They had nothing in common. It took hours to get through a three-course meal in a formal venue. It would be an ordeal. They'd spend all night staring at their plates, trying to come up with something to say.
By the time they cruised over the bridge to Coronado Island, Georgina felt sick with nerves. All she wanted was to get the evening over with. Have her date. Score a tick on her list, and move on to the next task.
Then she recalled the remaining tasks, and panic stole her breath. There had to be a way to escape. Break the glass partition and spook the driver, get him to drive off the bridge. Swim ashore in the confusion. Hide in her apartment for the next three years. The bank would install a modem, and Annabel would have groceries delivered.
She'd be alone and safe. Her life would be predictable again.
In her distress, Georgina failed to enjoy the glittering evening sun over the sapphire ocean. A strip of white sand fringed the island, but that went equally unnoticed. Scattered palm trees waved their fronds at her, but got no admiring glances in return.
When the car pulled to a halt, Georgina flung open the door and jumped out into the paved courtyard. Neither Rick nor the driver got an opportunity to assist her. Both leapt out of their seats and hurried over, one round the front, one round the rear, until they almost collided into each other. They glared at her, as though it was her fault. Then the pair of them attempted to remedy the situation by pretending they had been walking up to each other on purpose, and struck up a talk about some stupid football game.
Georgina edged up and interrupted the conversation. “Which way?” She scanned the long white building. At the far end a large turret rose high, topped with a conical red roof that made her think of a Chinese hat. A hat. If she was going to be kept standing in the sun, she ought to have worn a hat. “I want to go inside,” she said. There was a whine in her voice, but she was too nervous to care.
Rick laid his hand over the small of Georgina's back and propelled her along the flagstone path. “It's supposed to be one of the prettiest beaches in America. Would you like to take a stroll by the sea before we go inside?"
"No. I want to go inside now."
He lagged a step behind Georgina, unable to see her face. As he steered her around a cascade of red flowers trailing out of a wooden tub, he craned his neck to catch her expression. She turned away. On purpose, it appeared to him.
Something was wrong, but Rick didn't know what. Normally Georgina didn't fidget. She might have an emotional tension about her that made him think of a pan ready to boil over and spit on the stovetop, but there was a deceiving quality of physical stillness about her.
"This way.” He guided her inside, rushing ahead to pull the door open, then holding it wide until she was through.
He hoped that her lack of interest in a walk along the seafront didn't mean she'd want it later. She was wearing that flimsy green dress again. Blood pooled in his groin as he considered what she might be wearing underneath. Perhaps nothing at all. He could see no bra straps under the narrow slivers of fabric that draped the dress over her shoulders.
Rick knew the limits of his ability to resist temptation. A romantic walk on a moonlit beach, waves lapping at their feet, a gentle breeze flattening the silky dress against her soft curves—it was too dangerous. There was Angelina to think of. He couldn't afford to get involved.
"I booked a table inside. I thought it would be too cold in the garden.” He ran his gaze over the occupied tables, checking out the elegant couples, taking stock of any unexplained bulges under the gentlemen's jackets. It took a while to recall he wasn't working. “Is that all right with you?” he added, turning anxiously to Georgina.
"That's fine.” Her voice was clipped, and she took brisk steps to follow the serene blonde dressed in black who, after a polite greeting, escorted them to a table by the glass wall. A maze of terraces with topiary trees separated them from the beach. Birdsong drifted in and mingled with the piped Mozart and the muted conversation.
Rick pulled out a chair and helped Georgina down, fighting to control his anger over her sullen behavior. He didn't fully succeed, but at least he managed to take out most of his frustration on the furniture, rather than on the flesh and blood.
What had he done wrong? His face furrowed as the tried to fathom it out. He couldn't think of anything. His jaw clenched. Perhaps it was something he ought to have done but hadn't. With women, you could never tell.
"I thought the restaurant would be in the round bit at the end,” Georgina said, sounding petulant.
"They don't do dinner there. Only Sunday brunch,” he told her tersely. “I asked. They offered to set us a table there, but we would have been alone. I thought you'd be more comfortable here.” He gestured around the room.
"Oh?” she said.
