Passion and Deception (The Billionaire’s Club #10)

Chapter 1

"Why do the 'masters' always look like they got hit by a fugly stick?” Maggie Denault couldn't help but cringe at the sight of time-crackled portraits featuring bulbous noses, warts, and eyebrows hairier than a werewolf in a barber's nightmare. "I suppose, back then, they didn’t have Photoshop to smooth out the unattractive truths," she muttered, eyeing the questionable artistic choices. Tapping the folded museum guide against her outer thigh, she sighed with despair at the world’s ugly ancestors.

Moving on to the next masterpiece, Maggie found herself staring at a painting of a seemingly pretty young girl. With a head tilt that rivaled a confused puppy, she examined the artwork. Ignoring the girl in the foreground, she scrutinized the background, as if searching for answers to life's questions in the brushstrokes.

Then, it hit her like a Renaissance revelation: the proportions were all out of whack. The girl was rocking flawless symmetry, but the bizarre horse in the background looked like it attended the Picasso School of Equine Design. How did the same artist manage this odd artistic split personality?

Without getting too close, because triggering unseen security is a definite no-no, Maggie leaned in, captivated by the mysteries of the past, wondering if these painters had a secret pact to create the ugliest version of their subjects.

"Thank you, Your Highness! You're a true art angel!" Bill McGovern exclaimed, practically folding himself in half in order to perform an extravagant bow. Apparently, offering the guy rights to display a long forgotten Vermeer painting was like winning the lottery, but with more cultural sophistication.

Ramit al Quadar, Sheik of Ditar, graciously reciprocated, but with a significantly less enthusiastic bow. "It's my pleasure. I've always believed in spreading the joy of Vermeer,” he lied, bored with the subject already. “My office will contact yours to arrange the final details."

The museum director, still recovering from his bow-induced vertigo, managed a wide-eyed, "That would be wonderful, Your Highness.”

Ramit turned, fully prepared to head for the nearest exit. The museum visit, and offer to lend the paintings, was merely a diplomatic cover for the true reason for his visit to Philadelphia. As he turned, Ramit’s thoughts went through the next steps of his purpose; to hunt down the person who had threatened his sister!

Ignoring the director’s continued obsequiousness, the bowing and scraping becoming excessive, Ramit started to walk away. If Ramit had done his job correctly, the director would leak the news of the upcoming Vermeer donation to the public.

However, his momentum was abruptly halted, as if by a magnetic pull of profound allure. In the midst of the gallery's hushed elegance, Ramit's attention was hijacked by the shockingly lovely woman standing in front of a painting. Her gaze fixated on the Rembrandt, an intensity that transcended the ordinary reverence for art…and she was muttering to herself!

She seemed transfixed by the brilliant painting while Ramit’s attention was ruthlessly captivated by the woman herself, casually clad in jeans and a tee shirt. The denim, though not a second skin, seemed to embrace her figure in an affectionate dance, showcasing a posterior that could rival a masterpiece itself. Her legs, not reaching supermodel lengths, possessed an undeniable allure, each curve a siren's call.

As if obeying the laws of attraction, her waist cinched in, turning her hips into an alluring landscape. The strands of her long brown hair cascaded down her back, a waterfall of warmth with sparkling golden highlights. She was not just a woman; she was a dark-haired Venus, a living, breathing masterpiece in the gallery of his fascination.

“Your Highness?” his personal aide prompted.

Ramit ignored the man, unable to turn away from the woman who had just moved to the next painting, completely unaware of his rapt attention. Her legs were perfect. Everything about the woman was perfect! When she turned her head to look at the previous painting, he suspected he could see freckles on her nose. Yes, actual freckles! How adorable! And on such a sexually enticing woman, those freckles were even more tempting.

“Your next meeting is in…!”

Ramit raised a commanding hand, hushing his overeager aide. In the tumultuous storm that had recently become his life, this moment emerged as a rare haven of perfection, a sanctuary untainted by the chaos of what was to come next. This museum visit was merely concealing the true purpose behind his journey to Philadelphia but was a necessary cloak-and-dagger affair. He had scheduled several meetings over the next few hours. All of them more camouflage for his real purpose.

