Page 11 of In the Dark

A server appeared within seconds holding a fresh basket of breadsticks and a sweating glass of water. Morgan thanked the man and sent him off.

“I’m glad to see you. Happy you decided to come. I most certainly wasn’t checking the time waiting for you to make an appearance.”

“I almost didn’t come.” Karsia stared at her feet, embarrassed for telling him, and grabbed a piece of bread to break the tension.

His gaze roved the length of her and up again. “You’re in the same outfit you wore yesterday,” he noted.

She cracked the breadstick in half and stared at him. The look on her face made it known she could do the same to him. Easily. “Sorry, I’m not the type of girl with an entire wardrobe to choose from. I travel light these days.”

“No,” he countered. “That’s not true.”

“Excuse me?”

“I see you as the type of woman to have anything at her disposal, be it clothing, jewels, or pretty things. You could have anything you wanted. You did, once, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’ve done an investigation.” She gave a bark of laughter. “Once again, it seems you don’t miss much. That used to be me, okay, professor? She’s gone.”

He poured wine for the two of them, having waited for her arrival to imbibe. “I pride myself on my observational skills. A historian has to be on top of his game. I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered the wine. This is a house red, something to go well with anything you want to eat. I wasn’t sure what kind of drink you prefer.”

“What? Your research didn’t tell you? I’m surprised.” Karsia raised the glass to her nose and inhaled the familiar aroma. Swirling the liquid, it tempted her. She’d been known to go through a few bottles a month. Back when her life made sense.

Now the risk seemed too great. Any small slip could eat away at the tenuous control she held.

She pushed the wine to the side and turned her head. “I can’t have it. Sorry.”

Morgan took her statement in stride, removing the glass. “That’s fine. No insult on my end. Would you like me to order for you?”

“Would you like me to smash your face into the table?” Karsia snapped her menu open and perused it amid Morgan’s slow-to-come chuckle.

“No, I thought we could have a nice evening together instead of engaging in physical violence. Although that option always stands open for later. It depends on how you’ll feel after you eat.”

He noticed the whites of her knuckles as she clutched the menu, her black eyes scouring quickly, too quickly.

“Find something you like?” he asked for lack of anything better to say. “I can tell you a few of my personal preferences.”

She waved him off. “You got me here, didn’t you? If we’re done with the chitchat I would really like to get back to the matter at hand.”

“You’ve said.” There went his plan to woo her into letting down her guard.

The waiter returned with only the slightest hesitant look toward Karsia and scratched their orders down on a pad of paper. She sent him on his way with a carefully worded demand.

Morgan didn’t seem to care. He shook out his napkin before returning it to his lap. “Tell me a little bit about yourself,” he requested.

“What is there to know? As far as you’re concerned, I’m a woman who needs your help to rid herself of a burden. Got it?”

Most people turned away when she got tough. Morgan continued to stare straight at her, and his gray eyes, she hated to admit, held real depth. “I was thinking more along the lines of you telling me what you do for fun.”

She folded her hands on the table. “I don’t have fun. I thought that was obvious. Or maybe you’d enjoy telling me what I do for fun, you with your awesome powers of observation. After all, I’m sure my poker face could use a little work. Go on, professor. Tell me what you see.”

“Does your sarcasm mean we’re past the point of pleasantries and ready to get on with business?” he quipped, hiding his mirth in a sip of wine. Teasing her.

“You know, this isn’t one of your college classes and I am not your student. Get on with it or I will leave and find someone else to help me,” Karsia barked.

“If that were true, then you wouldn’t be sitting here with me.”

She could not stop the emotions from flashing across her face at the statement. There was the anger, of course, a sort of fury one did not often see. There was also sorrow and guilt and despair.

“All right. If you can try not to give in to the urge to strangle me, I’ll tell you a story,” Morgan said, leaning back in his chair and studying her. “In the 1600s, there was a Greek philosopher by the name of Morpheus Oneiroi who was intrigued by the written and oral history of several obscure tribal nations that fell out of power during the end of the Dark Ages.”

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