"Sorry, yes, it's me. I was just thinking, which is not normally such a slow process, but it's been a very long twenty-some hours. I'd be happy to join you for supper, although there's no need to provide it for me. Quite the opposite, it would be my pleasure to take you two ladies."
A slight pause followed that statement. "Um … to dinner, I assume you mean. Because otherwise, you just propositioned both of us, and as charming as Mrs. P thinks you are, I don't think even you have the stamina for her." Sophea's voice dropped to a whisper. "She may look frail as hell, but man, that old lady is a goer! She's worn me out with her demands I learn how to hoochie-coo. Did you know that was an actual dance? I thought it was kind of a made-up word, but holy hells, she made me try it."
Rowan couldn't keep from laughing. He tried to remind himself that Sophea was the enemy, and that she was clearly putting on an act in order to lull him into believing she was not after the very same thing he was, but at the same time, he found her funny and charming, and actually quite enjoyable.
"Must be my lack of filters," he said to himself.
"Hmm?"
"Nothing, just talking to myself. Why don't you tell me about how one hoochie-coos over dinner? Shall we say in half an hour?"
"I was kind of hoping you'd be ready to go sooner than that. Mrs. P is-hold on a sec … " Sophea clearly put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, because her demand that Mrs. P stop trying to unhook the drapes was muffled. "Sorry, just a little issue going on here. And on. And on, but we won't go into that now. How about five minutes?"
He looked at himself in the mirror that was mounted on the wall opposite the bed. He looked like he'd been dragged through a thornbush backward two or three times. "Twenty minutes."
"Fifteen, and we reserve the right to be nibbling on bread when you show up. I'm famished, and it'll give Mrs. P something to do with her hands that isn't illegal. And I didn't mean that to be a sexual innuendo. Mrs. P has to be ninety if she's a day."
He laughed again. "Very well. Fifteen minutes."
As he hung up, he could hear Sophea saying in a plaintive tone, "No, Mrs. P, I don't think you can fit that pillow in your bag … "
Rowan set down his phone, wondered what he had done in life to deserve such punishment, then remembered exactly what it was.
The First Dragon had sworn to never let Rowan rest until he'd paid off his danegeld, and clearly, Sophea was the latest in a long line of torments he had to bear. With a sigh, he stumbled into the tiny bathroom, managed to get a fast shower before scraping from his face the worst of its whiskers. He was only two minutes late when he strolled into the hotel restaurant, which occupied the basement level of the hotel.
The room had a close air that was common to all subterranean areas, but the five tables that dotted the room each bore a candle that gave off a warm, golden flicker. Three of the tables were occupied by other patrons, while the fourth was being used by Sophea and Mrs. P. True to her word, Sophea was eating a piece of bread, while shoving a bowl of butter spheres at the old woman.
"How do you know you don't like it when you haven't even tried it?" Sophea asked as he approached the table.
"The butter they use in this century is inferior to what I'm used to," Mrs. P complained, then brightened when her pale eyes turned to him. "Ah, there is your young man. He looks tired. You should take better care of him. I always took exceptional care of my lovers. I made sure their mental states were positive, that they had eaten properly, and had suitable rest so that they were fit for our sexual congresses."
Sophea cast a glance at him that was half frustration and half amusement. "Sorry I'm taking such poor care of you, Rowan. I'll be sure to bring you a granola bar and tell you a joke or two tonight when I tuck you into bed."
"No chocolate?" he asked, joining in with her bantering tone. "I much prefer chocolate over granola bars. Chocolate has aphrodisiac properties, you know."
Sophea's cheeks warmed, the bantering tone gone when she fussed with the basket of bread rolls, finally offering him one, but not meeting his eyes. "Ha ha, yes, that's right. I'd forgotten that. Chocolate for sure."
He sat down next to her, marveling that a woman who appeared so sophisticated could be so easily rattled by a little flirtatious talk. Not that he had much experience in that area, but still, he liked to think that he could hold up his end of a flirty conversation.
Sophea cleared her throat and made an obvious change of subject. "So, did you see the special of the day is some sort of sausage? It comes with potatoes, and looks really good. I do love me some sausage … "
A horrified look crawled over her face, her cheeks turning pink when she gazed at him.
Rowan had to stifle a laugh at her embarrassment.
"Oh, balls," she exclaimed, then slapped a hand over her mouth, her face scrunching up and turning even redder.
He just stared at her, trying hard to hold his laughter, since for some bizarre reason that he had yet to fathom, he didn't want to hurt her feelings. But as he watched her, her shoulders heaved, and tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes. Finally she could stand it no longer and removed her hand to say in a voice choked with laughter, "Tell me I didn't just announce how much I loved sausage."
"You did, you know." He chuckled, relieved to see that she had a good sense of humor and the ability to laugh at her own innuendo. "Not that I can blame you for it-I like a good bit of sausage myself. Gods, now I'm doing it."
"I do not understand what you are finding so funny, gel," Mrs. P said in a voice slightly tinged with annoyance. "One minute you were discussing your man's testicles, which I assume are pleasant to behold because he is a handsome man, although one doesn't necessarily follow the other. I had a lover once who was quite comely in the face and figure, and yet he had the most repulsive stones I'd ever seen on a man. Imagine, if you will, a withered plum that has sat on the edge of a frog pond-"
"No, Mrs. P," Sophea interrupted, shoving a roll at the old lady. "We are not going to hear about your poor boyfriend's testicles. It's not pertinent, and I'm sure they were perfectly horrible. Did you look at the menu? You need to eat so you can take the pills your grandson gave me."
"I don't have a child, so I don't see how I could have a grandchild," Mrs. P told her.
Sophea pointed to her menu.
"Very well," the old woman said with a sniff. "But I hope you are not this bossy in the bedroom. Men find such things demoralizing, and it makes it difficult for them to raise the sun."
She buried herself behind the menu while Sophea's face scrunched up in a delightful manner. "Raise the sun … ?"
"Erection, I believe. I could be mistaken, but that's what I assumed she implied." He picked up his own menu, and cast a quick glance over it. "I say with all innocence and not the least bit of innuendo that I agree the sausage special sounds like the best choice."
She snorted a little, but managed to keep from either blushing again or bursting into laughter. She did lean over to help the old woman go over the dinner choices. Rowan watched her as she read the small print, explaining what the various dishes were. The more he was around Sophea, the more she puzzled him. Dragons and their mates could be deceitful just like anyone else, but he wasn't catching the least whiff of that with her. Instead, she was treating the thief just as if she were a perfectly normal old lady, and Sophea was her caregiver.
He shook his head to himself. He needed to stop being so sympathetic and remember why he was there.
"I think you would enjoy the pasta, but I refuse to ask where they got their olive oil from. I'm sure it's perfectly fine even if it wasn't imported from Greece."
"That shows what you know," Mrs. P said with a knowing smile. "Take a word from me, gel, and never say that in front of Zeus. He's always been adamant that the cradle of western civilization is Athens."
Rowan signaled the sole waiter that they were ready.
"Zeus is a mythical god," Sophea argued. "So he's hardly likely to be upset if I say that good olive oil comes from places other than Greece."
"Where did you get that idea?" Mrs. P asked her, rearranging her silverware into first one arrangement, and then another.
Rowan absently noted that his silverware was missing.
"About the olive oil?"
"No, that Zeus isn't real."
"I don't know, maybe … reality?" Sophea said, pulling Mrs. P's handbag from the floor, and deftly extracting Rowan's silverware from it. She hesitated a moment, shot the old woman a telling look, and pulled from the bag a small vase containing a single rosebud. The water was still in the vase.