Chapter Seven

Fernando's was packed. They had to wait for ten minutes even though Cal had made a reservation.

"So sorry you had to wait," the waitress apologized as she led them to a booth near the pretty fountain in the center of the huge room.

"The food here is worth waiting for," Cal assured her with a smile.

She smiled back. "Your waiter will be right with you," she promised, and left.

Amelia was looking around. The restaurant was in a converted theater. It had a live band, exquisite woodwork, velvet curtains, red tables and chairs with real linen tablecloths and napkins and the staff dressed in red. The fountain in the center of the room dominated. It contained live Chinese goldfish and pretty floating lights.

"This place is awesome," she said, fascinated.

He smiled at her. "Everybody thinks so. I know it impressed me, the first time I saw it." He looked around. "He spent a fortune remodeling it, but he made back every penny. He's still making a profit, too. Amazing eye for detail."

"Who is he?"

"Fernando Reyes," he told her. "He was a former governor of some province down in Mexico. He came to this country a few years ago with a bankroll and decided to open a restaurant. The rest is history."

"He must be a fascinating person."

"Believe me, he is. He plays guitar and his wife dances the flamenco. It's the highlight of the evening. Before, and after, there's dancing. But first," he told her with twinkling black eyes, "there's food!" He indicated the approaching waiter.

"Good evening," the man said with a smile, handing them both menus. "What can I bring you to drink?"

"Sweetened iced tea," Amelia said at once.

"Pi?a colada," Cal said.

"Coming right up."

Cal laughed at her expression. "We'll be here for a while. If you eat while you drink alcohol, it doesn't have as much effect on you. I won't land you in jail."

"Well, okay. But if you do, you're coming along," she promised him.

He smiled affectionately. "Done. What would you like to eat?" he added, turning his eyes to his own menu.

She looked at hers. She was scanning it for the cheapest thing she could find, which was chicken.

He watched her. He had the measure of her by now, and he knew what she was doing. He pulled the menu down and met her shocked eyes. "Amelia, I could afford lobster every night if I wanted it, so stop looking at chicken dishes and order what you want."

She flushed. How had he read her so well?

"I was a cop," he reminded her. "We get good at reading people."

"Oh." She grimaced. "Well..."

"Besides, how many meals have you cooked for me?" he pointed out. "If you have to call it something, how about the repaying of a favor? And you're a great cook, by the way," he added with a gentle smile.

She let out a sigh. "I must wear signs," she murmured. "Okay. I love fish. And then there's flan..."

He chuckled. "Done. No wine?"

She shook her head. "It upsets my stomach. Or should I admit that?" she added.

"Figures," he said, smiling. "You aren't like any woman I've ever known. Not that you're..."

"If you say I'm not a woman, I'll hit you," she promised, because at nineteen, she certainly was a woman.

"I was going to say that you're not odd," he countered, grinning. "But you truly are unique."

She cleared her throat. "Thanks." She managed a nervous smile.

"And will you relax?" he chided. "It's the same thing as sitting at your table at home, except the surroundings are different. We're the same people in both places."

She let out a breath and laughed self-consciously. "Sorry. It's just that I haven't been on many dates. Even with friends," she added.

He toyed with his napkin. "I don't date that much myself." He didn't add that he'd been out with Edie and her behavior had embarrassed and irritated him. It hadn't encouraged him to escort other women.

Amelia, however, was the exception to the rule. She was polite and friendly to the waiter, grateful for the most minor services like coffee refills, and generally pleasant company.

They were finishing the flans when he stopped eating and just looked at her.

She lifted her eyes to his with her fork in midair and raised her eyebrows.

"Manners," he said.

She put down the fork. "Excuse me?"

"You have exquisite manners."

She laughed. "My mother was a stickler for them," she said softly, remembering. "Always say please and thank you, always be polite to people, even people you dislike. Never be sarcastic or abusive in your language. Never, never discuss politics or religion in public. And always treat people the way you'd like to be treated. That was Mama."

He sipped the last of his pi?a colada. "My grandfather was very much the same."

Her eyes fell to her plate. He never spoke of his parents; only his grandfather. There must have been a solid reason for that. Usually people were left out of conversations because they weren't liked.

"You never ask questions," he remarked.

She just smiled. "I hate that. I mean, I hate having people ask me questions about things that make me uncomfortable. So I don't do it myself."

He turned his glass on the table idly. "Such as?"