It drove him crazy, the habit Georgina had of saying ‘oh’ in a doubtful husky voice. Sometimes it carried a question, sometimes it laid down a challenge. Her mouth opened, and her lips made a soft circle. Imagining what that soft circle could do to him made his stomach clench.
A waiter approached their table, his steps soundless against the tile floor. The element of surprise caught Rick off guard. Instinctively, he fumbled under his jacket for a shoulder holster which wasn't there.
The waiter carried an ice bucket, and a tall wrought iron stand. Rick leaned back in his seat, grateful for the diversion.
"Good evening. Welcome to The Del.” The waiter slotted the ice bucket into the stand. Another waiter appeared equally smoothly, bearing a silver tray with a bottle and a pair of champagne flutes. “Compliments of Mr. Ramirez.” The waiter paused to display the Cristal label. Then he loosened the wire cage on top, popped the cork, and reached out to pour.
"I don't want to drink,” Georgina said petulantly.
"Just one glass will do no harm,” Rick told her with a calm he didn't feel. “It's a gift from an old friend. It would be rude to refuse."
Georgina shrugged, looking sullen, but she picked up her glass and took a careful sip.
Not really a good moment for a toast, Rick decided, but he did it anyway, raising his glass and holding it up. “Thank you for your help with the lawyer.” He brought the glass to his lips and downed a mouthful, wishing he could have asked for a beer instead.
"Umm.” Georgina sounded less morose. “This is good.” She lifted the champagne flute for another sip.
"I'm glad something meets your approval.” Rick blurted, then regretted the remark instantly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
He measured her with his eyes. “Just that you don't seem particularly thrilled to be here."
"I have a headache,” Georgina declared with a defiant stare.
He'd seen that expression a hundred times in the course of his work. The suspect makes a blatantly untrue statement and challenges the interrogating officer to react. Well, tough. She'd have to do without his reaction, because he was frigging well off duty.
"My sympathies,” he said. Then he let go of his drink and raked his hands through his hair, praying that his patience would last through the evening.
"Your hair,” Georgina said, staring at him.
He paused. “What about it?"
"It's grown. It was really short when I first met you. Now it's starting to curl a little.” She reached into the air between them. Then she snatched her arm back, picked up her glass, and swallowed another gulp of champagne.
"Right,” he said, amused. “I had to shave it. For a job. To infiltrate a motorbike gang. I also had a tattoo on my arm."
"A tattoo?"
"Not a permanent one. It hasn't quite faded yet. Want to see?” He cocked a brow at her.
"Go on. Let's have a look then.” She put down her glass.
Rick shrugged off his jacket, keeping a close watch on Georgina. Her manner no longer appeared so strained, and some of the usual lively curiosity had returned to her eyes. Cuffs undone, Rick folded his sleeve to expose the top of his arm.
"I can't see anything,” Georgina complained.
"Here.” He turned his shoulder sideways and traced his finger along the faded blue and red pattern over his bicep.
Georgina leaned closer. “Oh,” she said. Her mouth fell open. Her lips made a soft little circle. Her warm breath brushed along his arm. Instantly, he felt a stirring in his loins. He couldn't recall going so hard so quickly since his teens.
"A skull and bones,” she mocked him. “Why not ‘Angelina’ and a plump red heart?"
"You don't do that,” Rick explained. He spoke absently, his attention on the sleeve that he was rolling back down. “Someone rams a weapon into your ear and growls ‘Who's Angelina'. What do you say? Are you good enough to lie convincingly, or do you risk putting someone you love in danger? That's a test I don't want to have to take."
"Oh,” Georgina said. “I never thought of that."
He gave a curt nod. Civilians never did. They through it was like the cop shows on TV. In those, the good guys were always the underdogs, outnumbered and outgunned until the final commercial break. Then, three minutes before the credits rolled, some implausible feat of heroism saved the day.
In real life, nothing was saved through reliance on luck. His work was all about painstaking planning and preparation, coupled with meticulous execution. If you blinked, if you as much as glanced the wrong way at an inopportune moment, at best you might ruin months of hard work, at worst you might die.
