he acknowledged the couple’s smiles and the man’s request for two glasses of burgundy. He looked at Antonio expectantly.
“On second thought,” The waiter resumed his singing. “Spring-ga is-a here-a!”
He bowed to their laughter and applause. “Sorry. Probably not politically correct.” With a knowing look, he changed the subject. “The garden should be open in a couple of weeks. The buds are starting to break and,” he arched an eyebrow at them, “the sap is beginning to rise. In the meantime, have a couple of extra candles for atmosphere.”
He grandly scooped two tiny votive lights from nearby empty tables to add to the one centered on the checked tablecloth. He made an OK gesture with his thumb and forefinger, pleased with himself and, humming quietly, left.
Amanda watched the smiling Antonio slipping out of his jacket. Her eyes traveled over his broad chest. The plaid flannel shirt fit him comfortably. Open at the throat, it revealed the powerfully corded neck that, Amanda remembered with a heat rising in her center, led to the swelling broad planes of his pectorals.
“What would you like?” He took her coat from her and hung it on a nearby rack as she shook her hair loose from the knit cap and tried to push the unruly dark mass into what she hoped was a semblance of order.
I must look a mess, she thought grumpily, but was instantly caught up in the expression of the handsome man seated across from her.
His eyes seemed filled with her. “You look great.” His voice was low and rich with innuendo.
“I…I can never keep straight what all the different pastas are,” she busied herself with the menu. “I’m…not really all that hungry, now that I…”
A golden glow had centered in her midsection that she wasn’t sure she wanted to disturb with food, but the wine which the humming waiter delivered with a flourish made the glow even stronger. She ordered soup and a salad.
“Italian food is easy,” her escort explained. “Pasta is pasta. It just comes in different shapes. What really matters is how you dress it up.”
Or undress it, Amanda thought, smiling, allowing the rich heat of the wine to further escalate her imagination.
“It’s Near-Eastern that baffles me,” he said. “I’m never sure what I’m eating.”
“You and me both,” the returning waiter interjected. “By the way, since it’s late, your choice is spaghetti or tortellini.”
Amanda watched the model as he ordered and continued discussing food. He was such an easy person to be with. She felt that hopeless drift that she knew led straight to complete comfort. A soft, mellow comfort that she hadn’t felt in such a long time.
There was a lot to be said for home and hearth. But life-a deep sigh settled her more deeply into the comfortable cushion of the enveloping booth-life was much more complicated than that. Particularly if you had to make something of yourself; had to stand on your own two feet. Sometimes that meant you had to give up something special in order to get something more special.
The room-temperature, dark red liquid was lush on her tongue and stroked the back of her throat with its salty, musky taste, her salad was crisp and crunchy and the small, fragrant bowl of soup floated thick with firm vegetables.
The model attacked his tortellini drenched in sun dried tomatoes with gusto. He was so beautiful, masculine and sensitive. The perfect prince. Amanda felt a sudden pang.
How utterly immature she was being. There was no way this could possibly fit into the life she had ordained.
The rising female executive made a determined decision to very practically push her questioning thoughts aside for the time being and revel in the nearness of the man across from her invoking such dangerously suggestive reveries.
Outside in the cold shadows, the figure keeping close watch briskly rubbed gloved hands over the arms of the great coat to keep warm. Directly opposite was another restaurant. From a table by its window the couple could be observed. The figure quickly took up a warmer place of surreptitious surveillance.
“Tell me about yourself, Ace.” The model had finished his plate and was starting on his salad. “Was David right? Are you new in town? I would guess you must be if you live in Chelsea and have never been down to the Village. We’re just a couple of stops away,” he noted, invitingly.
“I was waiting for the right tour guide.”
His eyes softened. “You know, you draw pretty good, lady. Once you get started. You’ve been at this for a while, haven’t you?”
Amanda was startled that he had taken note of her totally inept false starts tonight.
“It seemed like every time I tried to get close to you,” he continued, “someone would drag me away to show me their work. But I finally got to see what you were doing. You make great choices.”
Amanda felt her cheeks brighten even more as his eyes rested steadily on her.
“Some of the students in the class are impressively talented. And,” the clefts in his cheeks grew deeper as he took another sip of wine, “some, pretty blatant.”
“You mean Christine.” Amanda felt her already warm cheeks burn.
“She said to David, Mr. Parkerson-Christine said she had to get it out of her system before she could look at the whole figure objectively. She’s quite a woman. Quite an artist. Sometimes, I wish…”
An array of fine lines appeared at the corners of the dark eyes. “I have her phone number.”
“She gave it to you!”
“Yep. And not to invite me up for a private posing session, either. She made it quite clear her intentions were totally dishonorable.”
Amanda frowned. He laughed easily, obviously enjoying her surprise and the pleasure a man must feel being admired by an attractive woman. For Christine, for all her outrageousness and angst, was an attractive woman.
If only I had the guts, Amanda thought glumly.
“Don’t worry, she’s not my type,” he reached over the table to stroke Amanda’s hand.
She felt a rush of adrenalin and pulled her hand away quickly. Her voice came out much harsher than she had intended. “Why should I care what type you prefer?” She stuffed a cold slice of garlic bread into her mouth.
The startled man sat back in the booth.
Amanda’s eyes bored into her salad plate. It was empty. The bread basket was empty. Her glass of wine was empty. The silence was deafening, except for the throbbing in her ears.
“May I have another glass?” She shot her eyes defiantly at the man seated across from her.
His dark eyes leveled at hers. His moist full lips fell slightly apart; the tip of his tongue brushed them in concentration.
“It’s true,” she hurried on as matter-of-factly as possible, unable to hold his look, “you do have a… an… they are… uh…” She swallowed. “But you also have a beautiful… everything else. Your poses were… superb. Christine didn’t have to be so… narrowly focused,” she quoted Mr. Parkerson. “So blatant!” she quoted the man opposite her. Amanda gritted her teeth in frustration. “Professor Angeli did some really remarkable sketches of you. All…of you.”
She dared to look in his eyes again.
His gaze was direct and soft. “You’re jealous,” he said quietly, surprise and delight in his voice.
Amanda’s entire body reacted.
She opened her mouth to tear into this self-centered, egotistical, brazen…
He slid his hands, palms up, toward hers. “That’s the greatest thing that’s happened to me in years.”
Amanda sat open-mouthed. She felt totally bathed in spring sunshine.
“You’re not just being nice to a naked man with a ‘beautiful…everything else?’” His grin spread from ear to ear as he pretended sudden concern.
