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“Delighted to meet you, Dr. Taylor. I very much admired your book on Caterina Cornaro. I understand that it has been nominated for an award.” Allan is at his smarmiest.
Cress nods and gives me a sidelong glance. “Yes, we’re going to Paris for the awards dinner in a couple of weeks.”
After an infinitesimal pause, I ask, “What brings you to our table, Allan?”
His eyes flit from face to face, assessing our group. “When you mentioned dining here this evening, I took that as an open invitation.” I wish my gaze were a dagger to his heart. But Allan has no discernible heart. “And, well, we don’t encounter each other often, so I thought…”
Insincerity oozes out of him like sweat. Didn’t mention Rules to him, so he’s keeping tabs somehow. I’ll try to find out, but I don’t fancy my chances. So far, several sweeps haven’t turned up any tracking or listening devices.
Can’t figure out why he’s popped up tonight. Either something has happened, or he’s enjoying yanking my chain. I scowl, the corner of my mouth curled. Fuck him. Then I wipe the disgust off my face.
As I lean back, I wish I could change places with Allan or Yavuz. I fantasize teasing my fingers up and down her thigh. When Allan maneuvers his coat-hanger frame closer to her, the hair on the back of my neck bristles and I barely restrain a growl. Ian elbows me in warning.
Allan bumps Cress’ arm, oyster liquor splashing down her front. She startles, then grimaces at the wet spot. Her muscles tighten as she looks around the table. She has nowhere to move with Yavuz on the other side.
“Sorry. Clumsy of me.” Too bad he doesn’t look sorry.
Ian gloats. “I knew something was up. What exactly is going on, Mason?”
I narrow my eyes. Ian’s fishing for information about Faez. Nosy bugger.
I shake my head and open my mouth to remonstrate. Allan’s interruption is abrupt. “Have you heard something?”
“Rumors.” Ian’s mouth turns down. “Not the hush-hush stuff.”
This is patently untrue, and we all know it.
“Your appearance makes me wonder, though. It’s not like you and Max were chums at school or MI6.”
Allan swats the comment away as if flies are swarming the table. “Eating at Rules is a treat that doesn’t come my way very often. Government drones aren’t well paid.” He chortles, snaps his napkin open, and places it precisely on his lap. The insincerity in his voice drips like acid. “I appreciate your hospitality, Max.”
And there it is. He’s making it clear that I’m paying for this meal in more ways that one. I swallow my retort. “My pleasure, Allan.”
We busy ourselves with the menu. No one offers another topic of conversation. Finally, Cress comments on a dish. “I thought Pithiviers was a dessert?”
The waiter hurries over. “It’s pastry, with a filling. Usually almond, but in this case, savory. The mix of wild mushrooms and herbs is divine.”
JL purses his lips. “And the venison? How gamey is the game?”
“The venison is excellent, sir. Well-seasoned and not overpowering. And the port au jus…” He makes a kissing gesture with his fingers. “It’s perfectly balanced. The dish will make your tastebuds dance. The accompaniments really enhance the dish, especially the quince and chestnuts.”
“Okay, the venison.” JL leans back with a satisfied air as the rest of us order.
Cress passes on the pastry, but I order a slice to share with her and slide a sliver on her plate. She barely notices as she toys with her lamb and mashes the potatoes into the grilled fennel. Normally, she hoovers up her favorite meals. Lately, though, she has lost her appetite a lot. My chest hurts as I watch her push morsels around her plate, lost somewhere in her head.
“Something wrong, la mia stellina?”
She moves her chair a little farther from Allan. “After the huge lunch I had with Ainsley, and the oysters and croquettes, I’m not very hungry.”
Hillary’s appetite is unimpaired, and she enthusiastically shovels in lemon sole while still flirting with JL. He joins in with gusto between bites of venison, dripping with sauce and topped with the celeriac puree.
Cress puts down her fork. “You’re such a tease, Hills.” She looks across at JL, pointedly. “Have you heard from Micki, JL?”
“Not since our texts this morning.” He swallows a bite of quince and chestnut. “We’ll talk later. I told her I’d drink a glass of wine with her while she has dinner.” He seems unconcerned about his interactions with Hillary.
Cress’ lips tighten with concern for both Hillary and the absent Micki. JL is too charming for his own good.
She throws her friend a glance, freighted with meaning. Is she warning her off? The whole interaction is fleeting. Then Cress goes back to pretending to eat her food.
