doubted that it would be open before
spring arrived.
The heavy wooden door took her concentrated
effort to open. She was encouraged by the fact that there was
almost no pull from the area of her surgery. Inside, the odor of
roasting meat hit her olfactory senses full-on. It took a moment
longer for her eyes to become accustomed to the somber interior.
Booths upholstered in dark brown leather ran down one side of the
main floor.
“One for lunch, Ma’am?” The bearded maitre d’
wore black jeans, cowboy boots, and a fringed western shirt.
“I’m meeting someone.” She took a better look
around her. Game heads crowded the walls, their glassy eyes taking
on a knowing gaze in the dim light. Pheasants, grouse and all
manner of game bird seemed ready to rise up from the oak-paneled
bar.
Diana took a step backward and felt a hand on
her elbow. She turned slightly in the close quarters as the
restaurant began to fill with the lunch crowd.
“Diana.”
As Rogart’s eyes hit hers, she felt as if
she’d been skewered. Even in the dim light. The image of a
butterfly impaled on a pin flashed briefly across her
consciousness, only to be swallowed up in the sensory potpourri
around her.
“We have a reservation upstairs,” she heard
Rogart tell the host.
Then she allowed him to pilot her up a
staircase to the second floor. Quick, backward glances at his
thighs moving under tight jeans sent Diana’s pulse racing. He
smelled of leather and musk. At the top of the stairs, a
magnificent white oak bar dominated the room. The booths were oak,
upholstered in blood-red leather. The effect was numbing. A
full-bodied wolf mount looked so alive that she found herself
wanting to reach out and pat it. Not a healthy idea.
A pretty hostess in western attire led them
to a table by one of the long, narrow windows. Diana watched a
smile of familiarity light the woman’s face as she greeted Rogart.
As he held out Diana’s chair, she wished she could see his face.
Diana was certain that she caught a wink from the hostess. Had
Rogart initiated or returned the gesture?
When they had settled into their chairs,
Diana let her eyes wander up from the menu, toward Rogart. Again,
it was like being in somebody’s high-beams.
“Would you care for something to drink?” he
invited. “A glass of wine?”
She suddenly longed for a glass of white
wine. Zinfandel, maybe. “You?” she asked, not wanting to look like
a lush.
Rogart shook his head. “I don’t drink
alcohol.”
“Uh, I see. I’ll have some herbal tea.”
His lips curved up in a crooked smile that
was quite charming, but she found herself squirming again under his
intense hazel gaze. “I’m not an alcoholic, Diana. I just don’t
enjoy the effects of alcohol.” Somehow, his eyes didn’t match his
smile.
She watched his expression soften as he
continued. “Alcohol played a part in the abuse of my wife. I don’t
fault people for enjoying a drink, but it just doesn’t have a place
in my life.” As he spoke, he spread his hands before him on the
table, a gesture that called her attention to his long,
strong-looking fingers. He wore a wide turquoise and silver band on
the third finger of his left hand. She wondered if it was a wedding
ring.
As she turned her attention back to the menu,
Diana was distracted by the candle light that danced across the
table. She tried to focus on a food choice. Perhaps chicken salad.
She wasn’t a vegetarian in the strict sense of the word.
When her attention bounced back to Rogart,
she found him grinning broadly. But not at her. A lovely Asian
waitress had presented herself to take their orders. The girl’s
reflection, mirrored in the window glass behind Rogart, revealed an
open flirtation in progress.
“I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad,” Diana
interrupted, amusement creeping into her voice. If you don’t
mind, Miss Hottie.
The waitress moved into view, glanced briefly
in Diana’s direction, then jotted something on her
spring arrived.
The heavy wooden door took her concentrated
effort to open. She was encouraged by the fact that there was
almost no pull from the area of her surgery. Inside, the odor of
roasting meat hit her olfactory senses full-on. It took a moment
longer for her eyes to become accustomed to the somber interior.
Booths upholstered in dark brown leather ran down one side of the
main floor.
“One for lunch, Ma’am?” The bearded maitre d’
wore black jeans, cowboy boots, and a fringed western shirt.
“I’m meeting someone.” She took a better look
around her. Game heads crowded the walls, their glassy eyes taking
on a knowing gaze in the dim light. Pheasants, grouse and all
manner of game bird seemed ready to rise up from the oak-paneled
bar.
Diana took a step backward and felt a hand on
her elbow. She turned slightly in the close quarters as the
restaurant began to fill with the lunch crowd.
“Diana.”
As Rogart’s eyes hit hers, she felt as if
she’d been skewered. Even in the dim light. The image of a
butterfly impaled on a pin flashed briefly across her
consciousness, only to be swallowed up in the sensory potpourri
around her.
“We have a reservation upstairs,” she heard
Rogart tell the host.
Then she allowed him to pilot her up a
staircase to the second floor. Quick, backward glances at his
thighs moving under tight jeans sent Diana’s pulse racing. He
smelled of leather and musk. At the top of the stairs, a
magnificent white oak bar dominated the room. The booths were oak,
upholstered in blood-red leather. The effect was numbing. A
full-bodied wolf mount looked so alive that she found herself
wanting to reach out and pat it. Not a healthy idea.
A pretty hostess in western attire led them
to a table by one of the long, narrow windows. Diana watched a
smile of familiarity light the woman’s face as she greeted Rogart.
As he held out Diana’s chair, she wished she could see his face.
Diana was certain that she caught a wink from the hostess. Had
Rogart initiated or returned the gesture?
When they had settled into their chairs,
Diana let her eyes wander up from the menu, toward Rogart. Again,
it was like being in somebody’s high-beams.
“Would you care for something to drink?” he
invited. “A glass of wine?”
She suddenly longed for a glass of white
wine. Zinfandel, maybe. “You?” she asked, not wanting to look like
a lush.
Rogart shook his head. “I don’t drink
alcohol.”
“Uh, I see. I’ll have some herbal tea.”
His lips curved up in a crooked smile that
was quite charming, but she found herself squirming again under his
intense hazel gaze. “I’m not an alcoholic, Diana. I just don’t
enjoy the effects of alcohol.” Somehow, his eyes didn’t match his
smile.
She watched his expression soften as he
continued. “Alcohol played a part in the abuse of my wife. I don’t
fault people for enjoying a drink, but it just doesn’t have a place
in my life.” As he spoke, he spread his hands before him on the
table, a gesture that called her attention to his long,
strong-looking fingers. He wore a wide turquoise and silver band on
the third finger of his left hand. She wondered if it was a wedding
ring.
As she turned her attention back to the menu,
Diana was distracted by the candle light that danced across the
table. She tried to focus on a food choice. Perhaps chicken salad.
She wasn’t a vegetarian in the strict sense of the word.
When her attention bounced back to Rogart,
she found him grinning broadly. But not at her. A lovely Asian
waitress had presented herself to take their orders. The girl’s
reflection, mirrored in the window glass behind Rogart, revealed an
open flirtation in progress.
“I’ll have the chicken Caesar salad,” Diana
interrupted, amusement creeping into her voice. If you don’t
mind, Miss Hottie.
The waitress moved into view, glanced briefly
in Diana’s direction, then jotted something on her
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