashes as thick as moth’s wings. A shapely nose drew her eyes downward to a wide mouth that was saying something she could not hear, as the tinkling of the fountain nearby had become in her ears as loud as a pounding surf.
Unfashionably late or not, Dorian Black was easily one of the best looking men she had ever met.
This was not a good thing.
Chapter 4
D orian looked down into the face of the woman he had been shanghaied into having dinner with. Her eyes were even clearer and more honeyed than they had appeared in the little photograph that accompanied her column. With her hair let down (and a little messier than he would have expected for such an occasion) she looked younger, too. She appeared flustered, almost as though she hadn’t expected him to actually turn up. He was, after all, forty-five minutes late. For someone who didn’t understand how trying his prison visit day could be, and how insane things got behind those high stone walls, such lateness would seem unforgivably rude.
He repeated his apologies, this time, directly to her. “Sincerely sorry for keeping you waiting, Miss Steadman. Please forgive me.”
She looked even more flustered. “It’s, uh, Rita.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Rita, then. It’s a lovely name,” he added, more for want of something pleasant to say than out of any particular affinity for the name, which was a perfectly run-of-the-mill one, as far as he was concerned.
“Thank you.” She accepted the compliment as though she knew he hadn’t really meant it.
There