Losing Control(85)

Discomfited, I try to interject some distance between us and gather some decorum. The waiter, in a white-buttoned coat and gray pants, sets down two porcelain soup spoons filled with tuna carpaccio, a sliver of potato, and a shitake mushroom.

“I don’t even know your middle name,” I blurt out.

“Ian Kincaid Kerr.” A hand curls around the back of my neck while his other hand raises the spoon to my mouth. I swallow it down and try to hold back the moan of delight. “That good, eh?” He swallows his own bite and winks at me.

“Sounds really Scottish,” I say faintly. Another dish comes by and Ian feeds that to me as well.

“Ach, dinnae ken, my wee lassie, by my accent?”

I giggle. “That's pretty terrible.”

“Well, now you know I'm bad at accents. How about you?”

“I’ve never tried speaking in an accent, so let’s assume I’m terrible, too.” His hand is so warm that I want to rub my face against his wrist. The way that his body is canted protectively around me makes me feel like we are in a private room, all alone. The whole of my body is liquefied by the way that he’s feeding me each bite of food, his hand never moving from behind my neck. Despite the crowded restaurant and the incessant chatter of the patrons, we are in a bubble of leather, delicious food, and heady wine. It’s intoxicating.

“So I should have invited you to dinner rather than drinks.”

We both look up to see Richard Howe standing there with a woman on his arm—an older woman. Her age is indeterminate. She's in that New York socialite age range between mid-30s and late 50s. Plastic surgery can create a façade of youth that masks one's true age for many years. However old she is, the woman is beautiful. She has a delicate, fragile air.

Her body is thin, and she wears a delicate lace sheath that emphasizes her fine bone structure. Around her face, expertly coiffed golden hair falls in soft waves. But the translucency of her hands reminds me of my mother and, ultimately, it is those that give her away. There are age spots which she's tried to cover with a multitude of rings and the backs of her hands show prominent veins, thin skin, and dots of pigmentation.

Under my awkward gaze, her hands curl and she ducks them underneath the table. I give her a tentative smile, but my untoward attention to her hands has immediately marked me as the enemy.

“Wife.” Ian mutters in my ear. Tossing his cloth napkin on the table, he half rises to shake Richard’s hand and then his companion’s.

I hide my disgruntlement at the interruption behind a big—but fake—smile for Richard and his wife.

Richard leans over the table. “It's hell getting a table here, isn't it? You don't mind if we join you?”

It's not a question because he's already sitting down, drawing his wife with him.

“Cecilia Montgomery Howe of the shipping Montgomerys.” Rich introduces us, and he sounds very smug when he rattles off her familial business as if he is personally responsible for her family’s success.

“Nice to meet you,” I say and shake the limp hand that she extends toward me in greeting as if I’m supposed to kiss it.

Ian’s body is stiff behind mine, but his response is all ease and smiles. “Hello, Cecilia.” Apparently everyone knows everyone else. Except for me, of course. I’m the new element in the old time social scene. I shift awkwardly. Ian settles back, drawing me with him and putting space between Richard and me. “Did your reservation fall through?”

Richard shakes his head mournfully. “Cecilia and I were going to have dinner at Prospero, but I heard the executive chef has been ill for a month so we thought we’d head down here and try something new.”

“No reservation,” Cecilia gripes spitefully.

At this complaint, Richard hangs his head. “I know. Stupid of me.”

“My god, how can I even eat with that looking at me.” Cecilia’s whine of protest cause all of us to swivel toward a gorgeous woman whose ass is so fine in her spandex bandage dress that I’m envious. “It looks like she’s stuffed cotton in her cheeks. Poor girl. Can you imagine sleeping with someone like that? You’d never be able to shut your eyes. It would be like having a horror show under your sheets.”

“She’s got an amazing body,” I counter, but when I get the attention of the two I regret speaking up immediately.

“It’s a hard body,” Richard agrees and Cecilia glares at him.

The rest of the evening is spent eating small bites of food brought to our table every ten minutes or so while Ian and I are treated to an unending critique of nearly everyone in the restaurant from Cecilia, who clearly thought that Rich would join her.