Georgina tipped her glass and drained the last mouthful of champagne. It bothered her that Rick's militant hairstyle wasn't an indication of his personality, but a requirement of his job. Could other aspects of his demeanor be equally misleading?
The waiter returned with a pair of menus. Georgina sat back and observed as Rick exchanged a few comments with the man. She weighed every gesture, every expression, and was left with a nasty suspicion that she had stereotyped him. She hoped it wasn't a mistake she'd end up regretting.
The waiter reached across the table to top up her glass. Then he left.
"Shall we order?” Rick suggested.
Georgina opened her menu.
In silence they concentrated on reading through the list of selections.
"Do you like seafood?” Georgina asked.
Rick's brows lifted. “Why?"
"There's a seafood sampler appetizer that sounds nice. You need two people to order it."
"Sure,” Rick said after a brief pause. “Let's have that."
Georgina settled on the salmon. The waiter returned, and they gave their orders. Rick chose the sirloin steak. Georgina's glass was topped up. The waiter collected the menus and retreated, leaving them facing each other across the table.
"Angelina tells me you were orphaned at four,” Rick said. He picked up a bread roll and began tearing it into pieces over his side plate.
"Orphaned?” Georgina frowned. “You know, I never really thought about it that way. I mean, my parents died, but I went to live with my grandmother.” The corners of her mouth tugged up. “To me, orphans are kids in dormitories, brought up by nuns who beat them over the knuckles with a wooden ruler if they talk too loud.” She tilted her head. “You know the kind of nuns I mean? Stern, with a few coarse hairs on their upper lip. Not the pretty kind who play the guitar and visit sick children in hospitals."
Rick smiled. “Nuns? You're Catholic?"
Georgina picked up her glass and took another mouthful of champagne. She could feel the bubbles tickling her throat as she gave her head a firm shake. “No. I'm Church of England.” She smiled at him. “But that doesn't stop me from associating orphans with nuns.” She lowered her empty glass. “Are you Catholic?"
"I don't know.” Rick pushed away the plate with the shredded roll. “As a kid, when I was in Mexico, I went to mass. When I was in America, I didn't. I haven't been to any church in more than ten years. What does that make me?"
"That makes you a Catholic all right,” Georgina told him. “Not going to chapel any more doesn't cancel it out.” She scanned past the neighboring tables. Where the devil was that waiter? Never around when you needed them, that was the trouble with waiters. She turned to Rick and pointed at the ice bucket. “I'd like some more."
Rick rose from his chair and hoisted up the dripping bottle. Unlike the waiter, he didn't have a towel to drape around it. Rivulets gathered against the edge of his hand and ran down his wrist. He poured for her and wedged the bottle back into the ice. “You might want to slow down,” he said as he dried his hand on the table napkin. “Wait until you've had some food."
"I'm feeling great,” Georgina said. “Mmm...” She lifted the glass. To humor him, she only took a small sip. “This is very nice champagne.” Then her brain flipped back to the earlier conversation. “What was that about Mexico?"
"I'm a quarter Mexican,” Rick told her. “My grandfather on my mother's side. I spent a few years with my grandparents down in the Yucatan when I was a kid."
"Where's Yucatan?” Georgina picked up her drink, slanting him a cautious look. Her hand wasn't quite as steady as she would have liked it to be. Rick's eyes followed the path of the glass to her lips and back down again, but he said nothing. The trick was to keep the sips small and frequent. He couldn't object to little dainty sips. Good, she was
so
relaxed. A lovely buzz raced all over her body.
What was champagne supposed to do? Oh, yes. She recalled the phrase.
Champagne makes women want to dance and drop their pants.
Georgina slapped a hand over her mouth, but the muffled sound of her giggles came through anyway. She peered at Rick, desperately trying to swallow the bubbles that were trying to bounce back up and make her burp.
Rick reached out and curled his hand over her wrist. Gently but firmly, he pulled her fingers away from her face. “If you carry on like that, I will not be held responsible for how this evening ends. Is that understood?” His black eyes locked into hers.
For a second, Georgina felt her insides shudder. Then she yanked her hand free and saluted him. “Yes, Sir.” She dissolved into another fit of giggles, and reached out for one more sip of that lovely champagne.