“Cancel my next few meetings,” Ramit declared quietly, without looking away from the vision before him.

Ignoring the startled glances from his guards and the horrified expression on his personal aide’s face, Ramit moved into the exhibit room.

“But, Your Highness,” his assistant started to argue.

Ramit turned to him, his eyes hard. “Not the one later. Just…,” he sighed and glanced at the woman again. “Just fix it. Make it so that I have a few hours free.”

The harsh, overhead florescent lights were a boon, allowing Ramit to more fully appreciate those adorable freckles, which didn’t just decorate her nose. Now that he was closer, Ramit could see that those freckles traveled over her cheeks, one even highlighting the fullness of her lips.

“He used mirrors and projections.”

Startled from her reverie of one of Rembrandt’s most famous paintings, Maggie turned, then jerked backwards at the sight of the tall, broad shouldered man.

Under different stars, Maggie might have felt an ominous shiver travel down her spine as the shockingly large man approached, an unsettling force invading her personal space without the courtesy of an introduction. In the shadow of alternative circumstances, the instinctual alarms from her past would have likely sounded, painting men as potential threats rather than benign entities. The very air crackled with the potential for tension, and the unspoken script of her past played out in the charged silence between them.

However, this man kept a respectful distance. Plus, he was studying the amazing painting, not her. That eased her concerns slightly, calming her instinctive alarm, and allowed her to offer a slight smile.

Turning back to the painting, she examined the images. "Mirrors and projections, huh?” she replied, examining the way that the artist had painted several unique images off in the distance. “I didn’t know that but,” Maggie angled her head slightly, examining each image on the canvas with a new lens. “It’s lovely. And the use of paint strokes and various colors in order to evoke light, intensity, and emotions is truly breathtaking.”

"I concur," the tall stranger replied, his voice carrying a tone of intelligence and power. "I revel in the masterful way he cloaked the main subjects of his paintings in shadows, forcing one to contemplate the very essence of good and evil,” the man lowered his voice as he continued, “navigating the realms of darkness and the sinister whispers of untold thoughts."

She smiled up at him. “I don’t know who the people in the portrait are, but if they were wealthy, I’m sure that they were unscrupulous bastards.”

The surprised amusement on the stranger’s face made her laugh. She shrugged, waving casually towards what most art lovers considered an ancient masterpiece. “You disagree?”

Surreptitiously, Maggie surveyed his clothing. The khaki slacks and soft sweater were obviously of good quality, but she was used to being around powerful men who used clothing to announce their status. In her experience, wealthy men were basically insecure, most likely impotent, jerks.

A thoughtful hum lingered in the air, an echo of introspection. Maybe, just maybe, the dark, sometimes violent, tendrils of Maggie's past experiences with vicious and unscrupulous men were casting a long, sinister shadow over her present. Being employed as a waitress at one of the nation's most exclusive men’s clubs, Maggie had witnessed a wide spectrum of behaviors from wealthy men, ranging from the commendable to the contemptible, the virtuous to the venomous.

Her gaze shifted, and she found herself reflecting on that bitter truth. In her job, the wealthy were not benevolent titans, but rather pitiful figures, their riches built on a foundation of deceit, manipulation, and a twisted dance with morality. Through her watchful eyes, she had seen the good, the bad, and the downright ugly of affluence. The wealthy were not paragons of success. They were usually pathetic puppeteers pulling the strings of a system rigged in their favor, where laws were crafted, and integrity was sold to safeguard their interests. Her observations painted a stark tableau of wealth tainted by the brushstrokes of deception and power.

This man, with his casual clothes and somewhat ruffled hair wasn’t one of the wealthy elite of this world. He was obviously well-off, but he didn’t inhabit the abusive realm like the men she came into contact with at the club every night.

He was just a good-looking guy who, apparently, appreciated extremely good art.

“I…” the mysterious stranger started, only to shake his head. “I haven’t recently contemplated the dire morality of the wealthy people in the world, to be honest.”

