Courting Bathsheba Page 2

  He clinked glasses with her. “My pleasure. I always like to bring a smile to a beautiful woman's face."

  She grimaced. “Okay, you can stop now. You're laying it on with a trowel, unless you're talking to someone behind me or an imaginary friend. If the second, I'll just think you're a nut job and make my very quick exit out of here."

  His smile teased her. “There's no one behind you, and I'm not talking to an imaginary friend. I'm being honest."

  "Have a thing for older women, do you?"

  "No. I have a thing for pretty women."

  Ann tried suppressing the blush that heated her throat and traveled to her cheeks. Her gaze slid to one of the tables where a group of college students openly admired David. “Then why aren't you sitting with them?” She cocked her head in their direction.

  He never took his eyes off of her. “Because I think I'm sitting with the prettiest woman in Mike's right now."

  Her attempts to kill the blush failed miserably. Thank God for ambient lighting. She was far too worldly to be reduced to a red-faced sorority twit by her companion's undeniable charms. Ann grew uncomfortable and not a little annoyed.

  "I have to go,” she said abruptly and slid off of her stool.

  David brushed her arm with his fingertips, and she jerked away from his touch. He looked confused and disappointed. “Wait! Look, I'm sorry if I said something to offend you. God only knows what it was, but I apologize. Really. Don't leave.” He raised his hands in surrender. “I promise, no more compliments, even though I meant every word I said."

  She paused, indecisive. The image of the dull drive home, the silence of the deserted house, and dinner spent alone was not particularly inviting, especially when compared to the interesting if somewhat baffling company present.

  He wasted no time pouncing on her hesitation. “What would you say if I asked you to dinner?"

  "What?"

  His tone was patient, amused. “I want to ask you to dinner. What would you say?"

  He showed no surprise at her answer. “I think I'd say no. For all I know, you're a homicidal maniac or worse."

  That ready laughter warmed her insides. “First I'm a nut job, then a psycho killer. And there's something worse than that?"

  She didn't join in his laughter, giving him a brief glimpse into her anxiety. “Yes. You may actually be this nice, handsome, young guy who's truly interested in having dinner with me."

  His sensitive features turned solemn. “Then things just got worse.” A loaded silence hung between them before he spoke again. “Say yes to dinner. There's an Italian joint four doors down that serves the best lasagna in a one hundred mile radius. If it makes you feel any better, we'll go dutch, as long as you let me pick up dessert. You can't miss out on the tiramisu."

  She bit her lip, fiddling nervously with the shopping bag. “I really need to get home."

  Again he treated her to a penetrating gaze that seemed to strip her of all her mental and emotional armor and discern all of her thoughts and feelings. “Do you?"

  The florescent Bass Ale clock behind the bar caught her eye, flashing 6:15 P.M., and she took a mental breath before answering. “Oh, why the hell not? I love lasagna. But if you pick up the dessert, I'll get the appetizer. Fair enough? And no more beautiful woman lines, okay?"

  She couldn't help but smile when David grinned. He slid off his stool, fished around in his jeans pocket for his wallet and paid for their drinks. “I promise, no more compliments, no matter how well deserved or honestly spoken."

  Oooh, he really was slick. Even by promising not to compliment, he'd managed to do so and made her blush a second time. She clutched her shopping bag and placed her fingers lightly on the arm he courteously extended. She felt the weight of envious stares from the sorority table and almost gave in to the urge to give them a gloating smile. Score one for the menopausal.

  David called out to Mike. “Watch my stuff, would ya? I'll be back for it before closing.” The bartender nodded and waved in acknowledgement.

  She called out a thank you to the bartender for the free wine and the suggestion. He had helped make her birthday a very nice one so far. Her fingers slid from David's arm as he slowed to open the pub door for her. Diffused sunlight shot bars of golden rays into the dim pub, and she squinted for a moment to readjust her sight to the greater brightness. In the waning daylight, her dinner date's hair glowed a deep russet, and his beard was speckled with tiny blond hairs. He dug into his shirt pocket, pulling out a pair of sunglasses. The glasses gave him a more austere look, highlighting the cut of his cheekbones and the slope of his prominent nose. She could just make out his eyes behind the dark shades.

