In a Heartbeat - Elizabeth Adler [71]
“Yeah, and she’s not about to let you forget it. See the way she dealt with Rhianna Fairland? Like the countess with the peon.”
“I suspect our Mamzelle is a toughie with a heart of gold,” Mel said, then added, “She had to be something special for Ed to love her.”
“He picks all the best women,” Camelia said softly. Then, to cover his embarrassment, he ordered another drink. “More for you?”
She shook her head, slid off the barstool. “Maybe I’ll just go take that long soak in the tub. Make myself presentable for you.”
He took her in: the white stretchy T-shirt, short black skirt, the old leather jacket slung over her shoulders . . . he would have taken her any which way. “You look just fine to me,” he said longingly, and heard her laugh as she strode, chin up, blonde bangs bouncing, out of the bar.
It wasn’t easy to get a reservation at 82 Queen, but Camelia had heard it was the best, so he pulled a bit of rank and the concierge came through. He had been waiting in the hotel lobby for half an hour now, anxious not to be late, eager for every moment of this night. He didn’t know what to anticipate, he surely wasn’t planning anything. He would just let things take their natural course.
Mel erupted from the elevator, late and, as always, in a hurry. As she strode toward him across the marble lobby, Camelia swore that every man’s head turned to watch her. She moved, molten as hot maple syrup, confident and unaware of the sensation she was causing in the black stretchy bandage-dress and towering heels. She was an out-of-this-world experience, a golden girl; he had never known anyone like her, never seen anyone like her. He got to his feet, shaking his head.
“You look stunning.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips.
“Why, Detective Camelia, thank you.” She laughed. “It must be this dress,” she said, running her hands over the curves and tugging at the hem.
He shifted his eyes hastily from her long, bare, sunkissed legs. Jesus, he was getting to be a romantic in his old age, thinking of legs as “sunkissed.” And he a forty-six-year-old married man with four kids. And on top of it, he was a cop and she was . . . He had forgotten exactly what Melba was in relation to this case, except she was here to help him find out about Ed Vincent’s past. But the one thing he did know for sure, she was head over heels for Vincent.
He straightened his tie, smoothed back his hair in that familiar gesture she found so movie-star and which made her giggle, then offered her his arm. Still laughing, she linked him, and they drifted together onto the street and into a cab. Camelia could have sworn he was walking on air.
82 Queen was mobbed; people milled in the entry, sipping drinks and waiting for tables, and there was a buzz of conversation and laughter. But Camelia and Mel were shown immediately to the charming redbrick courtyard, and seated at a candlelit table under a trellis of wisteria and roses.
“Ed would love this,” Mel said, half to herself, as she looked around.
“He probably knows it well.” Camelia took the menu offered by the waiter. “After all, it’s his hometown.”
“His adopted hometown. And thank the Lord for that,” Mel added.
He didn’t ask what she wanted to drink but instead ordered a bottle of champagne. But he did consult her on what she liked. She chose the Perrier Jouet Fleur de Champagne Rosé, because she loved the pink color as much as the taste.
“Champagne is so . . . celebratory, I guess is the right word,” she said, giving him that ear-to-ear again. “And this is Riley’s favorite.”
“Riley has a favorite champagne? At seven years old?”
She laughed. “Sure she does. I always give her a taste. That way, I figure curiosity won’t kill her later, at puberty when the pressure’s on. All she gets is a taste, nothing more. She’s rather keen on caviar too. Beluga by choice, though Sevruga is acceptable.” Mel laughed again. “That was Ed. I could never afford caviar. And anyhow,