Resistance - J.M. Dillard [27]
Much like the ship’s former first officer, Lio Battaglia also had a quirky sense of humor and entertaining eccentricities. His Italian mother had christened him Lionardo, using the original spelling of da Vinci’s name. He occasionally referred to the “artistic temperament” and “erratic moods” he’d inherited with the name—a comment that always made Sara laugh, since Lio was utterly good-natured and easygoing. He uttered such nonsense with a half-facetious air, as if realizing the silliness of such a claim; even so, he would continue, stating that his scattered mannerisms came from an artist’s way of focusing on so many things at once.
But he had spoken so passionately of Italian art and literature that she had agreed to learn more about his birth country’s history with him. They had started out their exploration of the Italian culture by reading Dante’s Divine Comedy. Nave had found the work particularly interesting, having never before understood or bothered to examine any religious beliefs. The fact that Lio insisted they highlight their studies with the original texts was an interesting challenge that she believed he had instituted largely so they could spend more time together, but that was just a feeling and she had yet to come up with concrete proof.
Now, in the Club, she walked toward their customary table and saw him waiting for her. His face lit up with recognition; she smiled in return. He was dark haired, olive complected, with eyes such a clear green they reminded Sara of the warm, pristine waters of the Mediterranean. He’d been sitting next to her at the bar one night, shortly after she’d been assigned to the Enterprise, when she was still head of security. They’d been formally introduced while on duty; at the bar, each of them had recognized a kindred spirit. Now they were at the point where their friendship was metamorphosing into something more. Nave allowed it because she was no longer Lio’s direct superior—in fact, he’d received a promotion and had taken over her position as security chief. There were no longer any concerns about a personal relationship getting in the way of their professional one.
She stared down at the short glass in front of her, which held a few ice cubes, clear liquid, and a wedge of lime. “What is it tonight?” she asked. The first time he’d asked her what she wanted to drink, she’d said, “Surprise me.” And so he did, every night.
“Gin and tonic,” he said. “Ever had one?”
She shook her head, brought the glass of synthehol to her face, and sniffed. Her temptation was to wrinkle her nose, but she kept her expression noncommittal. The ritual was a contest of sorts; no matter what Lio ordered, she drank stoically.
“What’s that smell?” she asked carefully.
“Juniper berries.”
“Like the tree?”
“Exactly. Now squeeze the lime and put it in the glass,” Lio prompted.
She did so, took a gulp, and managed, through pure will, not to grimace. Clearly, gin was not one of her favorites. Her preference, when it came to synthehol, was a nice, soft merlot, nothing strong. But she was determined to handle anything Lio ordered for her.
“Interesting,” she said.
“You hate it.” Lio grinned, a perfect lunar crescent appearing beneath his long, prominent nose.
“I didn’t say that.” She held the glass to the light, sniffed it again, and took another swig. “Gin and tonic it is tonight. Only the next time, more lime.”
“So,” Lio said. “Petrarch. What did you think?”
Nave allowed herself a smile. “Talk about your artistic temperament,” she said. “Though I’d like to meet this Laura woman he wrote about.”
Lio took a sip of his usual glass of amaretto,