  "Ready? I promise you'll like this place. Pasquali's has been here since I was in grade school. I worked there as a busboy when I was a teenager. If I was a condemned man, I'd request the lasagna for my last meal.” He kissed the tip of his fingers and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

  She laughed. “Well, after playing it up like that, I expect to be served heaven on a plate. Lead on, Mr. Abrams. My stomach is already growling."

  He paused. “Remember, David or Dave. No Mr. Abrams."

  "Okay ... David."

  David extended his arm again, and she took it gingerly, barely resting her fingers on his elbow as they continued their walk to the restaurant. It was a short trip, and she was relieved that the restaurant was not one with a romantic ambience. Some small part of her remained doubtful of her decision to accompany a virtual stranger on a dinner date. A place sporting candle-lit alcoves and cooing couples would have been uncomfortable. Pasquali's was an antithesis to that image.

  Well lit and crowded, it was a casual place with tables, booths, and a generous bar area that overlooked a bustling open kitchen swarming with cooks and waiters. The clientele was a mixture of couples, families, and singles groups out for a good meal, good conversation or a break from cooking duty at home. She liked it immediately and smiled her approval to her companion.

  He winked at her behind the dark shades before removing them and dropping them back in his shirt pocket. “Pasquali's is a great place. I promise you'll like it. Booth, table or bar?"

  She surveyed the crowded room. “I don't care. You pick. Just nothing in the smoking section or close to the bathrooms. Too much constant people traffic."

  "Good point. Okay. Nothing near the bathrooms."

  The hostess led them to a booth in a far corner of the room. Placed along the wall and out of the main flow of traffic, the noise was muted, and they didn't have to shout at each other to be heard.

  David scanned the menu. “They mix a good white sangria here. Want to try it? They serve it by the glass or in a carafe."

  The sangria sounded lovely, but she'd already downed two glasses of port and there was still the drive home. “I don't think so. Maybe just water with lemon for now."

  Ann crunched on a bread stick and stared at David curiously. “What made you decide to become a teacher? It can't be for the money."

  He stiffened, and his mouth tightened before he answered. “No, I'll never get rich, but I like it. The kids can be frustrating sometimes, but I remember that age. I wasn't too interested in the idea of Columbus sailing the ocean blue in 1492. I was more fascinated in staring at Kari Simpson's legs in class.” His smile reappeared. “I guess it was that clichéd idea of being able to make a difference, do something that had a positive influence on someone else.” He blew out a frustrated sigh. “It doesn't always work that way, and administration can really tie your hands. What about you? Accountant? Public relations guru?"

  This was too good to be true. Not only good-looking, down to earth and artistically inclined, but someone she could relate to on a professional level. He had to be gay and just hiding it. Or an ex-mob hit man in the witness protection program. If Peter were like this, they'd still be married.

  Ann smiled. “I'm a teacher, too. Freshman English."

  "No kidding?” He laughed. “A partner in misery then. I've substituted f
or ninth grade before.” He grimaced. “You must have the patience of Job. There's something exceptionally obnoxious and smartass about that age group."

  "They have their moments, but it's not so bad. You can't always get them to listen, and they have the focus and memory of gnats sometimes, but I don't think I have to deal with as much of the mouthiness as you would."

  They were briefly interrupted by the waiter who took their orders. As they waited for the meal to arrive, David asked her questions about school, her family, and what interests she had. While Ann didn't reveal their names, she did tell him of her three children, the fact that she was involved part-time in academia and had a few essays published in historical journals.

  David eyed her with sudden intensity. “You know, I noticed you the minute you stepped into O'Malley's. You looked familiar. Historical journals? Did you attend or panel a seminar last summer on famous women in history?"