Her eyebrows arched again.

He chuckled. "What makes you uncomfortable?"

"Other women who think I'm backward because I don't do bedroom tours with strange men," she said curtly.

Now his eyebrows arched.

"My mother said a man will treat a woman the way she asks to be treated. These days, it's...it's...like Rome in its last days! They had orgies...!"

The waiter had just stopped at their table. Amelia's eyes widened in horror and her face turned beet red. And Cal, darn him, sat there laughing until tears came into his eyes.

"I meant, I was only talking about, I mean..." She reddened even more.

The waiter, a very hip-looking young man with his hair in a ponytail and wicked eyes, leaned down. "Ma'am, your secret is safe with me! Those nasty old Romans!"

Now she was laughing, too. So was Cal.

"Nice. You'll be able to retire on the tip," Cal told him, grinning.

The waiter grinned back. "Can I get you anything else?" he asked.

"Coffee?" he asked Amelia, who nodded enthusiastically. "Make that two," he told the waiter.

The waiter clicked his heels and bowed. "Statim domine," was the crisp reply.

Cal inclined his head. "Mille gratias!" he replied.

The other man, blindsided, picked up Amelia's white napkin, with an apology, and waved it in surrender. "I'm a fraud," he said. "That's the only Latin I know!" he chuckled.

Amelia was gaping at both of them.

"I can read a little of it. My grandmother taught languages at university," he added with a smile. "She spoke several. Latin was one."

"Brainy people." The waiter put down the napkin. "I envy you, sir," he added. He smiled. "Back in a jiffy." He paused. "I, uh, can't say that in Latin, though." He wiggled his eyebrows and went toward the kitchen.

Amelia and Cal chuckled together.

"What are the odds?" she asked. "Honestly, I didn't know you spoke any other languages than English!"

"You speak Spanish," he pointed out, having experienced her almost flawless accent when she used it.

"Oh, so do you, and much better than I do," she replied gently. "But Latin! Gosh!"

"Only a few phrases, mostly famous sayings," he said. "My grandmother tried to get me interested, but I wouldn't listen. At least, not until my grandfather taught me that last phrase—a thousand thanks." He smiled sadly. "He was brilliant. I read a lot about him when I grew up. He's in one or two books on military theory. He could speak several languages, like his wife, my grandmother, and play piano. I took it up when I was grown."

"You can play?" she asked.

He shrugged. His eyes went to the band. "Matter of debate," he mused. He drifted away, his face locked and cold.

She leaned forward. "The waiter is loopy," she whispered. "I like him!"

It brought him out of the past, laughing. "Me, too. I wasn't kidding about the tip, either. Waiters don't make much. Tips are how they pay the bills when they get their checks."

"Think he's a student?" she asked.

His eyes were on the waiter, approaching with a coffeepot. "Let's find out."

"Almost instant refills. Sorry, we're busy tonight!" the waiter apologized.

"Not a problem." Cal fixed him with black eyes. "Okay, come clean. We've got a bet going. Are you a student?"

The waiter's eyes bulged. "How in the world...!"

"Latin," Cal said. "Latin. How many people do you run across in the course of a year who can speak even one word of it?"

"I can count them on one finger," the waiter chuckled. "Yes, I'm at university, majoring in Norwegian."

They both gaped at him.

He cleared his throat. "Listen, it's not nuts. Norwegian is a great language. Especially if you're marrying someone whose whole family speaks it!"

"Ah, the light breaks," Cal chuckled. "Are you planning to live in Norway?"

He nodded and smiled as he refilled their coffee cups with a flourish. "I'm a senior this year. So is she. But she's majoring in history, and I help her study for exams. This past month she had essays written by some of the classic authors. In Latin," he added with a chuckle.

"Congratulations," Cal said. Amelia seconded him.

"Thanks. We started going together as freshmen. I never thought I'd find anyone so kind." He saw their expressions. "Kindness and a gentle heart are far more important than wealth or beauty or power. Kindness lasts."

"You should have majored in philosophy," Cal said with a warm smile. "You'd be a natural."

"Thanks. Can I get you anything else?" he asked.

"Not now. We're just going to wait until dinner settles, then we're going to shock the establishment with a tango," Amelia said mischievously. "He'll be dancing magnificently, while I fall over my feet into someone's table and create a tragic scene. There will be ambulances and rubberneckers."

The waiter leaned closer. "I'll keep a mop handy, so do your worst," he chuckled.

