Dear Rita. Simona Taylor
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“My dad says a bunch of things,” Rita said briskly. “But I don’t need to like this guy. I don’t even care if I do or not. I’m in, but just for you, okay? Does this catch of a guy have a name?”
“Dorian. Dorian Black.”
“Dorian Black? What, is he Dorian Gray’s evil twin?”
Cassie made a face. “I know! Sounds like a joke, but that’s what Clark said.”
“Does he have a cursed painting in his basement, too?”
“Attic,” Cassie corrected.
“Huh?”
“Dorian Gray’s cursed picture was in his attic.”
“Oh. Right. And when and where are we going to have the pleasure of their company?”
“Tonight.” Then Cassie added, sheepishly, “Clark suggested Vimanmek Palace.”
“You hate Thai food. You think curry is a toxin and coconut milk causes heart attacks. You told him so, didn’t you?”
Cassie gave her a level look. “I told him that sounded lovely.”
Rita tried not to roll her eyes. “So my favorite feminist is willing to gulp down cuisine she thinks is sure to kill her rather than admit to a new guy she doesn’t like it.”
“That’s pretty much it, yeah.”
“The sisterhood of feminists will miss you,” Rita couldn’t resist teasing, but put her arm around her friend. “Don’t worry. We’ll have a nice evening. I’ll scope out your guy, and I’m sure that by the end of the evening his report card will be glowing.”
Cassie hugged her gratefully back. “Thanks, girl.”
“Don’t ever say I don’t love ya.”
Chapter 3
D orian Black set his mouse down on the polished surface of his desk. The desk was the most imposing thing in his office. He only kept it because it had been a gift from his father who had spent way too much money on it the day his son began to practice. It was massive, made out of dark oak, with brass handles on the drawers. His dad had half-seriously called it “a power desk for a soon-to-be very powerful man.” It was hardly the kind of furniture he would have bought himself, but it was a gesture born of paternal love and pride, and that made it precious.
The rest of the office was less daunting. It was painted a warm honey, with a few line drawings Dorian had brought home from a trip to the Sudan a few years before, comfortable visitors’ chairs set around the low coffee table where he held most of his conversations with his clients, a small bar that contained, instead of alcohol, a variety of coffees, plain and flavored teas, cookies and Fig Newtons (his favorite snack), all to be served to his guests on simple stoneware. He understood that a visit to a lawyer’s office was probably one of the most traumatic experiences most people had to face. Anything he could do to make that experience a little more bearable was worth it.
He swiveled in his chair to face his partner, Clark, who was staring out of the widepane glass window of his office, down onto Temple Street. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cuss. “ This is my blind date?” He pointed at the Niobe Web site up on the computer screen.
Clark tore his attention away from the view. He had covertly been watching Dorian, reflected in the glass, waiting in silence as he read. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Apart from the fact that I don’t do blind dates, and I especially don’t do double dates, I’ve read through the last few months of her archives and I’ve arrived at the only possible conclusion.”
“What’s that?”
“This Rita woman hates men.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “Maybe because every single bit of advice she’s given is anti-man.”
Clark came over to perch on the edge of Dorian’s desk, gently moving aside a sheaf of documents. “Maybe it’s not so much anti-man as pro-woman,” he suggested.
“Nice try.” Dorian shook his head. “Have you read this stuff? For every woman that takes her advice, there’s one more man out in the cold. She’s just one more love guru who isn’t about love at all. She’s about a woman’s need to always be right.”
Clark peered at the screen and read the correspondence open in Dorian’s Web browser. “Seems to me, a couple of these guys had it coming. Look at this one—stealing from his poor girlfriend….”
“Maybe this one,” he conceded, “but—”
“Dorian,” Clark interrupted, “it’s just for one night. Just one meal. I’m not suggesting a marriage of convenience. If you don’t like Rita, just stick out the evening and you two can go your separate ways. I’m asking this as a favor.”
To Dorian, it sounded like madness. This was the twenty-first century. What woman over eighteen insisted on dragging her best friend along on a first date? And Clark hardly looked as though he were trying out for the lead role in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III. He was one of the most buttoned-down men Dorian knew. He had his hair cut once every three weeks, did his nails every fortnight, bought new suits twice a year, owned three or four identical shirts in each color and had his underwear dry cleaned. Clark was as harmless as it was possible to be and still be breathing. “Why’s she so insistent on this gruesome foursome?”
Clark shrugged. “She didn’t say much, other than that she was naturally cautious. I don’t blame her. It’s a scary world out there.”
Dorian snorted. “I’d have thought that chasing down a purse snatcher half your age on her behalf would have been enough of a character reference for any woman.”
Clark looked bashful. “It was just one of those things. She was standing next to me when this guy knocked her over. Next thing I knew, she was yelling about her purse. I just reacted. If I’d thought about it, I probably wouldn’t have run him down. He could have been armed.”
“But he wasn’t, and good won out over evil.”
Clark peered at Dorian for traces of sarcasm. “I guess.” He took on a more optimistic tone. “So you’re doing it, right?”
Dorian smiled. Clark was his friend, partner and mentor. What was one evening? He’d have done much more, if Clark had asked, and they both knew it. “Of course I will.”
He took another look at the screen, examining the small photo that accompanied each article. “Dear Rita” was a good-looking woman with skin that made him think of warm cinnamon. She looked less than thirty, with a mass of fine, dark brown corkscrew twists pulled back into a bun at the top of her head. He wondered if that, together with the stylish glasses she wore, were merely affectations in an effort to look more mature and agony-auntish. The glasses did nothing to obscure the clarity of her honey-colored eyes. Even in the tiny photograph, those eyes were disarming. They at once drew him in and made him squirm. Her cheekbones were wonderful, and her shapely lips tinted by a conservative but attractive shade of lipstick. It was little more than a head and shoulders shot; just enough to enable him to see a hint of cleavage under the beige blouse.
From over his shoulder, Clark observed, “She’s cute.”
“She is,” he agreed. He added slyly, “As cute as your Cassie?”
“Nope,” Clark said immediately. “But you could do worse.”
Dorian laughed. “I suppose I could. You can drop the sales pitch now. I said I’d go. You picked a restaurant?”
“Vimanmek Palace, that new Thai place. It got rave reviews in the Food and Beverage section of The Register last month. We have reservations for seven-thirty.”
Dorian