Page 43 of Second Time Around
For the rest of the trip, they discussed dog food. When the limo pulled into an underground garage and came to a stop, Will made a wry face. “I guess that wasn’t the most romantic topic of conversation.”
“There’s nothing more romantic than solving a problem for someone you care about.” She might be going out on a limb with that last part.
He traced his index finger along the side of her face. “You’re an unusual woman.” Then he leaned in and kissed her, a promise that he would do more soon.
They stepped off the elevator into a burgundy-carpeted lounge with huge glass windows that framed a view of Central Park. The taupe velvet sofas and chairs were empty and there was no sound of conversation. Only the mouth-watering scent of food drifted through the air.
“This way,” Will said, guiding her across the lounge and through a glass-and-steel door.
“Mr.Chase, Ms.Dixon.” The maître d’, a young man dressed in a fitted black suit, stepped from behind his podium. “Welcome to Perseus, Ms.Dixon. It’s a pleasure to have you back, Mr.Chase. Please follow me.”
Kyra’s suspicions were confirmed as they entered a soaring space filled with beautifully set but unoccupied tables. She halted. “Itisclosed tonight.”
“Not if you know the chef,” Will said.
“There was no need to do this,” Kyra said to Will. “We could have gone somewhere else.”
“I wanted to take you to the best restaurant in New York,” Will said. “You deserve it after yesterday.”
She flashed back to the sailboat again. “Yesterday wasn’t all bad,” she said with a half smile.
No matter how much he’d paid to have it opened just for them, Kyra couldn’t help feeling bad about the staff who counted on their day of rest. She treasured her free Monday evenings, although she always volunteered to work when there was a special event at Stratus, so she supposed some employees here might be in a similar situation. She turned to the maître d’. “I’m sorry you had to come in on your day off.”
“I’m happy to be here,” the man said, his tone earnest. “Mr.Chase has been most generous.”
“Everyone is here voluntarily. Relax and enjoy it,” Will said in a way that reminded her he was a CEO who was accustomed to being in command.
He moved her toward a table for two set right in front of the window. Two huge arrangements of flowers graced stands on either side, their fragrance mingling with the food’s, while an array of white pillar candles flickered on the taupe linen tablecloth. Will took Kyra’s chair from the maître d’ and waited for her to sit.
As she took her place, he whispered beside her ear, “M.F.K.Fisher said that sharing food with another human being is an intimate act. I wanted our first dinner to be perfect ... and private.”
The flutter of his breath on her cheek and the purr of his words made her shiver with desire. “It’s not exactly private.” She gestured to the wall of glass beside their table. Below it, a swirling kaleidoscope of taxis, pedestrians, and horse-drawn carriages ebbed and surged along the avenue that edged the leafy, green park.
Will seated himself in the chair across from her with a wicked glint in his eyes. “No one ever looks up.”
She was sure he wouldn’t really do anything improper in the restaurant, but it still made flickers of heat lick along her skin to imagine it.
The sommelier arrived with a bottle of vintage champagne, displayed the label to Will, and then removed the cork with a muted pop. The sparkling wine spilled into the tall, slender flutes like flowing sunlight. When she picked up her glass, Will stretched his arm across the table to touch his flute to hers. “‘Champagne! In victory one deserves it, in defeat one needs it.’”
“I like that one. Who said it?”
“Napoleon, who experienced the extremes of victory and defeat in his lifetime.”
“Which one are we drinking to now?”
“Survival,” Will said, before he lifted the glass to his lips and took a long swallow.
Kyra sipped the fizzing liquid and closed her eyes. The champagne tasted like sunlight, too: bright, vibrant, and golden. “Champagne always seems celebratory to me.”
“We are celebrating the fact that there are three hundred sixty-four days before the next Spring Fling,” Will said. “That makes this the best day of the year.”
“Seriously, if you hate it so much, schedule a trip to Hong Kong next spring,” Kyra said, holding up the glass to watch the miniscule bubbles drawing lines straight up through the champagne.
“As the guests were leaving yesterday, Mum handed out ‘save the date’ cards for next year.”
“Then schedule anemergencybusiness trip to Hong Kong.”
Will bit out a startled laugh. “Ceres doesn’t have a presence there.”
