about him that always seemed… ready. For what, she wasn't sure.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as she approached.
She stopped in front of the table but didn't sit down. “I wanted to talk to you.”
He nodded and looked out at the street, then back at her. “Do you have a problem with my putting my hands on you?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head, thinking she had misunderstood. “What?”
“I'm not going to be comfortable sitting here with you if I don't pat you down. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.”
She didn't know what to make of it. Was he serious?
As she stood there, trying to take it all in, he got up and stepped close to her. He leaned in close, and she realized this was for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, to obscure what he was really doing. She caught a whiff of the hotel's soap, and something else underneath it, something masculine she couldn't otherwise place. She felt his left hand move inside her coat and slide up her right side, the palm of his hand firm against her kidney, her ribs, the edge of her breast. Then his right hand was doing the same on the other side. He pulled her against him and ran his hands lightly across the small of her back and over her hips. She felt her heart beating fast and told herself it was because she was angry.
He took a step back and glanced around the bar, then knelt in front of her and quickly ran his hands up each of her legs, ankle to groin. She heard her breath moving forcefully in and out of her nose.
He stood and looked at her. She glared back. “Satisfied?” she asked.
He nodded and sat, with no indication she should do the same.
The insolence of it, and her failure to do anything effective in response other than a single lame word of sarcasm, made her so angry she imagined herself picking up a chair and swinging it at him like a baseball bat. “Stand up,” she said.
“What?”
“Stand up,” she said again.
He did.
She stepped in close and looked into his eyes. “We better both be careful, no?”
She slipped her hands inside his blazer and ran them slowly up his sides. She could feel the warmth of his skin through his shirt, the muscles underneath. She never took her eyes from him. He wanted to play it mocking and insolent? She could play it that way, too.
She knelt in front of him and touched him with the same clinical ease, the same sense of entitlement, that he had used on her. Then she stood and put a hand on his stomach. It was hard and flat and she could feel it expanding and contracting slightly with his breathing.
“I guess you're unarmed,” she said, still looking into his eyes.
He put his hand over hers and started pushing it lower. She couldn't believe it… what was he doing, one- upping her? But she wasn't going to blink first.
Lower. Her heart was pounding but she wouldn't look away.
Her hand stopped at a hard protuberance just above his groin. She realized what it was-a gun, in some kind of special concealed holster.
“Maybe I can trust you after all,” he said.
She glared at him. “Why?”
“Because nobody, with even the most rudimentary training, could have done such a lame pat-down. Maybe you are just a lawyer.”
“And maybe you're just an asshole.”
“Oh, I'm a lot more than that.”
His hand was still covering hers. She pulled it away and sat down. After a moment he joined her.
“Well? What did you want to talk about?” he asked, his tone and expression casual enough to suggest that he didn't really care.
She looked at him for a long second, anger seething inside her. “Forget it,” she said, and stood to go.
He was out of his seat with such liquid speed it amazed her. He caught her arm. “Why?” he said. “You mad because I patted you down? Because I didn't get turned on when you did the same to me?”
“Getting turned on is a human quality. I don't see it in you.”
“Listen. I don't know you, so I don't trust you. It's not personal.”
“The hell it's not. You trusted me fine right up until you heard my name. So don't tell me it's not personal.”
“Why don't you sit down and I'll buy you a drink.”
“I'll buy my own drink.”
Ben glanced over her shoulder. “All right, buy one for me, too.”
She looked, and saw the waitress standing behind her.
“Bombay Sapphire martini,” Ben said. “No olive, no vermouth.”
The hell with it. She nodded to the waitress. “Make it two.”
They sat. Ben said, “You going to tell me why you're here?”
She felt her heart beating and it made her angry again. She hated that he could be so cool with her, and that at the same time he made her nervous. And she was scared about what she was going to say next.
She cleared her throat. “It's… about the Four Seasons. I'm thinking about what you're thinking, putting myself in the other person's shoes, the way you said to do. And if I were in your shoes, I'd be afraid that I might… go to the police or something. I'm afraid of what you might do to prevent that.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and she thought she saw something play across his eyes in the diffused light from the street. Sympathy? Regret?
Then he glanced away. “When we're done with this, you'll look back and it'll seem like it never happened.”
She didn't follow him. Was he telling her not to worry? He wouldn't… hurt her?
“How do you know that?” she said.
“I just know. This is all weird to you. Like something that's happening to someone else. When it's over and you're back to your life, it'll be like waking up from a dream.”
She looked at him, trying to read his expression. “You're right,” she said. “It does feel like that. But… how do you know?”
He shook his head and looked away, and she thought, Because you never woke up.
The waitress brought their drinks and Sarah paid for them. They sipped in silence for a few minutes.
“Why do you speak such good Farsi?” Sarah asked, switching languages.
“You already know why,” Ben said, also in Farsi.
“I don't like what you do,” Sarah said, switching back to English.
Ben laughed. “That's okay. I like it fine.”
“You like violence?”
He shrugged. “It's a tool for a job.”
“The craftsman doesn't enjoy his tools?
“Why did you become a lawyer? Because you enjoy lawyering?”
She looked at him, surprised at the way the question went to the heart of her own doubts. “I don't really know why. Maybe just because I was good at it. Why did you get into your line of work?”
For a moment his expression was oddly blank, and then he looked away. “It's a long story.”
They were quiet again. Sarah said, “Tell me something about yourself.”
“Like what?”
Actually, she didn't know. The words had just come out. She hadn't planned them, and didn't know what she was asking exactly.
“I don't know. Just… something you can tell me. Not something about work. Something personal. So I'll feel like I at least know you a little.”
He shrugged. “I like to pull the wings off flies. It's just a hobby, but I'm thinking about going pro.”
She shook her head, realizing it was a waste of time, feeling foolish for even having tried. “Are you married?” she asked. “Do you have a family?”
