“I know a scampi recipe that’s illegal in four Italian cities.”
I’d bought enough food for two. Actually, I’d bought enough for twelve. I never again wanted a cupboard as bare as the one I’d faced last night.
Ryan stood, spread his hands palms out, and broke into another grin. He was tanned from hours of outdoor surveillance, and the tawny skin made his eyes appear more vivid than usual, a blue beyond the blue human cells can produce.
Normally, with time, even the most stunning beauty grows familiar. It’s like watching Olympic figure skating. We grow jaded and forget how extraordinary the grace and beauty truly are. Such was the case with Susanne. I was aware of her elegance, but it no longer surprised me when she entered a room.
Not so with Ryan. His good looks still startled me on a regular basis.
And he knew it.
“Which ones?” I asked.
He looked puzzled.
“Which cities?”
“Turin, Milan, Sienna, and Florence.”
“You’ve made this scampi?”
“I’ve read about it.”
“This better be good.”
Ryan went for beer while I changed. Then he grilled the shrimp and I mixed a salad.
During dinner we talked around things, maintaining a safe level of banality. Afterward, we cleared the table and took coffee outside to the patio.
“That really was good,” I said for the second time.
Lights were blinking on in windows across the courtyard.
“Have I ever misled you?”
“Why is this repast banned under Tuscan law?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I exaggerated a little.”
“I see.”
“It’s actually a misdemeanor.”
Beyond the courtyard, the Friday night party was cranking up. Auto horns. Emergency sirens. Weekend revelers, in from their split-levels in Dorval and Pointe Claire. Pounding hip-hop, swelling then receding as cars passed by.
Ryan lit a cigarette.
“How goes Chupan Ya?”
“You remembered the name.”
“The place is important to you.”
“Yes.”
“It must be gut-wrenching.”
“It is.”
“Tell me about it.”
It was like speaking of some parallel universe where rotting bodies took center stage in a morality play too hideous for words. Headless mothers. Massacred infants. An old woman who lived because she had beans to sell.
Ryan listened, the periwinkle eyes rarely leaving my face. His questions were few, always germane. He did not rush or divert, allowed me to unload in my own way.
And he listened.
And I realized a truth.
Andrew Ryan is one of those rare men able to make you feel, rightly or wrongly, that yours are the only thoughts in the galaxy that interest him.
It is the most appealing trait a man can have.
And it was not going unnoticed by my libido, which seemed to be clocking a lot of overtime lately.
“More coffee?” I asked.
“Thanks.”
I went to the kitchen.
Maybe having Ryan drop by wasn’t such a bad thing. Maybe I’d been too harsh on the
I did a quick detour to the bathroom, ran a brush through my hair, dabbed on blusher, decided against