After the waiter left, Cal sipped coffee and studied Amelia with soft eyes. "You are one of the nicest people I've ever known, Amelia," he said quietly.

"Awwww," she said, treating it as a joke.

"I mean it," he corrected. "I've watched you when we're around other people. You're natural and open, and you genuinely like people. It's such a refreshing attitude."

She wondered if he was comparing her with his lady friend. If he was, she felt flattered. "I do like people, mostly," she said. "Not everybody. Some few members of the human race are just mean!"

"Yes, and you can find them in chat rooms under every single YouTube video and gaming forum," he agreed at once.

"I know!" She rolled her eyes. "Keyboard warriors! They're the same people who slink around and never look you in the eye in person." Her eyes narrowed. "Backstabbers."

"Nice analogy."

"You'd know about those, I'll bet, from your days on the force."

"I would, indeed. There was this one time," he recalled, "when we got called to a café where a victim of social media had tracked down the man who said hateful and very threatening things to him on his mother's funeral website."

"You're kidding!" she exclaimed. "Nobody could be that heartless...!"

"Somebody could, and was. He learned a valuable lesson about hate speech, litigation and possible arrest, all at the same time. His parents, who were contacted subsequently, were shocked, to say the least. They thought he was a quiet, studious boy who just liked being by himself. That was before they found the guns and pipe bombs in his closet, however," he added.

Her lips fell apart.

"Yes, people can be that mean, also. He hated one of his teachers and two or three classmates. He even had a battle plan and a camera shoulder mount. He was going to film it all."

"Mental issues?" she asked softly.

He was stunned.

"Well, normal people don't really do those things, do they?" she wondered aloud. "And if his parents didn't know what he was doing online, did they pay him much attention?"

"As little as possible. They had very responsible jobs. They told the prosecutor and the judge that, many times during the course of the trial. The boy was sixteen, which meant that he got sent to juvie. But he did get a psych evaluation. And medicine to treat a condition that his parents also didn't know that he had." He grimaced. "There are so many kids in homes where they're either neglected or abused. Too many."

She knew without being told that Cal had been one of those.

And when he looked up, he saw that knowledge in her odd, intent look. "Are you reading my mind?"

She didn't speak. It was the strangest sensation. Like falling a great distance. Like a firm, solid connection at the same time. "Most policemen are cops for a reason," she said quietly. "My friend Bobby was one. He had terrible scars. His father used a quirt on him. He never told anybody. His grandmother accidentally saw the wounds, called the police herself and had her own son arrested. He went to jail. He's still there."

"And Bobby...?"

She smiled sadly. "Joined the police force in town the day he graduated high school. They say he's going to be a great addition. He talks to grammar school classes about drugs."

"That's a nice success story. Many aren't."

"Life is hard."

"Very." He put down his cup. "So. Nice and full and comfy? Ready to shame those people who think they can dance?" His head jerked toward the dance floor, which was filling up fast.

She grinned. "Oh yes."

He laughed and led her to the dance floor.

The music was slow and dreamy when they started. Cal's arm contracted around her waist, and she shivered inside with feelings she'd never had with anyone else. It was always like this when she was close to him. Like bubbles coming up out of her body, like joy dancing in colored lights in her bloodstream. Like...being in love.

She bit down hard on that last sensation. She couldn't afford to give way to such thoughts. Cal wanted a friend, not a life partner, and she'd better remember it or there wouldn't be any more friendly dates. He would avoid her, to keep from hurting her, if he knew. He was basically a kind man.

But she didn't want that. So she laughed instead, disguising her unsteady nerves. "This is fun," she said.

His cheek brushed hers. "Fun," he agreed. His voice was deeper, softer than it usually was, and the hand on her back was idly caressing. The hand holding hers had it pressed to his chest against his shirt. Under it she felt muscle and thick hair. It was very sensuous, to dance like this.

He could feel her heart beating faster, hear her breath rustle under his chin. This was a very bad idea, but he loved the feel of Amelia in his arms. She made him feel different. Younger. More alive. Joyful.

"You're tangling me up," he murmured aloud, when he hadn't meant to.

"Oh. Sorry," she said, misunderstanding. "My big feet..."

He laughed, relieved. "No, that's not what I meant. You dance very well."

She forced a smile. "Thanks. So do you."

He started to speak just as the music ended, and then began again. The tango. A couple nearby groaned and left the floor. Two more followed. Only Cal and Amelia and two couples were left.

