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Quinn’s face darkened. “I gave up that chase, I told you.”
Marie gathered herself together. Enough. This was horrible, and getting them nowhere.
“Quinn, something isn’t right tonight. We seem unable to do anything but bicker.”
He straightened his broad shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re right. Sorry. I’m on edge tonight.”
“Work?” She wondered if something was going wrong with one of the companies he’d invested in. Though he didn’t strike her as the type who’d risk more than he could comfortably afford to lose.
“Sort of.” He frowned, staring into his gin. “There’s a situation I’ve been counting on working out, and I’m starting to wonder if I’ve been reading it wrong. It’s not like me.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’ve invested a lot. Time, energy, emotion.”
“Quinn.” She leaned toward him, heart melting at his distress, put her hand on his forearm and squeezed the strong muscle reassuringly. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Yes, actually.” He took another too-large sip of his martini. “Come to dinner with me at Dream Dance Steakhouse.”
Marie’s jaw dropped. The restaurant was one of Milwaukee’s finest, and one of its most expensive. Not exactly a buddy date. “Wow. That’s…a little out of my—”
“I’m inviting you. My treat. We can go dancing afterward.”
League was how she’d been going to finish her sentence. Now she wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly. “Dancing.”
“Swing dancing at the Jazz House. If you’d enjoy that.”
If? Was she dreaming? Quinn Peters, god among men, was inviting peasant-stock Marie on what sounded like a real man-woman date? She ducked her head to avoid showing her blush and took a solid breath so her voice would come out casually. “That sounds fun. When were you thinking of going?”
“Next Friday? Our regular night?”
“Sure.” She was dreaming. If an operator like Quinn wanted her, he would have made that clear on their first meeting. Right? God, this was confusing. She reached instinctively for her drink, suddenly as thirsty for alcohol as he seemed to have been all night, took a big clumsy slug and started coughing.
“You all right?” He thumped her firmly on the back, a big brother’s touch. He had told her months ago that she reminded him of his sister. Marie had been so humiliated, she’d invented a brother he could remind her of, too. Only he hadn’t looked humiliated at all at the comparison.
“Fine. I’m fine.” She wiped her streaming eyes. “Just haven’t learned how to swallow yet.”
“You might want to try.” His hand lingered briefly between her shoulder blades, then slid slowly down her spine before he finally broke the contact.
Not quite a lover’s touch, but not a brother’s, either.
Marie reacted as if he’d kissed her, desire running hot for more of the same. Help.
Next Friday. Dinner and dancing. She’d be in his arms out on the floor, possibly held close against him. If a pat on the back got her this heated, she’d end that night up in flames.
Still without knowing whether this man she burned for had any interest in putting them out.
4
“CHEF?” ACE KNOCKED ON THE door to Darcy’s cramped enclosure—which she optimistically called her “office”—in the back of Gladiolas’s kitchen. “We have a problem with this morning’s delivery.”
Darcy turned her chair away from the computer where she’d carefully saved a new recipe into her Chef’s Bible file: one copy there, password protected, and one on the red flash drive she kept hidden in a drawer. The file was sacred; in it she kept all her food creations, past present and future, and all her ideas for Gladiolas’s specials. This was a menu she called Save Calories for Dessert, which featured local bass steamed over a fragrant curried broth, served alongside roasted zucchini and couscous studded with raisins and almonds. A light salad of avocado, grapefruit and endive, and then a killer dessert with layers of white milk and dark chocolate mousses in a bitter chocolate shell.