Maggie smiled. “That’s okay. I’ve done enough contemplation for several people.” Then she turned back to stare at the painting, her features shifting to an amused cringe. “Can you imagine wearing those ruffles every day?”

The man was silent for a moment as he contemplated the wide, lace “ruff”, then he chuckled. “No. I’m relieved that we aren’t living in the seventeen hundreds. Those collars look incredibly uncomfortable.”

She sighed, shifting her weight onto her other foot. “I think the dead guy on the wooden table is more uncomfortable than the people watching the autopsy.” She looked back up at the man beside her, wrinkling her nose. “All those the visible tendons? I know that some painters use shock value to sell their paintings but…ick!”

Maggie watched as the handsome stranger looked more carefully at the painting, then reared back as well. Obviously, he hadn’t realized that the painting was an image of an autopsy.

“That’s…disgusting,” he said, his dark eyebrows furrowing with his revulsion.

“I agree,” she laughed with a sigh. Then, because there wasn’t much more to say, she moved on to the next painting. She excitedly held her breath when the man moved along with her. “What do you think of this one?” The painting was called “Night Watch” and was enormous.

There was a long silence as they contemplated the image.

“I wonder if the men in white are good or evil,” he mused.

She considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Since this was an old portrait of the men who were tasked with guarding the city, I’m guessing that Rembrandt painted the Captain and his Lieutenant in lighter colors, perhaps to demonstrate their authority.” She pursed her lips before she said, “Or maybe to highlight their atrocities.” She shrugged. “Sort of like bringing light to the cockroaches of the town. The abusers, so to speak.”

Ramit looked at the woman carefully. Her comment was more revealing of her own life than that of the images in the painting. And there it was, the pain in her eyes. The resentment and distrust.

His hands were tucked in his pockets, but he felt his fingers curl into fists of outrage. Ramit wanted to know who had abused this woman. Who had broken her trust?

Pushing those questions aside for a moment, he turned back to the painting, looking for something else to comment upon. “I like the way the painter included the rapier and baton as symbolism to explain the man’s importance.”

There was another pause while they both appreciated the artistry. Then Maggie asked, “Do you notice what’s missing?”

The man looked startled and Maggie smiled.

The guy looked at the painting, even stepping back to take in more of the details. “No,” he finally replied. “What’s not there?”

She gave him a half smile. “There is only one woman in this picture.”

He looked back at the painting, his eyes scanning the details. Then he looked back at her. “Should there be more? These types of paintings were commissioned by the town to honor the guards that protected the city.”

Maggie’s smile was sad this time. “You’re right.” And she moved on.

Ramit stared at the woman, then back at the painting. Why would women be in the painting? They didn’t guard the city, they tended the households, the children, and the servants. Was he wrong?

He moved to catch up with her, easy enough to do with his longer legs. In her sneakers, she was about nine inches shorter than his six foot, three inch height.

Dismissing the sudden awareness of her height, he stepped a bit closer this time. “Why would the painter add more women to the picture?” he asked again.

She looked at the next painting, absently saying, “The lone woman in the painting showed that Rembrandt didn’t consider women to be important to the city’s security.”

“Were they?” he asked, baffled.

Her gaze shifted toward him, and she shrugged, a somber motion that carried an unexpected weight, cutting through the air like a muted cry. "Seems like you don't hold much regard for the importance of women either," she remarked, the words carrying an undercurrent of disappointment and hurt, even in their seemingly casual delivery.

Ramit’s eyes dared to glance over her figure, then pulled his gaze back up, relieved that the woman hadn’t noticed his perusal. “Women are vitally important.”

She looked at him, tilting her head back and he couldn’t help but notice the elegant line of her neck. “I agree. Why should the painter add women into a scene that is meant to showcase the men who were meant to protect the city?”

She smiled gently at him, and Ramit immediately knew that he was missing something significant.

“Care to enlighten me,” he asked, amused now. And charmed! She really was adorable, but…sexy. No, he’d use the word sensual to describe this woman. Plus, he loved her freckles. Especially that one right on the edge of her lip.

