“Welcome to By Invitation Only.” The hostess smiled first at Bridget and then at Turner before picking two leather-bound menus and leading them to their table.

He was still silently cursing the airline for the hour delay that had caused him to alter his plans for this evening. He’d been supposed to be home by five, which would’ve given them plenty of time for wild sex before getting ready for their seven o'clock dinner reservation.

Instead, to make it on time, they’d had to rush out right as soon as he’d gotten back. If it were up to him, Turner would’ve preferred to celebrate at home, but Bridget had had other ideas.

Naturally, he’d known all about the exclusive restaurant and the movers and shakers who bought the insanely expensive memberships for the privilege of dining on the best gourmet food outside of France. Not to mention the pleasure of having the culinary experience somewhere the paparazzi couldn’t find them, which made it perfect for dining out with a mistress or a lover and other clandestine meetings.

He was intrigued. Nevertheless, Turner would have gladly skipped it for an evening at home with Bridget.

Small tables, most of them set for two, were accented by soft candlelight. It was ingeniously done, so the food was clearly illuminated but not the diners' faces. He had to squint to make out facial features, and then only when the diner bent his or her head down to scoop another morsel onto a fork.

Bridget had no such problems. Not only was her immortal eyesight sharper, it also functioned better in the dark.

When they were seated, and the hostess left them to peer over the menus, Bridget leaned closer to him and whispered, “Do you want me to tell you who is sitting where and with whom? I saw you straining to see if you can recognize anyone.”

Turner would’ve loved to, but tonight was about Bridget and not about his insatiable curiosity.

“Maybe next time. Tonight I have eyes only for you.”

That earned him a bright smile.

“In this case, how about you take me to the dance floor?”

Turner lifted the napkin off his knees, put it on the table, and pushed to his feet. “It would be my pleasure.” He offered Bridget a hand up.

“You’re a good dancer,” she said after he twirled her expertly.

“Thank you, I took classes.”

“Naturally.”

“Meaning?”

She smiled. “Victor Turner has to excel at everything he does. For you, it’s either not dance at all or dance like a pro. There is no middle.”

He executed another twirl, then pulled her into his arms. “True. Does it bother you?”

“Not at all. It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

“I’m glad.”

Victor held Bridget pressed tightly against him so she couldn’t look into his eyes and guess his thoughts.

He could excel at many things but not at this. Not at love. He could fake it, tell Bridget he loved her too, and it wouldn’t even be a lie, but it wouldn’t be the truth either. Turner wished there were as many words to describe love as there were to describe the weather. Cold, chilly, or nippy, or wintery, or windy. It could be frosty or frigid or icy. Each term held a slightly different meaning.

But there was only one word for romantic love.

Fondness and the like were good to describe friendships, but not the feelings between a man and a woman, or two men in Junior’s case.

Arturo Junior had no problem feeling love. As troubled as the young man was in other areas, it was obvious that he’d loved Xavier and had planned to spend the rest of his life with his partner.

Bridget pushed back a little and looked up at him. “What are you thinking about? I can almost hear the gears in your head spinning.”

“I was thinking about Junior and how much he loved his boyfriend. No wonder he was bent on vendetta. I would have been too.”

She grinned happily, no doubt taking his words to mean that he loved her. “I’m a doctor, so saying that I would kill someone to avenge the loss of a loved one is so wrong, but I would. At least I think so. I don’t know if I’d have the stomach to actually carry it through.”

“I hope you’ll never face such a dilemma.”

They’d already danced to the sounds of several songs, some slow, some fast when it occurred to Turner that only a week ago he would not have been able to carry on like that. If he kept going, Bridget would start suspecting that he was off the meds.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather sit the next few songs out.”

“Sure. You should have told me that you were tired.”

“I like dancing with you.”

“We can rest a little and dance some more later.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Turner felt like a fraud. He needed to come clean instead of keeping the pretense and hiding his decision to quit the chemo from her.