Cat In A Topaz Tango

The balding waiter murmured “Danke sheine” and left.

Max double-bolted the door and swept the cane under the cart’s tablecloth, ensuring no assassin lurked beneath the snowy linens.

“You are suspicious.” Revienne spoke from the open bathroom door.

“And you’re not, after what you went through?”

“Of course. But I’m also suspicious of you.”

“Me?”

“Obviously, you are a tough guy. Who knows what you’re capable of?”

“Why don’t you see what goodies are on the table here, before turning it on me.”

“Sometimes you speak nonsense.”

“English idioms. Figures of speech. I can use German. Or French, if you prefer.”

“In bed, yes. Both.”

“I don’t think either of us is ready for bed yet,” he said dryly. “Regardez.”

“Mon Dieu!”

She picked up the champagne in its silver bucket to read the label, then the bottles of red and white wines. She eyed him, mischievous.

“You must surely bear a platinum card from a titan of industry.” Under the silver domes she lifted in turn lay croissants, a huge salad for two, salmon and pommes frites—the original French fried potatoes, as thin as angel-hair pasta—fruit and cheese and small candied sweets.

“This is a feast,” she said.

She looked at him leaning on his cane, slipping his homemade set of brass knuckles into his pants pockets, not that she knew what he was doing.

“Now you do as I say. Sit. On that hard chair, where you will not sink like a stone.”

She was right that he needed support now, not wallowing comfort. He couldn’t assume they wouldn’t be traced here and attacked in the night.

“I will serve you,” she decided, rolling the table to his chair and handing him an elaborately folded serviette.

He took it, watching as she lifted the cart’s side extensions, pulled a chair to her side of the table, selected the red wine for the salad, poured it. He watched her bare arm muscles shift with purpose under her creamy skin, her breasts ebb and flow against the thin silk netting them, tender and pink as the salmon.

She understood the show she was putting on, of course, but that only made him feel free to enjoy it.

When she sat and pushed the salad plate toward him so they could eat off both sides, she suddenly gasped in surprise. Her white linen napkin was in the shape of a graceful swan, not the formal roll that had come with the service.

“You do napkin origami!”

Surprising her in this small way gave him an unexpected bolt of pleasure, completely nonsexual. She quickly turned the moment to the more adult.

“I’d noticed what long, agile fingers you have.”

She gave him a Princess Diana smile, head cast down, eyes cast up, shy and seductive at the same time. Now he remembered her very well, the late, unhappy royal wife. He washed some of the exquisite wine over his tongue and resolved to enjoy every nuance of both the drink and the woman.

Was she seducing him for some undercover purpose? Or was she just a woman who’d survived an arduous mountain trek that had stripped every scintilla of womanliness from her?

They began forking pieces of romaine lettuce, walnuts, blue cheese, and caramelized pear slices into their mouths, not speaking, just savoring the enjoyment of a leisurely fine meal, sipping wine between every bite.

If he knew the French, this dinner would take at least an hour. No bolting the food American-style. He supposed his butt might go numb on this hard chair by then, but numbing the nether regions was probably a good idea right now. He didn’t want to be swept away before he knew more about her than she knew about him.

“Why did you become a psychiatrist?”

She looked up, surprised. “It’s a good profession. I meet interesting people.” She tossed him a smile and a bow of her head. “I help them.”

“And you make a lot of money.”

She shook her head as she sipped wine, not quite able to answer. “I do now. That wasn’t my motive. Actually, your generous contribution for my services here in Switzerland will help me meet with my Algerian patients in Paris.”

“You’re an altruist.”

“Pardone-moi?”

“You try to help mankind, not just . . . man.” He returned her smile with the bow of his head as he sipped wine. Great stuff! Great verbal fencing too.

“I believe everyone who is blessed has an obligation to serve those unlucky enough to have been unblessed.”

“So amnesiac millionaires who fall off mountains are just a charity case for you?”

Her gray eyes warmed with appreciation. “So you have . . . turned the tables on me now?”

“You catch on fast.”

“You didn’t fall off a mountain, Mr. Randolph. You are not the type to climb cold, hard Old World mountains.”

“Then how did I fall?”

She sipped wine, shut her eyes, tilted her head. “I see you climbing . . . a skyscraper.”

He raised an eyebrow.