“Now that women are entering more research fields, such as archaeology,” she began, “women are reinterpreting clues from our past. It’s becoming apparent that women were more than just the gatherers and attendants to the children that we’ve been told to believe. Viewing the same clues through a different lens, historians are discovering that women were just as likely to go out on the hunts and into battle.” She gestured towards the painting. “The idea that women didn’t help protect the towns, that they weren’t part of a war is merely one man’s interpretation of history. Even if men fought right alongside a woman, he would never admit that women were part of that effort.” She shrugged. “Women were dismissed as being the protectees. In men’s minds, women and children were the reason men went into battle. Men enjoy preserving the perception that they were bravely fighting to protect their wives and children.”

The stranger’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed her words. “Weren’t there significantly more men in battle?”

“We don’t know,” she replied and moved to the next picture. “Take this image, for instance. What do you see?”

Maggie watched as the man looked at the image. She felt a burst of…something unexpected…when she realized that he was honestly trying to look at the image from her perspective.

“I see a man teaching a group of men. And a woman standing behind him holding a child.”

“Exactly.” She lifted her eyebrows and gave him a hopeful look. “And that’s significant because…?”

Ramit contemplated the image again, ignoring the use of color as symbolism as well as the intricate folds on each man’s clothing. Instead, he examined the painting in an effort to try to interpret the story being told by the images, trying to understand what the lovely woman was trying to teach him. But…? He didn’t understand. What should he see? What hidden message was he missing?

Ramit pointed to the middle of the painting. “There!” he replied with excitement. “There’s a woman in front of the man.”

The pretty woman smiled, nodding her head, however, Ramit suspected that he was still missing the point. “And what is she looking at?”

He peered the image. “Something off in the distance.”

She grinned. “And what are the men looking at?”

Her question warned him that he was still missing something significant. Ramit sighed in defeat, shaking his head, and looked down at her, enjoying the hope and excitement sparkling in those lovely brown eyes. “At the teacher.”

She laughed and the sound was sweet, pulling his focus away from the painting. “You’re saying that this is another example of sexism in the art world?”

“I am,” she replied, then waited.

Ramit sifted through her previous explanation as he examined the images once again. “Because it’s another example of how Rembrandt portrayed women as secondary and lesser.”

She nodded, gesturing to the woman looking away. “He portrayed women as not interested in education.” She sighed and turned to look at the painting…and he looked at her. “Honestly, I can appreciate the brilliance of the painting. I love the use of light and color. Plus, the detail that Rembrandt put into his paintings is…astounding.”

“But you don’t like the way he portrayed women.” It was a statement, not a question.

She nodded. “Every man who views these paintings is treated to more propaganda that women are ‘less than’. That we can be dismissed as fluttery, pretty things.” She shrugged. “Believe it or not, that is sometimes very useful.”

“In what way?”

She moved on and Ramit followed, intrigued. He tried to fight against his male bias, but he was fully aware that he thought of women as nothing more than sexual partners most of the time.

She leaned forward, a twinkle in her eyes. “Look at the dog in the crowd. Even the canine is more fully formed and interested in the lessons than Rembrandt’s women.”

Startled, Ramit turned back to the painting and…realized that she was correct! The dog was perched at the feet of the teacher, appearing to listen intently to the lesson. He tore his eyes away from the art to look down at her. “You’re right. And I never noticed that aspect of his paintings before.” He smiled at her. “I’m Ramit,” he told her, extending his hand.

“Maggie,” she replied, her smile brightening to the point that he was stunned for a full moment. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ramit.”

He shifted, facing her fully now. “Would you mind continuing with your lessons? I’ve never looked at art through a woman’s eyes before. I very much appreciate your perspective.” And her company, he thought.

She tilted her head and he was once again aware of the appealing line of her neck. He wasn’t sure why her neck so fascinated him. Usually, he noticed a woman’s breasts before anything else. And yet, with Maggie…and the name suited her…he hadn’t even glanced at her breasts.

Of course, that thought forced his gaze downwards. But he pulled them right back to her pretty, brown eyes after noting that she did, in fact, have very nice breasts. A little more than a handful, he mentally calculated. And he had very large hands!

