I stop a meter from the table, and she looks up—lips parting to speak, shoulders straightening on an intake of breath. Laskaris delivers me a sulky glare at the interruption.
“I don’t blame you for starting without me,” I tell Natalia, sketching a wave at her untouched plate of what looks to be artichoke dip and sliced baguette. “Apologies for my tardiness. Meetings ran longer than expected.”
It’s a bluff, and a risky one—we’ve not spoken privately since the nighttime walk in Melbourne two weeks ago, when she parted from me cold and wounded, even after the unwise kiss we weren’t able to resist. But Natalia’s jewel-blue eyes shine now as she picks up the metaphoric baton I’ve passed.
“No worries. I haven’t even taken the first bite yet.” Shifting her focus to Laskaris, she says, “Sorry to give you the heave-ho.”
“Oh, shit. Right.” He pushes the chair back and stands, conceding the place to me. “Wasn’t aware you had a date, Evans.”
“It’s business,” I tell him coolly, taking his spot. I lift a finger at a passing server, gesturing toward the bar, silently communicating that the bartender knows my drink.
“Alex, I’m sure you know Mr. Franke?” Natalia asks. “Emerald’s TP.”
“Of course.” Laskaris extends a hand, and we exchange a terse shake in which he applies 50 percent too much pressure.
A mischievous part of me wants to say,We’ve never met, in fact, but I resist the urge to humble him.
“Well, then…” Laskaris shoots a stiff smile at Natalia. “Reckon I’ll see you in Shanghai, Evans.”
He saunters off, and Natalia rotates her plate a quarter turn, picking up a bit of baguette. She glances after him, murmuring, “Not if I see you first, bucko.” Wielding a short butter knife, she scoops into the artichoke dip and places a dollop on a bite of bread. “I suppose you think you really rescued me there,” she states, eyes on her task.
“Did I not?” I ask with amusement.
She lifts an arched eyebrow, placing the bread into her mouth and chewing. After dabbing each corner of her lips with a cloth napkin, she shrugs. “I was fine. But you got rid of him faster, so thanks for that.”
I stretch my legs beside the small table, crossing them at the ankles. “Alexander Laskaris is a good-looking man,” I gently tease. “Wealthy too.”
She rolls her eyes. “Wealthyfamily. He’s a nepo-baby clown, not my type, and such a shameless sex-pest that William Hill is probably offering odds on when he’ll get canceled. I’ve only been atARJa few months and he’s already asked me out twice. Annoying.”
The server comes and places a new glass of Courvoisier before me. Natalia eyes it, then prepares another bite of food.
“Your usual cognac?” she inquires casually.
I’m flattered that she remembers. The image returns to me: that night in the Abu Dhabi lounge, months ago. Natalia samplingmy Courvoisier before slowly pushing it back my way. The way I deliberately rotated the glass so my mouth covered the red imprint of her lipstick before taking my own drink, our eyes locked.
“Shall we share it again?”
Her glare is chilly, brief. “No thanks.”
I sip my drink, giving her time to eat without an interrogation. I can tell she’s had as taxing a day as I. My stomach growls again, and though I’m sure she can’t hear it over the music in the bar, she scoots the platter a few inches my way.
“We can share this, though,” she offers. “Here, dig in.”
“Thank you.” I tear a strip of crust off a baguette slice and plunk it into the ramekin, then chew it. “How are you finding Bahrain?”
“It’s not Paris,” she replies, “but what is?”
I smile. “Paris.”
“Smartass.” Her tone is indulgent, which encourages me.
“No trouble whilst here?”
“Work troubles?”
I nod.
She takes a deep drink of her wine. “Nope. International journalist is definitely a different animal to working at a literary magazine, I’ll admit. But I got some pointers from Phaedra about the travel part. Photo ID and press credentials on me at all times.”
