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He picked up his menu and began to idly scan it. “Yes, it is. And I imagine it’s a far cry from the way you usually have dinner.”
Annie had picked up her menu and started to open it, but she slapped it shut and tossed it back onto the table when he uttered his comment. She wished he would quit making references to her life sound as if she were the little match girl. And she wished she would stop caring about what he thought of her.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded.
He glanced up, clearly not understanding why she was angry. “What’s what supposed to mean?”
“Why do you keep talking to me like I’m some indigent, ignorant rube?”
“I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. Just about everything you’ve said to me since you picked me up this morning has been insulting. What I want to know is, why?”
He seemed genuinely surprised by her charge. “That’s not true.”
Annie lifted her hands, touching the index finger of one to the thumb of the other. “You’ve insulted my home,” she began. She then pressed one index finger to the other. “You’ve insulted my neighborhood.” She counted off the rest of her fingers as she added, “You’ve insulted the way I dress, my system of beliefs and my way of life.” She dropped her hands to the table, folding them convulsively together to keep herself from popping him in the eye. “You’ve insulted me. Continuously. And I’m telling you to cut it out. Now.”
He opened his mouth to argue, seemed to think better of it, and said simply, “Okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. And it won’t happen again.”
Annie picked up her menu and studied the appetizers. “Thanks,” she muttered.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for some moments, each seeming inordinately fascinated by their dinner choices. A wine steward came and went when Ike ordered something for them to drink that Annie had never heard of, then returned again with a bottle that was very dusty and old-looking. She watched Ike smile and nod his approval, then the steward opened the wine and poured a scant splash of red into Ike’s glass. Annie studied him as he lifted the glass to his mouth and swallowed the contents, uttered a murmur of satisfaction and nodded again. The steward then filled Annie’s glass before performing the same task for Ike’s.
The whole episode lasted scarcely a minute, but Annie felt as if time had expanded to eternity. Her heart seemed to have climbed into her throat as she watched him sample the wine, and her stomach was still flip-flopping madly. Her breathing had become shallow and was making her feel faint. Her face and neck were hot, her hands sweaty. How could she possibly feel as if she’d just made love to the man when she’d done nothing but watch him take a sip of wine?
It was his mouth, she decided. Although Ike’s chin and jaw were square and blunt, his cheeks rough with pale blond traces of a day-old beard, his lips were full and softlooking. And without even realizing what was happening, she suddenly found herself indulging in a too realistic fantasy about what it would be like to feel those lips dragging openmouthed kisses along her calf and up the back of her thigh.
“Oh, jeez,” she whispered, closing her eyes in an effort to dispel the image. But it remained firmly imprinted at the forefront of her brain.
“What?”
She heard Ike’s roughly uttered question, but Annie kept her eyes closed for a moment longer, still unable to push the graphic fantasy away. When she finally did open them again, it was to find him staring at her in the oddest way. As if he wanted to yank her across the table and into his lap, hike up her skirt, and make love to her right there in front of everyone dining. That realization, of course, only agitated her further, and Annie struggled to regain control of her crazily spinning thoughts.
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