She stepped away from him and he wanted to call out for her to stop so that he could savor this moment. In his position, Ramit didn’t have many opportunities to simply relax and chat with an intelligent woman.

“What about this one?” she prompted, gesturing to a dual portrait of an elderly man and a woman. The man wore the white ruff around his neck, which Ramit knew was as an indication of wealth. Very few people during that time period had clean, white linen and, even if they did, they didn’t have the time to starch the linen in that style. It took a dedicated laundress to make those precise folds, not to mention the cost needed to edge the collar with expensive lace was beyond the means of most people during that time period.

“This one seems easy,” he replied, smiling smugly. “It’s just a portrait of two people, right?” He glanced at her, then back at the painting. “The couple is obviously wealthy, but there’s no sexism here, is there?”

She laughed. “Of course there is,” she replied and stepped closer to him. He couldn’t help noticing her perfume, citrus and something sweeter. However, it was difficult to focus on the painting when she was this close. Ramit wanted to wrap his arm around her, pull her to his side and feel her soft curves press against him.

Stranger, he reminded himself. The woman was a stranger. He’d just learned her name. This was not the time to pull her into his arms.

“One of the aspects of Rembrandt’s paintings that I love is his ability to use color to add light and shadows to every image. The color in these paintings is amazing, but look at the shadow on the man’s face.”

“Half of it is darkened. In shadow.” He didn’t understand why that was a problem. How could a shadow convey sexism?

She grinned and Ramit felt like he’d just won a special prize, even though he still didn’t understand. Yet. “And the woman?” she prompted him.

He examined the woman in the painting, then shook his head. “No shading.” He glanced down at her. “Why is that bad?”

She smiled ruefully up at him. “It’s not bad or good. It’s just one man’s perspective.” She nodded towards the images. “Half the male is shadowed in darkness. In Rembrandt’s mind, men are both bad and good.” She nodded towards the woman. “The woman’s face is mostly in light. There are very few shadows. In the painter’s mind, women are innocent, pure.”

He looked down at her again, startled that this would be a problem. “Aren’t they?”

There was a slow, devious expression lighting Maggie’s eyes that transformed her from lovely, to fascinating. “Of course we are. Women are incapable of deceit. We are innocent beings that need the good and bad in a male to protect us and guide us through life.” Her tone changed, becoming breathy and softer and her hand moved to cup her cheek. Ramit admitted to a bit of fascination as she fluttered her eyelashes, but recognized it for sarcasm.

He grunted, amused. “You’re mocking the male half of the world.”

Her eyes widened and he looked back at the woman in the painting. Her eyes were wide and clear while the man’s eyes were heavy lidded. As if he were hiding something while the woman, presumably his wife, was open and easily read. The woman was uncomplicated. The man had secrets.

He turned away from the painting, looking down at Maggie, enjoying her scoffing gaze. “You’re not nearly as innocent and uncomplicated as you appear, are you?” he asked, his voice low and husky.

She laughed and he felt…powerful!

“No, I’m definitely not as sweet and innocent as most men think I am.”

“Tell me more, Maggie,” he ordered, putting a hand to her back and leading her into the next room.

Maggie glanced up at the man, not sure what he meant but moved with him into the next gallery. Surely, he wasn’t asking about…her. He merely wanted to learn more about the paintings. Paintings, she told herself firmly. “Well, the Van Gough exhibit is pretty…”

They went through several more rooms in the art museum, viewing each of the paintings together and discussing what they liked or disliked about the painter’s style or color choices. She laughed at some of his observations and nodded, impressed with a couple of his insights.

It was one of the most delightful afternoons she’d ever spent in an art gallery and Maggie didn’t want it to end. She started to say something, but stopped as he glanced at his watch, then at her again.

“Will you have lunch with me?” he asked. “I’d like to know more about you. I enjoy hearing your perspective on art, but I’m also interested in you, as a person.”

