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"Not just you." Carson gestured from Dylan to Sabrina. "Both of you. The three of us have things to work out... alone."
CHAPTER 11
9:25 P.M.
Smith & Wollensky
Sabrina surveyed the bustling Third Avenue steak house and its tightly packed tables. Seventy percent of those tables were filled with groups of men, ten percent with groups of women, and twenty percent with a mixture of both. The restaurant was filled to bursting—mostly with professionals who worked in midtown and had stopped for business or social dinners before heading home—yet no one seemed to mind the crowd. To the contrary, everyone was having a rip-roaring time, laughing and stuffing their faces.
She and Dylan were lucky to have gotten a table. Partially because the place was hopping, and partially because neither of them was dressed appropriately. While most of the patrons were wearing jackets or suits, Sabrina was wearing khakis and Dylan was wearing a sport shirt and jeans. Fortunately, Dylan knew the maître d', who greeted him warmly, and whisked them right off to an upstairs table.
Before she'd slid in her chair, Dylan had already confirmed that she liked seafood, and ordered the
two of them a mixed seafood appetizer. When it came, he instructed Sabrina to wolf down at least half of it, along with two small rolls, before taking her first sip of merlot. As a rule, she didn't take kindly to being strong-armed. In this case, she didn't put up a fight. Dylan was right. She already felt light-headed; drinking wine on an empty stomach would knock her right out.
The steaks arrived, sizzling and huge, along with three side dishes: hash browns, creamed spinach, and asparagus. It was enough to feed an army, and Sabrina felt well up to the task.
She dived in with relish.
"This is fabulous," she pronounced a few minutes later, swallowing another bite of filet mignon, and washing it down with merlot. "Either the New York restaurants are even better than I remember, or I didn't realize how hungry I was."
A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "Maybe both."
"I take it you eat here often."
"Every Wednesday night at eight o'clock sharp. Carson, Stan, and I catch up on business matters over dinner. This is our regular table. It's a great arrangement—no ringing cell phones, no meetings, no distractions. We get twice as much accomplished. We also get our weekly red meat fix."
"Sounds like a winning combo to me." Sabrina paused, toying with her food. "By the way—thanks."
"For what?"
"For dinner. And for catching me before I cracked my skull on the hospital floor."
"You're welcome on both counts." Dylan resumed eating his sirloin with gusto. "I must admit, I've sprung for lots of dinners, but the knight-m-shining-armor bit was new. I'm glad my reflexes were quick enough."
"They were. As for being a first-timer, never fear. There are two tables over there who'd love to help you practice—and perfect—your reflexes." Sabrina couldn't believe she'd said that. It must be the wine talking.
Dylan's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. "You lost me.
The women behind us," she explained, gesturing with her glass. "There's a table of four to my right, and a table of six to my left. They've been salivating over you since we sat down, and openly gaping since our appetizers arrived."
One dark brow rose. "I'm flattered you noticed."
"Don't be. They're not exactly subtle. I think the waiter's about to trip on their tongues." Sabrina's lips curved. "I guess this proves Melissa's right. You must be hot."
Dylan's expression remained impassive. "If that's the criteria, then you're bordering on scalding."
Sabrina blinked. "Huh?"
"A third of the men in this room are in the process of undressing you with their eyes. Another third are trying to decide if your bra unhooks in the front or the back. And the last third are already fantasizing about what positions you like best in bed, and planning how fast they can get you there." Dylan calmly helped himself to another roll.
Laughter bubbled up in Sabrina's throat. She couldn't help it. The images Dylan had conjured up were too priceless. As for what he'd said—well, it had to be the most outrageous thing anyone had ever said to her. "You're quite the cynic, aren't you?"
"Nope. Quite the realist."
"You've condemned every man in the room? Surely there must be a few exceptions."
"Not unless they're gay or dead."