"And a one, and a two," he teased in her ear.

He drew her into the rhythm, delighted at the way her small feet followed his big ones perfectly as they drew together, moved apart, drew together again, all with a series of slow sliding steps and quick darting ones.

"This is awesome," she whispered, caught up in the excitement.

"Awesome." He could barely get the words out. He felt her firm breasts pressing hard into his chest, felt them harden at the tips. He felt her heart like a wild thing, beating into his. He smelled the faint floral perfume she wore and the fresh womanly smell of her.

His hand tightened at her back, bringing her even closer. Now his breath was also coming quickly, like his heartbeat. This was dangerous. He should stop. He should take her back to their table and drink something heavy enough to calm his nerves.

Except that it felt so damned good to be this close to her. He was trapped in the sheer sensuality of the tango, bound to her by more than a dance, more than a shared pleasure of movement.

She almost groaned aloud. His body was muscular without it being obvious, and his strength was as apparent even in dance as it was on the gym floor doing martial arts.

If only the dance would never end, she thought recklessly as she forced her gaze to remain at his collar. She couldn't look up. He mustn't see what she felt. It would be as plain as a whisper in her eyes.

They moved as one person, smoothly, seductively, interpreting the music with such grace that the two other couples attempting the tango actually moved to the sidelines just to watch.

The two people themselves were oblivious to their spectators. They were lost in the music and each other, caught in a web of growing hunger, need, exquisite pleasure.

His hand contracted around hers. "This is a bad idea," he ground out, feeling the passion rise abruptly.

"Very bad," she choked.

He thought that if the music lasted one minute longer, the dinner crowd was going to be shocked...

And just as he thought it, the music cooed to an end. And sudden applause from the sidelines saved Cal from an embarrassing interlude.

He laughed. So did Amelia. They made bows and went quickly back to their table, avoiding any more stares.

Cal was happy to sit down with his feet under the table and be only visible from the waist up. It had been a near thing. He didn't like his loss of control. It was disturbing. Amelia was far too young for any sudden approaches on his part. And he didn't want attachments. He couldn't afford them.

"Don't look now, but I think we won," she said in a stage whisper.

He chuckled. "Apparently."

She let out a breath and sipped quickly cooling coffee to help still her nerves. Thank goodness her hands didn't shake!

"I'm out of breath," she exclaimed, stating the obvious. "I don't get in much practice."

"Neither do I. I love tango," he added as his own pulse slowed.

"I do, too, but I haven't had anybody to practice with since Ty left town."

Ty Harding, she meant, and he felt his neck hairs stand on end. He wasn't jealous, of course. That would be absurd. He took another sip of coffee. He wanted to leave, but he didn't know how to put it across without sounding as if he was tired of her company. He wasn't. He was trying to avoid complications. Big ones.

She whistled softly. "I'm sorry, but do you think we could go home?" she asked, surprising him. "I have a big test coming up Monday and there's all the housework to get done, as well. Weekends are busy," she added, hoping that she wasn't making him feel that she hated his company.

"I was just thinking that I have to see some people tomorrow," he laughed, relieved. "Yes, I need to go, too."

She smiled her relief.

He left her at her front door. He looked down at her quietly. His whole being was in turmoil. She wasn't absurdly pretty. Her figure, while nice, wasn't extraordinary. She was young and sweet and not at all sensuous. Except that she stirred him up more than any woman in recent years. It was unwelcome. He wasn't ready to become obsessed over a woman.

She looked up at him, perceptive to his emotions. That tango had done something to both of them. Best not to allude to it, she thought.

"I had a great time," she said, grinning. "Thanks. For supper and the dancing."

"I had a good time myself," he said.

"Well..."

His head jerked to one side. "Well."

She drew in a breath. "You go back overseas soon, don't you?"

He nodded. "You may not see me for a few days. I have things to do before I leave."

She nodded, too. She understood what he was saying. He was going to keep his distance because that dance had moved him as it moved her.

"Don't get killed," she said firmly.

He shrugged.

"Okay, don't get shot," she emphasized.

He smiled involuntarily. "Worried about me?"

"That would make me sound proprietary," she said with a smile back. "And we both know you can't be appropriated."

He pursed his lips and chuckled. "Nice perception."

She held out a hand, palm up, and frowned. "There isn't any perception. It's too dry!"