The glow of happiness those words created inside of her felt like a flow of warm, chocolate lava. Yet, despite the tempting offer, Maggie's past loomed over her like a haunting shadow. As a result of the tumultuous trials of her childhood, she had acquired a keen awareness that refused to be dulled by the smooth, honeyed words of a man. She bore the scars of lessons learned the hard way, etched into her skin and soul through painful experiences of what unfolded when she allowed her guard to relax. The weight of caution, born from the crucible of past betrayals, added a moment of tension when she hesitated.

He clearly recognized her sudden wariness because he gestured toward the main hallway. “We could get lunch downstairs in the museum café. They have sandwiches and pizza.”

Maggie relaxed. The museum café was a safe place, she told herself. Safe and public. “I would be delighted to have lunch with you downstairs.”

She looked at his face, wondering if she was making a mistake. Was this some sort of trick? Was he going to scam her somehow?

She turned away so Maggie didn’t see the confusion, quickly followed by understanding in his dark, enigmatic eyes. She led the way down the stairs to the cafeteria. It was louder here, so it was hard to talk. Instead, Maggie smiled up at him, trying to tell him…what?

Efficiently, Maggie handed him a tray and, again, turned away before she noticed the confusion in his eyes. “The sandwiches are over there,” she said, pointing to the right. “I’ll meet you at the drinks station, okay?”

Maggie moved to the sandwich area and stood in line, waiting to put in her order. The teenagers working behind the counter were efficient and friendly, so the line moved quickly. She noticed that Ramit was still lingering in the doorway. It seemed that he was waiting, observing the process for the food lines. For a long moment, she just thought he was trying to decide what he wanted to eat, but after he walked over to the pizza counter, she noticed that he was hesitant about selecting slices of pizza. And he only requested one slice.

For such a large man, she doubted that one slice would be enough. Which meant that he probably didn’t have the money for two slices. That tore at her heart and she wanted to rush over to the pizza area and grab four more slices for him. But not wanting to embarrass him, she grabbed two bags of potato chips and two cookies, then waited until he joined her.

“That looks delicious,” she told him, then led the way towards the cashier. They set their trays down on the sliding countertop, and by the time the cashier rang up her sandwich and sides, Maggie had her credit card out. “His pizza as well,” she told the cashier.

He took a breath to protest, but Maggie just smiled up at him over her shoulder. “Women’s equality, remember?” Her only response was a grimace but Maggie just laughed.

The café was busy, but she noticed that most of the diners were finished. Some were lingering at their table, chatting, while others were cleaning up and taking their empty trays to the trash bins. So it was relatively easy to find a table in the corner. Maggie noticed that Ramit looked around as if concerned about something, but she didn’t know what. The café wasn’t obnoxiously busy. It was a weekday, after all. If they’d come here on Saturday or Sunday, the place would have been packed.

“Is this okay?” she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder as she gestured to the empty table.

“Of course,” he replied, then waited until she sat down before choosing his own chair. “This is…a different experience for me.”

Maggie handed him a cookie and a bag of chips. “I didn’t think you saw them when you were deciding on what to eat so I grabbed some for you.”

He stared at the offering as if he’d never seen a bag of chips before.

Maggie wondered if he had. It seemed impossible that someone hadn’t ever enjoyed potato chips in his lifetime, but she wasn’t going to embarrass him by asking.

“The pizza is good. Wise choice,” she told him, gesturing to his slice of pizza as she unwrapped her sandwich.

“Will you tell me more about yourself?” he asked as he fumbled with the slice of pizza.

Maggie laughed softly. “There’s not much to know,” she told him as she adjusted the bread on her sandwich, tearing off chunks because it was so thick. “I’m an only child. I work as a waitress at a place outside the city. I live alone. No pets or kids.” She lifted her sandwich. “What about you?”

He might not have money for lunch, but the guy was an expert at eating pizza. He folded the wobbly slice in half, like a real Italian, and took a big bite.

When he put the pizza slice down, he said, “My life isn’t particularly interesting. I work a lot. My downtime is spent appeasing obnoxious people that I don’t particularly respect. I have a few hobbies, but not enough time to enjoy them.”

“What are your hobbies?” she prompted, assuming that he worked several jobs. No judgment. Lots of people worked extra jobs to pay the rent.

