Chapter 6

Chris O'Brien took a glance around her, the plush red velvet draperies, the crystal chandelier casting glimmers of light over the potted palms in the corners of the restaurants... and wondered why she had been so reluctant to give up a night alone in her dumpy apartment for a French meal at Fisherman's Wharf overlooking the San Francisco Bay.

She glanced around the restaurant again. The lights were low, the atmosphere hushed. Waiters moved across the deep carpet as quietly as cats. And Francois, her date for the evening, with his lean, handsome face, his classic features, the touch of gray at his temples that made him look even more distinguished than his accent could attest to. He'd sat opposite of her, choosing the perfect wine to go with the perfect meal he would select. Yes, Chris thought, there was no reason for her being so afraid when he'd come to the door.

She would try to act the lady, conversing fluently in French with this mysteriously good-looking gentleman, and remember her etiquette, squeezing her lemon with the prongs of the fork, dipping the soup spoon away instead of towards you... those tiny, yet consequential vignettes of cuisine that separated the more sophisticated from the lesser. And when the Chateaubriand for two would be served, she would not stuff herself, though it had been two weeks since she'd anything as delectable as a piece of piping hot meat steaming in front of her.