Wildfire

An impeccably dressed host led us through the restaurant, past well-dressed patrons. Some of them had to be House members, because as we moved past them, they saw Rogan’s face and stopped what they were doing. I got a few stares as well, some surprised and puzzled, some openly curious, especially from women. Women watched Rogan wherever he went, and I was getting the once-overs as they tried to figure out what was so special. That was fine. They wouldn’t ruin the date for me.

We arrived at a secluded table covered in chocolate-colored cloth. Rogan held my chair out. He didn’t make it slide out for me with his power. No telekinetic fireworks. Tonight it would be just me and Connor.

I sat. He took his place across from me, with his back against the wall, a spot that would conveniently let him watch the entire restaurant for incoming danger.

A waitress appeared at our table as if by magic. Menus were placed in front of us.

“Wine?” Rogan asked me.

Why not. “Yes.”

“What do you like?”

I liked Asti Spumante. It was sweet and bubbly and it cost five dollars per bottle. “Red. Not too dry.” Here’s hoping I didn’t make a fool of myself.

Rogan ordered a wine from the list. The waitress bowed her head as if she was granted knighthood by some royalty and glided away.

I grinned at Rogan from above my menu.

He grinned back. The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly.

I stared at the menu. Oh my.

“I’m starving. I haven’t had anything to eat since I stole a bear claw from your kitchen this morning.”

“You didn’t steal it. All my bear claws are yours.”

I studied the appetizers. Roasted Portobello mushroom ravioli. Tenderloin carpaccio. Chilled seafood cocktail.

“Is something wrong?” he asked me. There it was, that weary caution in his eyes.

“I’m trying to decide what I can order that has the smallest chances of me spilling it on myself.”

He laughed quietly under his breath. “I’ve never seen you spill anything on yourself.”

“That’s not true. When we were climbing through the Dumpsters into the high-rise on Sam Houston, I spilled rancid spaghetti all over myself.”

And why did I just mention rancid spaghetti. I sighed.

“That doesn’t count. You stepped on it.”

More like rolled in it, but now wasn’t the best time to point out that distinction.

The waitress appeared again with a bottle of red wine. She dramatically opened it and poured a little into two glasses. There was some sort of ceremony here I remembered from the movies. You held the glass a certain way, swished the wine inside, smelled it or something. I raised the glass and took a small sip. It washed over my tongue, warm and refreshing.

“It’s delicious,” I said.

Rogan nodded at the waitress. She beamed and stepped aside. Another waiter appeared. A bread basket was placed on our table containing several small loaves, crunchy and fresh from the oven. Small heated plates of two types of herbed olive oil followed. The aroma of freshly baked bread made my mouth water.

“Appetizers?” the waitress asked.

I hit complete decision paralysis. “You pick.”

“Carpaccio,” he said.

I had ordered carpaccio the first time we ate together, in Takara, when he was trying to convince me to work for him. He remembered.

The waitress nodded and we were alone again.

I took a swallow of my wine. The tension of the day slowly seeped out of me.

He reached over and covered my hand with his, lacing his fingers with mine.

“Hey,” I told him.

“Hey.” He smiled and Mad Rogan went away. Connor was looking at me. We might as well have been alone in the whole world.

“Thank you. I needed this after today.”

“Thank you for coming with me. It doesn’t always have to be blood and gore. It can also be this.”

“This is very nice.”

“I’m glad you like it.”

Carpaccio arrived. I ordered a double-thick pork chop, and Rogan went for a dry-aged rib eye.

The carpaccio tasted divine. We ate it with crusty bread dipped in olive oil.

“You were in mortal danger this evening,” I told him.

“Oh?”

“My whole family waited in the kitchen for you to show up. If you stood me up, there would’ve been hell to pay.”

He grinned. “Your family likes me. I would charm them into sparing my life.”

“I don’t know. They were pretty determined.”

He leaned forward. “But I can be so charming.”

Oh yes. Yes, he could. It’s not hard to be charming when you are that smoking hot. I had to pace myself.

The restaurant wavered around me, receding. The light changed, growing soft and golden. I was in bed with Rogan. Neither of us was wearing a shred of clothes. His big hand slid up my thigh . . .

I pulled back from the projection just enough to see him looking at me from across the table.

“Be careful,” I told him, and licked the wine off my lips. His gaze snagged on my tongue. “You might set the tablecloth on fire.”

He looked on the verge of getting up and dragging me out of the restaurant to have incredible sex in the car. And I would totally go with him.

The projection vanished, like the flame of a snuffed-out candle.

Rogan’s eyes iced over. He picked up his glass and leaned back as a man approached our table. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a custom-tailored suit with casual elegance. His skin was dark brown, his hair cropped very short, and a precise narrow goatee traced his jaw. I’d only met him once, but he’d made an impression. It was the eyes. You looked into them and knew this was a dangerously smart man.

“Rogan.”

“Latimer,” Rogan said. “Chair?”

Michael Latimer nodded. A chair moved by itself from the nearest empty table and slid to ours. Latimer sat.

“The Harcourts reached out to me today,” he said. “They offered a strategic alliance on very favorable terms. Do I need to worry about you, Rogan?”

True.

“My business with them is concluded,” Rogan said. “Except for Vincent.”

“You have plans for Vincent?”

“Yes.”

“Do those plans hinge on him no longer breathing?”

“Yes.”

Latimer leaned back. The chair creaked slightly. “They’ve given up. They don’t think they can protect Vincent.”

“Agreed. They know they’ll be vulnerable without their biggest gun,” Rogan said.

Latimer raised his eyebrows, thinking. “Good information to have. Enjoy your evening.”

He rose and looked at me. “The offer stands. Any time, any place.”

“Thank you.”

Michael Latimer walked away.

Rogan turned to me. “What offer?”

“When Augustine took me to Baranovsky’s gala, Latimer saw the bruises on my neck and mistook me for a domestic abuse victim. His aunt distracted Augustine, while he offered to walk me out of the gala and take me to a doctor and give me a safe place to stay.”

Rogan leaned to the side to look after Latimer. “Michael Latimer?”

“Mhm. He wasn’t lying.”

“Interesting,” Rogan said.

Our waitress appeared by our table with our food.

My pork chop was incredible. I decided that I didn’t care if I spilled food on myself. I did care if other people saw me shovel the food in my mouth as if I were a cavewoman, so I forced myself to cut painfully small bites.

“We should have dessert,” Rogan said.

I eyed my pork chop. My plate had enough meat to feed me for two days.

“What’s your favorite dessert?” he asked.

“I don’t know what it’s called. I had it one time when I was maybe nine or ten. Mom was deployed, and Grandma Frida and Grandpa Leon took my sisters and cousins to Rockport Beach for three days. I was supposed to go, but I got sick and spent the first day throwing up in Dad’s office. I was so miserable. Everyone was at the beach, and here I was sleeping in the office next to a bucket. On the morning of the second day I kept down some crackers and by the evening I was so hungry. Dad closed a big case, and he took me to some restaurant to celebrate. I don’t remember what I had for dinner, but Dad said I could have whatever I wanted for dessert. So I ordered something called the treasure box. They brought it out and it was this big cube made of chocolate. I tried it with the spoon and the top broke. The chocolate was paper thin. There was this amazing cream inside mixed with raspberries and blueberries. It was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.” I smiled at the memory. “Your turn.”