“Nothing special,” he replied. “How did you learn so much about art? From school?”

She shook her head. “I’m taking college classes at the community college, but I’m a long way from getting my business degree,” she admitted. “I barely graduated high school.” She twisted her mouth into a grim line. “My parents weren’t overly enthusiastic about education when I was in school. So helping me get to class wasn’t a high priority.”

Hiding from my father’s fists was a much higher priority, she thought to herself.

“How many classes are you taking?” he asked.

She told him about her classes and they discussed business for the next hour. Maggie was fascinated by the man’s extensive knowledge about…everything! She had to reevaluate his financial status. There was no way a man with that much knowledge about business was struggling.

But what was his story? She chuckled at something he said about the quirks of the business world, then he told her a story about a guy who had failed miserably at his effort to open a diner.

“That’s not true!” she gasped, covering her mouth as she laughed.

“Completely true,” he promised, lifting both of his hands as if giving an oath.

They talked until the café closed down for the afternoon. It seemed like one moment, they were surrounded by art lovers grabbing a meal and the next, most of the tables were empty except for a few men sitting a few tables away.

She glanced at the time on her cell phone and gasped. “I didn’t realize how late it was,” she told him with a sigh. “I’d better head home. It’s going to be a mess with the commuter traffic.” But she lingered, not wanting to leave Ramit. He was handsome, intriguing, and…the whole package! They stood up and he took their trash to the bins and set the empty trays down on the stack waiting to be cleaned.

When he turned back to her, Maggie was trying to figure out how to prolong their encounter. But Ramit beat her to the punch, so to speak. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked.

Maggie’s heart soared with happiness. “Yes!” she gasped, then covered her mouth. “Sorry. Was that too enthusiastic?”

He chuckled and put a hand to her back again as they walked out. “I’m eager for the opportunity to see more of you as well.” He paused. “What is your favorite restaurant?”

Maggie thought about that for a moment, then grinned. “I know the perfect place,” she told him. She pulled out her phone. “What’s your number? I’ll text you the address and we can meet there.”

He hesitated and Maggie’s heart ached. He didn’t have a phone. She waved her hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it. I can write it down for you.” Maggie reached for a napkin in one of the holders set on top of each table.

Before she could dig a pen out of her purse, Ramit stopped her by saying, “Why don’t you give me your home address and I will pick you up?”

Every bit of happiness that had been bubbling inside of her for the past several hours in his company vanished abruptly, leaving her cold. No, not cold. Terrified.

She tried to hide the sudden quaver in her voice, but failed. “No. I don’t…I can’t…I just…!” She shook her head and started to back away.

“Maggie?” he prompted, his voice gentle and soothing. “Just write down the address to the restaurant, then.” He offered her one of the café’s paper napkins since the one she’d grabbed a moment ago had fluttered to the floor.

She breathed a sigh of relief, but she couldn’t hide the tremble in her fingers as she took the offered pen. Writing down the address, she handed both the napkin and the pen back to him. “What time works with your schedule?” she asked, still stiff and trying to push the nightmare from her past out of her mind.

He took the napkin, stuffing it into his pocket. “How about six o’clock?”

She sighed with relief. “Six o’clock is perfect!”

He smiled, tilting his head. “You seem relieved by the time. Why?”

She shrugged and gestured towards the doorway. “In the movies, it seems like the sophisticated time to eat dinner is eight o’clock.” She stepped through the door and held it until he came through. “However, on my days off, I’m usually in bed with a good book by eight o’clock.”

He smiled at her. “That sounds pretty nice.”

Someone bumped into her and she had to step out of the way as a group of school kids meandered through the hallway, obviously on a school field trip.

When they were relatively alone again, she looked up at him self-consciously. “Well, I’d better get going if we’re meeting up in a few hours.”

He nodded. “I look forward to tonight, Maggie,” he told her, then lifted her hand, kissing her fingertips. “Until tonight.”

Then he turned and walked away. Maggie watched him, fascinated with the man in ways she couldn’t define. She felt almost compelled to watch him until he turned the corner. Only then did she turn and walk…skip…towards the parking garage.