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“So you want a monopoly,” she said.
“Or as close to one as I can get,” he said, smoothly. He didn’t even pretend to be the least bit contrite about it. “Anyway, a lot of the big oil interests, whom I’ll admit I learned from and used in my time, refuse to come around to my belief that solar is the future, and if anything are doubling down on their belief that fossil fuels will always be around. For reasons that can best be described as ‘political’, though, it remains in my best interests to be seen as a supporter of their cause—”
“Even while you’re working to screw them over,” she finished, shaking her head. “That’s devious.”
The first amuses arrived, tiny poached quail eggs served in a vinaigrette, with chives that had been minced into a slurry sitting in a perfect little bead on one side of the spoon. She could only stair at it, mesmerized by how beautiful it was, the sheer white of the egg holding the gelatinous yolk within. “Go ahead, you’re allowed to eat it,” Malcolm chided her, and she closed her eyes and tilted it into her mouth, feeling the egg split as her tongue crushed it against the roof of her mouth, the innards of the egg running creamy down her throat.
He was looking at her funny when she opened her eyes again. “I take you enjoyed the amuse?” he asked.
She took a sip of the wine—now she understood how people made livings pairing wine and food. “I can’t believe that was just the amuse,” she said, weakly.
“Brandon is no doubt scrambling to put together something even more exquisite,” he said.
“How much is all this?” she asked.
“Inconsequential for someone of my means,” he said, “so just relax and enjoy yourself, please. I don’t expect anything in return—well, besides your interesting and sparkling witty conversation throughout the dinner—”
“I hardly think I’m that interesting.”
“That’s for me to judge, wouldn’t you say?”
“Is your life really that dull that you’d find someone working in the Research department more interesting than the rich and powerful women that must be throwing themselves at your feet?”
“First of all, rich and powerful women don’t throw themselves at my feet,” he said, as the waiter brought out the first course—a jellied version of vichysoisse, apparently, on a bed of toasted bread crumbs, surrounded by artful drops of mustard sauce. “Secondly, rich and powerful women don’t get that way without knowing exactly what they want, and meeting expectations gets terribly tedious after a while.”
“I know what I want,” she said, bristling at the assumption that she’d gone her life without knowing what she wanted to get out of a relationship.
“And don’t I exceed expectations?” he asked, as he cut into the gelatinous cylinder with a knife.
She couldn’t deny that. She took a bite, curious about the taste—it was nothing short of divine. There was an unexpected sweetness to the jelly that offset the saltiness, and the buttery crunch of the crust was a perfect compliment to the silky smoothness of the gel. “This is delicious,” she murmured.
He reached out and took her hand. “Third, well, there are things about me that most rich and powerful women don’t like.”
“And what makes you think I would like them?” she asked.
“I don’t. But neither I think, do you.”
***
The rest of the dinner went as smoothly as silk. She’d never had venison before—never mind cooked so rare it was practically bloody as she cut into it—and the dessert was a surprising confection of basil-and-lemon sorbet that both made her lips pucker and brought a smile to her eyes. And everything had its own wine; between the courses there were amuses like paper-thin cucumber slices wrapped around a tartar of shrimp, or a nearly-translucent sheet of cheese embedded upright in an impossibly tiny tomato, shining with olive oil and crusted with salt.
“You do know how to show a lady a wonderful time,” she said, as he helped her into her jacket.
“I’m glad,” he said, as they stepped outside. “Do you want to have drinks at my place?” he asked. “My apartment is just off J-Street.”
“You have an apartment in Washington?” she asked, her brain boggling at the expense it must entail.
“It’s just a one-bedroom,” he said, enjoying her surprise. “When you’re in DC as often as I am it just makes sense to have a space here.”
“I am just tipsy enough from the wine to make drinks seem like a wonderful idea,” she said, as he hailed a cab.
“My place it is,” he said, holding open the door and letting her in. He gave the cabby an address and presently—now that there was minimal traffic on the streets—they were outside a pale beige building with a doorman in front of it.
“Mr. Raines,” the doorman said, bowing as he opened the door for them.
“Frankie,” Malcolm returned, and he took her arm and they went inside.
The apartment building, as well as his apartment, was simply furnished but the quality of the furnishings were unmistakable. The carpeting was thick, and the walls were works of art, in the style of Mondrian. His apartment was spartan—there was a single cabinet with his electronics, and a single lounge chair with a matching footstool, a single flat-screen, modestly-sized, between a mirror and a rack of magazines and folders. Everything was covered with a thin sheen of dust. “It’s been a while,” Malcolm said, surveying the space. “I really must get better about telling the maids when I’m going to be in town.”
