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"The good news is, it wasn't too painful. Susan took it well, even though she was shaken up. And she had a right to know before the rest of the world found out. She and Carson are pretty tight."
"That they are."
It was hard to miss the curt note in Dylan's voice.
Sabrina put down her fork. "You're still pissed at her. Why? Do you really think her personal grief over Russ's murder is that unfounded?"
"It's not her grief that's pissing me off. It's the self-centered way she's handling it. Not only is she so focused on her own pain that she barely notices Carson's, but she's leaning on him big-time. I know she's used to his being a rock. We all are. But, for God's sake, the man's been shot. He's fighting for his life. He's far from out of the woods. All his strength has to go into recovering. And he's a man, not a god. The least she could do is let him do the leaning for a change."
"I see your point. But, in Susan's defense, I'm sure her reserves are shot. She's been at Carson's bedside practically round-the-clock. Now this horrible thing happened to Russ. It's a lot to deal with. And let's not forget one thing more—Carson's not exactly the lean-on-others type. You, of all people, know that."
"All the more reason that those who care about him have to make him lean, especially at a time like this. You, of all people, know that." Dylan gave her a pointed look. "Aren't you the woman who blew a gasket because I wanted to facilitate your move from the Plaza Athenée to your new place, even though a little help was precisely what you needed—and you knew it? Hell, Sabrina, you're just like him."
"I guess I am," Sabrina acknowledged thoughtfully. "Sometimes help has to be shoved down my throat. Okay, you're right. Susan's well aware that Carson's stubborn as hell about showing weakness. In this case, she should be forcing him to get over that—and forcing herself to be strong." Sabrina took a sip of sangria. "You know her a lot better than I do. Do you doubt that her feelings for Carson are genuine?"
"Nope." Dylan gave an adamant shake of his head. "That's the one thing I don't doubt. If I did, I'd be in Carson's face, whether or not he wanted me there. Someone's got to look out for the guy. As it is..." His voice trailed off. "Let's not talk about this anymore, okay? It only ticks me off. And I want us to unwind."
"Fine with me." Sabrina glanced around the small, crowded restaurant. "I like this place. It's loud, it's jam-packed and, at the same time, it's cozy. Is that possible— or is it an illusion created by imbibing half a pitcher of sangria?"
Dylan chuckled. "Both. Sure it's possible. But it's better when you're mellowed by wine."
"Mellowed. Yes, I'm certainly that. What worries me is what I'll be after pitcher number two, which is on its way." She eyeballed the one sitting in front of her, empty except for a wooden spoon, half-melted ice, and a sliver of apple. "I can't believe we're actually going for a second batch. I don't care what Carson said—I think it's only fair to warn you that I'm a cheap drunk. If I go for more than another glass or two, I won't just be sleeping in. I'll be slumping over."
"I'll make sure you stop before that happens."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Well..." Her eyes sparkled. "In that case, a little more mellowing out can't hurt."
"Glad to hear it." A corner of Dylan's mouth lifted. "Because reinforcements have arrived."
As he spoke, the waiter appeared with the second pitcher. He topped off each of their glasses, then placed the pitcher on the table between them, and left.
"Ummm." Sabrina's eyes slid shut as she savored her first cold sip. "I think this batch is even better than the first. My glass has almost twice as many oranges and lemons as last time."
"Really." Dylan sounded amused. "You multiplied that out with your eyes closed?"
"I didn't need to multiply," she replied, her lashes lifting. "I inhaled. The stronger citrus aromas told me what I need to know."
"Ah. That remarkable olfactory sense. I can't wait to see you apply it to perfume." Dylan watched her take a second swallow, and his eyes darkened as she licked a few drops off her lips. "Actually, there are a lot of things I can't wait for."
The electricity between them crackled to life again— its impact jarring. Sexual tension sizzled through them, between them.
This time Sabrina explored, rather than fought, it. "Tell me something, counselor." She propped her elbow on the table and regarded Dylan intently. "Did you take me here so we'd relax, or so we'd be on safe ground because we're among lots and lots of people?"
He set down his glass, folding his hands on the table and leaning forward. "I took you here because the food and the sangria are great, and because it's far away from offices and hospitals. As for safe ground, I told you there is none." His voice lowered, took on a rough, provocative quality that sent shivers up her spine. "The crowd's irrelevant. The setting's irrelevant. I want you no matter where we are and no matter who we're with. I think you know that. What I want to do with you can't be done in a restaurant—any restaurant, busy or quiet. It requires total privacy, long interrupted hours, and a very big bed." He paused. "Actually, the bed is optional. I could improvise."
Sabrina had never been seduced by words before. But there was a first time for everything.
Waves of heat shot through her, throbbed in all the right places. She swallowed, hard, savoring and fighting the sensations all at once.
"Too blunt?" Dylan asked. "Or too much to handle?"
"Neither. Too close to what I want."
Those orange sparks glinted in his eyes. "The complications that stopped us in our tracks yesterday—I was going to wait to bring them up. But I think we'd better get past them, fast. How does now work for you?"