  Ann gaped at him. He couldn't have surprised her more than if he'd suddenly climbed on top of their table and started singing an aria. “Yes, I did. One just outside DC. I gave a presentation on the Biblical figure Bathsheba.” She wracked her brain for some recollection of seeing him at the seminar, but nothing came to mind.

  He slapped his hand on the table. “I knew it. I was there. The entire seminar was interesting—if you're a history buff.” David grinned as if she'd just handed him a winning lottery ticket. “I liked your lecture. Bathsheba is a fascinating Biblical character.” He snapped a breadstick in two. “You wore a blue-gray shirt, and your hair was shorter."

  Tabletop arias and lottery winnings didn't hold a candle to this. Ann was almost speechless. “That was almost a year ago. You remember me ... and what I wore?"

  David shrugged and gave her a teasing grin. “I have a decent memory for some things, though I can't remember your last name to save my life. You were very eye-catching.” He held up a hand when she frowned. “I didn't say ‘beautiful.’ I said ‘eye-catching.’”

  "Semantics."

  "They're what make the world go around."

  "Haha.” She shook her head. “I can't believe you remember me. There must have been twenty lecturers there.” She winced. “Did I look nervous?"

  "Nah. You looked great.” His gaze intensified once more. “I was hoping to talk to you after the lecture but was waylaid by an acquaintance. Once I managed to get free, you were gone. I didn't see you for the rest of the conference."

  The revelation surprised her. Ann was tempted to ask why he wanted to talk with her then. Her lecture had been no different than any of the others presented. Maybe less polished. Public speaking wasn't her favorite thing, and she remembered stuttering once.

  David must have seen the question in her eyes. “I wanted to ask you out to dinner."

  She gave him a dubious look. “Right."

  "Take my word for it.” He snapped another breadstick in two. “I don't know why you find it hard to believe, but I was interested then. I'm interested now.” His gaze slid to her ringless hand. “You married?"

  Ann checked out his hand as well. No wedding ring, but that didn't mean anything. A lot of men didn't wear one. “I was then. Are you?"

  "I wasn't then. I'm not now.” He smiled. “Seems Fate has a way of working out. You probably would've said no to dinner then."

  She smiled. “Probably.” But oh what a stroke to her ego if he had asked her then. Her marriage at that point had breathed its death rattle, and she was at her lowest. David Abrams, with his smiling green eyes and charm, would have floored her with his question and left her grinning for days. Just like now.

  The lasagna arrived and there was a short pause in conversation as they each dished up a serving. “You're right. This is fantastic,” she said after the first bite.

  He smiled, obviously pleased by her approval of the food. “Just wait. The tiramisu will blow you away."

  As the meal progressed, they revealed more to each other. He had a nine year old daughter from a failed marriage, and shared joint custody with his ex-wife. “She's a good kid. Her mother and I divorced when she was four, but we kept it friendly for her sake. And there was never any question about the joint custody. I get her six months out of the year starting in summer, with visitation every two weeks when she's with her mom. It works the same the other way around."

  That was nice to hear. Divorces that ended badly often had damaging effects on the children caught in the middle. She'd seen the negative impact it had on some of her own students.

  Ann took a sip of her water before asking, “Are you looking forward to having her with you for the rest of the year?"

  He pulled out his wallet from a back pocket. “Oh yeah. My kid means everything to me. It's like getting Christmas early and celebrating for six months. I always have a rough time when she goes back to her mom.” He handed her a photo. “That's her. Melissa. I call her Missy sometimes just to get a reaction. She hates it. Thinks it sounds too babyish."

  The photo revealed a pretty young girl with her father's hair and smile. Her features were just beginning to mature, moving slowly into the awkward stage of pre-adolescence. The hints of beauty were already there. David Abrams was going to have his hands full when “Missy” hit her teens. She returned the picture.

  "She's lovely. I can see your smile, and the hair is unmistakable."

