"Oh…" he stares off into the distance for a moment. "Le Centre Pompidou? Is that the one you mean?"
"Yes! You went there?"
"Yes…I can't say I, you know, really 'got' all the pieces."
"Well, the secret is, the artists themselves don’t always 'get' their own work."
"That would explain a lot. So you did more modern work? Sorry, I know you don't like to talk about it."
"Um, I had been experimenting with portraiture with a modernist influence." I frown, looking at my almost empty wineglass as a troubling thought occurs to me. "You know, if I were you, and my last maid had disappeared, then found dead, I would be sure to do a background check on my new one."
He leans back in his chair, his face serious. "I get this disconcerting feeling around you sometimes that you're always a step ahead of where I think you are. You're right. I asked Aaron to do one. I was planning on reading it, had it on my desk even, but then you seemed so reticent to talk about your past that I felt I'd be…intruding, I suppose. Aaron had already read it, anyway, and he assured me that there was nothing in it that I should be alarmed about."
"Ah." Interesting. Friendly Mr. Sarka has looked through my past and determined that I'm not a security threat.
"Are you alright?"
"Yes, sorry. It's just…a strange feeling. Thank you, though. For not reading it." I take another bite of chicken, wanting to change the subject. "So, are all rich people so friendly with their attorneys?"
He guffaws, surprising me. "I don't know, to be honest. But Mark was my friend before he was my attorney. We went to Harvard together, and then I hired him as the company's general counsel."
"And Ms. Harrington is his girlfriend?"
"Fiancé. Actually, Kristine and I dated for a while when I was just out of college."
"Oh, really? And it didn't work out?" He gets up to refill our wineglasses.
"She dumped me. It was right after college, and the company was going down the drain, and we had just lost the house. Not the best time for me."
"And that's when she chose to dump you?"
"Don't repeat this…but that's why she chose to dump me."
"Oh, dear. Well, you had her eating crow not too long after, right?"
He laughs. "Not that she was the motivation, but yes."
"And after she dumped you, she started dating your friend? You were OK with that?" I ask, raising my eyebrows.
He shrugs. "Well, I did hold a candle for her for a while. But Mark's my best friend, and I didn't want to stand in their way. Plus, Kristine has complete tunnel vision when she sees something she wants, so I'm sure she would have made it happen even without my approval," he adds with a grin, then picks up the wine bottle. "This is empty. I'll run down and get us some options."
"OK, sure."
"Be right back." He disappears downstairs again and I finally have a chance to take stock of what's happening. Why does this feel like a date? Sweaty palms, check. Dinner, check. Both wine and conversation flowing, check. Or does he eat like this with Aaron and Ms. Mueller, too, when I have my day off?
Mr. Redmond reappears in the doorway holding two bottles. "OK, one from Argentina and one from Australia. You pick." He holds out the bottles to me.
"I have no idea."
"Let's try both."
An hour later, and we're well into both bottles. I feel a delightful buzzing in my head, a high that's somewhat due to the several glasses of wine I've had, but more to the man sitting across from me. I take a long sniff of my glass.
"Do I detect a note of…Cheese Whiz?"
"Ah, madam has an excellent palate. The '67 Sauvignon Blanc is known for its aftertaste of Cheese Whiz." We both laugh, and catch each other's eye. The first silence in a while settles over the table. He clears his throat.
"Well, it's getting late."
"Right," I reply. Time to get back to work. I stand up faster than I mean to and feel my head swim.
"You alright?" he asks as I lean forward, pressing both hands onto the tabletop. He stands and gently rests his fingertips on the top of my right hand.
"Mm, just felt all that wine go to my head all of a sudden." I look up at him and become very aware of the skin-to-skin contact on our hands. Standing this close together, he towers over me. It's overwhelming really, between his looks and the rugged sexuality that practically oozes off him. I sway slightly and he places both hands on my waist.
"Whoa, there," he says softly, but his eyes have a softness and need in them that I recognize. I watch my hands reach up and come to rest on his chest as though they belong to someone else, but those are certainly my palms his heartbeat is pounding against. He freezes for a moment, his full lips slightly parted, and I panic. Have I overstepped? Misread the signals?