He burst out laughing and suddenly gathered her close and hugged the breath out of her. "Damn, you're fun to be with, Amelia," he said at her ear. He drew in a breath, which brought them even closer. "But I'm going to back off, and you know why."

"Of course I know why," she said softly. "I won't sulk."

"I know that, too." He didn't add that it hurt him to do it, because he had a pretty good idea that she was hiding more than she realized.

"Just come home."

He drew back and kissed her hair. "I will." He let her go and forced a smile. "Tell your granddad that when I get back, we'll have that chess match he's been promising me."

"I'll tell him," she said, and grinned. Her face was going to freeze in that position, but it sure beat bawling.

"Okay, then. See you," he added.

"See you, Cal."

She turned and went inside quickly, before he could see that she was acting for all she was worth.

Cal went home and had a full glass of whiskey with one ice cube. And he slept until almost noon.

Amelia groaned when she saw her great-aunt Valeria pull up at the front of the house in her ancient Mercedes. She could have afforded ten new ones, but this one suited her and she refused to give it up.

She was tall and willowy at sixty-six, dark-haired and dark-eyed and always looked as if she was sucking on a lemon. She was wearing a black dress that came to just under her knees with a sweater. It was in the eighties, but she wore a sweater when it was ten degrees warmer. She always felt cold. Amelia had wondered sometimes, wickedly, if the woman had ice where her heart should have been.

"Hello, Amelia," she said curtly, eyeing her great-niece with a disapproving glance. "Still going around in those horrible dungarees and T-shirts. Can't you dress more appropriately?"

"This is appropriately for a college student, Aunt Val," Amelia replied.

"Aunt Valeria," she corrected coldly. "I detest abbreviated names."

"Sorry," she replied, and didn't mean it.

Just as Valeria opened her mouth to speak, Amelia's grandfather came out on the porch.

"Valeria," he greeted his sister. "It's nice to have you here for a few days."

"Two days," he was corrected, and she tolerated a hug from him. "My luggage is in the trunk. I hope you don't have car thieves around here," she added.

"We aren't San Antonio," Amelia said without thinking, because in some areas of the city, that had been a problem. "Or even Victoria," she added mischievously.

"San Antonio has a symphony orchestra and a ballet company. Even an opera company," she informed Amelia haughtily. "And there are no common thieves where I live in Victoria!"

"Excuse me," Amelia apologized. But she didn't mean it.

"Stop being such a sourpuss," Harris chided.

She glared at her brother. "I know about these small towns. You're overrun with immigrants and criminals!"

Amelia started to speak, and it wouldn't have been happy words.

Her grandfather cut her off. "Let me show you to your room," he said quickly.

"You only have one guest room, and I know where it is," she snapped.

She went down the hall. Amelia and her grandfather exchanged resigned glances. Well, it was only for a couple of days. Surely, they could survive it!

Two days later, Amelia was praying for aliens to come down and kidnap the older woman and take her anywhere except here.

When she mentioned it to her grandfather, he had to stifle laughter. Both of them tiptoed around Valeria, who was the most demanding house guest anyone had ever had to put up with.

With pure mischief, Amelia introduced her great-aunt to an episode of Fawlty Towers, an old British situation comedy that featured a woman who was the living fictional image of Valeria Harris.

Her grandfather gave her such a glare that she felt scorched. She gave him an angelic smile. And pushed Play.

To her surprise, Valeria roared with laughter as the elderly woman on the screen refused to turn on her hearing aid to save the batteries, so that anyone trying to communicate with her had to shout.

Amelia and her grandfather exchanged amused and surprised glances.

When the show ended, Valeria was fanning herself. "What an amazing program! Where can I find it on TV?" she asked.

"It's rather old," Amelia replied. "And you have to get it on disc. Or on one of the streaming channels."

"Disc? Streaming channels?" Valeria was all at sea.

"I'll explain," Amelia said softly, and she did.

Valeria just let out a sigh. "I don't watch television, as a rule. Most of it is so outrageous! I only watch old movies on the classics channel, when people had to act with all their clothes on. I'm sure it was much harder then," she added with a snarky smile.

She glanced at them. "I think I might stay another few days," she said, glancing around. "But you will have to cook with less grease, Amelia. I simply can't tolerate it!"

Amelia swallowed. "Yes, Aunt Valeria." A few more days. A few more days! Hell must feel like this...

"And some tea would be nice now, don't you think?" Valeria added.