  He beamed with pride and slid the photo carefully back into his wallet. “Thanks. They grow up quick, don't they?"

  "Yes, they do."

  David waited for her to finish the last of her lasagna before asking, “Well? What do you think?"

  Her eyes rolled in ecstasy as she set her fork down and wiped her mouth with her napkin. “God, that was positively sinful. There must have be ten pounds of ricotta in each bite. Who do I have to kill to get the recipe?"

  He laughed. “I worked here two years and never found out. Closely guarded secret that goes back to some immigrant relative from Naples. I have my doubts. The DeLucas have been here for several generations, and there's some German blood mixed in with all that Italian. What do you want a bet some aunt with a surname of Reichmann or Knopf came up with this recipe?"

  His irreverence and humor were infectious, and she lost count of the times he made her laugh during their dinner conversation. He was easy to talk to, non-threatening but always exuding a latent sensuality that sent every feminine instinct in her body to buzzing.

  By the time the tiramisu arrived, she found herself revealing things normally kept close to the vest. Ann told him more of her published essays—she was a history fan, too. The writing paid in personal satisfaction more than money, and that was fine with her. They commiserated over school administrations and obnoxious kids with even more obnoxious parents. She bragged on her children and their accomplishments, and even ranted a little over their annoying habits. Only when it came to her ex-husband, did she grow reticent, feeling that if there was little positive to say, then things should be left private and unsaid. David didn't push, only steered the conversation to one of her more light-hearted statements.

  "So Alan Rickman is your favorite actor? I've seen him in a few things. He doesn't always take on the best roles but he works brilliantly with what's handed to him. And let me guess, you're in lust with his voice?"

  "Definitely, as are thousands of other women ages nine to ninety. That voice just oozes sexuality. The man could make love by simply reading poetry."

  He sputtered into his soda at her statement, and his eyes glittered with laughter. “Wow. That's impressive. But I can sympathize."

  Her brows rose. “Oh? Do you have a thing for Alan Rickman, too?"

  Ann like his laughter. Easy to surface, low and vibrant. She wondered if he realized just how seductive his humor was.

  "No. Not my type. Judi Dench is more my speed."

  The fork holding the piece of tiramisu wobbled dangerously as she paused in her eating to stare at him. “You're kidding. We're talking the British actress, right? Played Mrs. Brown? M in James Bond?
The Dame Judi Dench?"

  David grinned at her surprise. “Yep. Most gorgeous woman to walk the planet, in my opinion. Lusted after her since the first time I ever saw her on the big screen. Proud, independent, and always a lady.” He shrugged. “At least that's what she portrays on the screen."

  The man really did have a thing for older women. “How old is your ex-wife?"

  He caught onto her game, and his grin widened. “Six and a half years younger than me, and I'm thirty-nine. So, no, it's not an age thing.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “You know, when I saw you in Mike's, you reminded me a lot of Dame Dench."

  His statement knocked Ann flat. The tiramisu was dangerously close to ending up in her lap, so she lowered her fork to her dessert plate and narrowed her eyes at him. “I don't look a thing like her. And she's a lot older than me."

  David shrugged. “I didn't say you looked like her. You don't by a long shot. Just that something about you made me think of her. Same composure, same pride."

  He had broken his promise not to dish out the compliments, but he had such a way of giving them that they were neither gushing nor insincere, just points in his conversation. Very charming indeed.

  "Thank you. That's very nice of you to say."

  She almost laughed aloud at the hint of relief in his green eyes. He had been expecting her to rebuke him. Really, there was only so much reserve you could show before the other person started to see you as an ice queen or a bitch, and she wasn't the first by any stretch of the imagination and tried not to be the second.

  The conversation never faltered or lulled as they ate dessert and ordered coffee as well. It wasn't until she asked David the time that she realized they had sat talking in Pasquali's for a little over two hours.

  "I didn't realize it was that late! I need to go,” she said. She dug through her purse for her wallet to pay her half of the bill.