Page 34 of Mr. Dangerous

"We have cell phones," Rob promised, holding a hand out commandingly to usher me through. "No one is getting trappedanywhere."

"I feel trapped," I murmured, but withoutrancor.

When I stepped out the metal fire door, I stepped into a sweeping view of the lights of Boston. From where we stood, I could also see a small garden of potted trees and bushes, strung with white lights, and a table for two covered in a long tablecloth with silver chargers and crystal glasses. It was beautiful. It wasromantic.

But what I said to Rob was, "This isalot."

"Yeah, well," he said. "That's what I do. It’s the fun of being a billionaire. Come sit down. We're going to have our tasting withaview."

I sat down on the edge of a gilt-painted wooden chair, still craning my neck to check out the view. "Oh, I can see the Charles from here. It's so pretty with the moonlight reflecting from thewater."

"It's quite the view," Rob agreed, although he was lookingatme.

I pressed a hand to my fluttering heart as two ninja-waiters melted out of the shadows and placed large white bowls in front of us. In the center of my bowl was a carefully molded square of red-and-white lobster meat adorned with a dollop of sour cream. "Here we have a creamy langoustine soup," one waiter said, pouring from a miniature pitcher, "Adapted from an old Icelandic recipe, the lobster is flavored with mild curry and cream for a simplepresentation."

"Simple," I said. "Right."

"It's been too long since I had lobster bisque," Rob said. "There are some things that just aren't the same outside NewEngland."

I dipped my spoon in and tried to smile. Rob had put so much effort – or at least, so much money – into this. I couldn't make sense of what we were doing. Was he angling for a fling, something to relieve his boredom? Well, as much as I wanted his body, I was not afling.I dropped my spoon into the bowl with a clang, and then looked up in surprise at the sound, worried about how my irritation hadtelegraphed.

Rob was watching mecuriously.

"Sorry," I said. "Kind of aklutz."

"That's not what I remember, watchingyouswim."

"Mm." Then he must not have seen all the times I'd tripped on dry land, as much of a fish as I'd been inthepool.

"Let's try the next course," he said, nodding to thewaiters.

They cleared the soup and returned, a minute later, with long wooden boards adorned with small glass cups of sauces and an assortment of rawseafood.

"This is a ceviche of oysters and citrus served in a radicchio cup," the waiter said, pointing at a pile of glistening chopped white seafood on a dark green leaf; "Tuna tartare on a baguette," shiny-wet pink fish flesh on toast; "And a carpaccio, that is to say, raw salmon pounded thin, and served with a lemon-dill sauce. These would all be served as passedappetizers--"

I felt my stomach turn as the waiter went on. I tried to pep-talk myself. I had never liked seafood, but sitting across the table was a Navy SEAL who had probably eaten some things far more adventurous than raw salmon. I could try it. Rob was going to think I was a barbarian if I didn't manage to chew, swallow andsmile.

I settled on the carpaccio first. I speared delicate pink flesh that shredded under my fork, and I had to take my butter knife to push it onto the fork. It had a slick texture that I couldn't reconcilewithfood.

"What's wrong?" heasked.

"What makes you think there's anything wrong?" I asked, wary at how well he could read me. "What could possibly be wrong on a warm spring nightlikethis?"

His blue eyes were warm with concern. "You've barely eaten. You don't likethefood?"

"It's lovely. I'm sure it's very good." I leaned across the table, apologetic, but deciding to be perfectly honest. "I don't much care for seafood, to behonest."

"Oh," Rob said. "That would be aproblem."

"It's great for the fundraiser," I said hastily. "I think you're right. It'll be a more high-end dinner, better for donors. It'sbrilliant."

Rob smiled wryly as he raised his wine glass to his lips. "You make me nervous when you'reso...nice."

"I thought I made you nervous because I was so mean allthetime."

"Maybe you just make me nervous." His cocky grin suggested that was not the case. "Maybe it's not nerves thatIfeel."

"Rob--"

He raised conciliatory hands. "I'm sorry that you don't like seafood. And that the night hasn't gone quite the way I planned. Let me tryagain."

"The night's been beautiful," I said. “It’s perfect. It’s just…notme.”

“Ridiculous, Naomi Anne Papadopolous. You are both beautiful andperfect.”

“Ha,”Isaid.

But no matter what I said, I wondered if he could tell how those words mademefeel.

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