A normal guy would go all out to prove just how wrong she’d been about him and just how successful he was, how powerful. Rub it in. Make her suffer a little remorse for thinking badly of him.
The easiest way to do that was to spend a lot of money on dinner, the more exclusive and expensive the restaurant, the better.
But it looked like Sam Reston had hidden depths.
The light kiss had shut her right up. She had no idea what to say. So she spent the car trip gratefully mulling over the fact that maybe Sam had engineered her an escape from Creepy and Creepier.
There was silence in the car as they drove south, to an outlying part of town she’d never been to before. She looked around as Sam started slowing down. This was definitely not expensive restaurant territory.
It was, however, a lively area, with a great deal of ethnic diversity, mostly Hispanic but with strong Asian flavors. Sam drove by taperias and taquerìas and Vietnamese and Thai restaurants, finally pulling into the parking lot of a low, sprawling building surrounded by gardens. BALADI, announced a big billboard, and if that wasn’t enough, there was a beautifully rendered cedar tree covering half the billboard.
Nicole gave a delighted laugh. She turned to Sam as he parked the car in an overflowing lot. “Oh my God! A Lebanese restaurant! How on earth could you know I love Lebanese cooking?”
His hard mouth turned up at her excitement. “I confess I checked your website. It said you spent some time in Beirut. No one can live in Lebanon and not love the food. I love it, too. This is one of the best Lebanese restaurants I’ve ever eaten at, so I hope you enjoy it.”
He was a miracle worker. Already, her muscles were relaxing. However the night ended, she’d have had a fantastic meal and a rare evening dining out.
It occurred to her that she really needed this evening. She hadn’t eaten out in, what? Six months, maybe? No, more like seven months. And then it had been to an extremely boring restaurant with bland, forgettable food. She’d ignored her instincts and accepted a client’s dinner invitation. His conversation had been blander and more tasteless even than the food. He’d been appalled at how ill her father was, though Pops hadn’t even been fully confined to a wheelchair yet. It had been a disastrous evening and she hadn’t been out since.
No time. No money.
Whatever company Sam Reston turned out to be, she was really looking forward to the meal.
There was a long gravel walkway and he put a hand to her back as they walked up. She was actually grateful for that hand as her sandals had been chosen more for looks than function. The heat of his touch penetrated the material of her jacket and the dress.
She looked around as they approached the entrance. The building wasn’t luxurious, but looked well tended and friendly. The big picture windows showing happy-looking diners inside sparkled in the evening light. The décor was simple and functional, waiters bustling to and fro.
The grounds were extensive. Off to the right she could see?—
“Oh my gosh. Are those tomato plants?” Row after row of perfectly spaced stakes with small green knobs hanging off the plants. And now that she looked more closely, she could see tiny, tender tufts of baby lettuce, brightly colored peppers, zucchini.
Sam looked down at her. “The proprietor grows most of his own produce. He says that way he knows what he’s getting. And it’s delicious, which is an added advantage.”
She smiled. “It reminds me of the hillsides outside Beirut. All those truck garden allotments.” You could always count on seeing an elderly member of the family, carefully weeding and watering, a kerchief on his head to protect against the hot Mediterranean sun.
“Yeah.” Sam smiled. “We used to go up into the hills and picnic with the guys we were training. Picked figs off the trees, it was great.”
Sam was known here.
When he opened the door for her, a handsome olive-skinned man wearing a long apron came out of the kitchen and rushed toward him. They gave each other one of those manly thumps on the back where women would have kissed, and the man turned dark, intelligent eyes to her.
Sam did the honors. “Nicole, meet the best chef in the state, Bashir Fakhry. Bashir, this is Nicole Pearce. She lived in Beirut for a few years.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Nicole had that phrase in Arabic down pat, having used it thousands of times in Beirut.
“Welcome to my restaurant. I hope you enjoy the meal.” The beautiful Arabic syllables flowed like water as he took her hand and bowed over it.
“Thank you, I’m looking forward to it. You have a very beautiful place here,” Nicole answered carefully, now having to create an actual sentence. Arabic was not her strongest language and she was prone to grammatical mistakes.
Either she hadn’t made a mistake, or Bashir Fakhry forgave her. He beamed at her.
“A beauty beyond compare and she speaks Arabic,” he murmured, dark liquid eyes gleaming. He shot a sly look at Sam, then smiled back down at her. “Ditch this hobo and run away with me.”
Nicole laughed. His English was excellent, with a to-die-for accent. Nicole was sure Bashir was a great hit with the ladies. She’d loved the extravagant personalities of the Lebanese, who had managed to retain their humanity even as their country was being torn apart.
Nicole had been lucky enough to be in Lebanon in the halcyon years after the civil war had ended and before the new war started. Her father had been Deputy Chief of Mission of the Beirut Embassy for two years. She’d just started her studies in Geneva, but she spent her summers in Lebanon, enjoying her parents’ company, desultorily studying Arabic and flirting with the cultural attaché she suspected was CIA.
Bashir led them through room after room of loud, happy diners to a quiet, small room in the back where a plate-glass wall gave out onto lush-looking fields.
