Even as he used the rude, impersonal term, his mind rebelled against it. He wanted to have sex with her, that was for certain—but…
He gritted his teeth. He was doing it again! Just stay focused. It didn't matter what he called it as long as he got this woman in his bed.
"The menu looks great," Jo said, drawing his attention away from his strange debate with himself.
He hadn't even opened his own. He did, making himself concentrate on his second-favorite thing after sex. Food.
"Do you come here often?" Jo looked around again, smiling appreciatively at the greenery and quaint appeal of the place. "It's so beautiful."
He glanced around, too. It was lovely here and made lovelier by Jo's presence.
Stop it!
"A few times," he said, studying the menu—gathering his idiotic wits. "The walnut chicken salad is delicious. Great raspberry dressing."
She made an approving noise, then snapped her menu closed. "That's what I'm getting. It sounds wonderful."
Maksim watched her as she took a sip of her water. She really was beautiful—and his desire for her bordered on desperation.
"It is wonderful," he agreed. Then he smiled, offering her the brunt of his charisma. "I'm so glad you decided to join me. And agreed to let me help at the community center." He lifted his water glass in a toast.
Her smile slipped slightly, easily picking up on his shift to supercharming. Not the reaction he'd hoped he'd get. But she did join him, clinking her glass against his.
She took another sip, regarding him over the rim, for once her eyes easy to read. She was uncertain. Not the emotion he wanted—but better than the closed-down, shut-away look she could get.
Some of her guard had dropped with him, but it was on a hairpin trigger and could shoot back into place in the blink of an eye.
He shifted in his chair, subtly pulling back, giving her space. "How did you start working in this field?"
Jo leaned back a bit, too, unconsciously relaxing along with him. Her reaction gave him hope that he wasn't totally out of control. He could still manipulate the situation to suit him.
"Well, I double majored in social work and education in college with a minor in English," she said.
He whistled, honestly impressed. "Very industrious."
Jo shrugged. "I've always liked to keep busy."
"I'd say."
"I worked as an English teacher for many years in Washington D.C. I was also a student advisor at a private secondary school."
"A private school. That sounds a lot cushier than St. Ann's Community Center." As clearly motivated as she was, why would she take on a job that would never pay a large salary nor raise her to a prestigious position?
As soon as the words were out, he regretted them, suspecting they would put her on the defensive. But to his surprise, she laughed.
"Oh, it was definitely cushier. But I really needed to get away—" She let her words just end, hiding it behind taking a sip of her water, and Maksim knew she'd been about to say something she'd rather not.
"I, umm, just really needed a change," she finally said. "And I also needed to do something that made me feel more fulfilled. Truthfully, teaching Macbeth and Beowulf to over-privileged, overindulged kids wasn't rewarding in the least."
"So struggling to get help and money from a community that doesn't care does fulfill you?" This time he clearly didn't keep the derision from his voice, because Jo's smile faded into a frown.
"Of course it's fulfilling. These kids need that community center. They need an advocate. They need the volunteers—like you," she said pointedly. "And I need to know I've made a difference in the world." Her frown deepened. "I mean, isn't that why you've done the things you've done?"
For a moment, the «things» he'd done popped into his mind. None of them for the betterment of humanity. None of his actions designed to make a difference to anyone but himself.
"Well, yes," he said, though. "Yes, of course that's why I do the things I've done."
Something akin to guilt made it hard to swallow, but he did, forcing it down with a smile.
She regarded him for a few moments, then turned her attention to the waiter, who appeared with a wrapped loaf of warm French bread. They placed their orders, although Maksim couldn't have said what he got.
What the hell was wrong with him? Why did her desire to make a difference, and his utter disinterest in doing so, bother him? He shouldn't be giving it another thought. So she was a «save-the-world» type. He should be just hoping that meant she'd be more than generous in bed. And he'd make her feel very, very fulfilled.
Maksim cut off a piece of the bread, offering it to her. Jo accepted with a mumbled thanks.
They both ate silently. Maksim focused on Jo; she focused on her bread, her water, anything but him.
"Did you like living in D.C.?" he asked, grasping for any topic of conversation when he realized she wasn't going to speak first. And seduction just didn't work when the person you were trying to seduce was more attentive to a piece of French bread than you.
"I did, yes."
She didn't continue, and Maksim knew there was more to the story than her short response was revealing. But as had been the case since meeting this woman, he couldn't read her features. Had she left simply for a change? Or had she left because she had to leave?
Somehow he didn't think prying would get him any further toward what he wanted from her. Still he did wonder, was it something that had happened back there that made her dark eyes appear melancholy so often?
"Did you grow up there?" he asked, avoiding the more interesting question of why she left.
She shook her head. "No, I actually grew up in a small town in western Maine."
"Was that nice? It must have been beautiful—and cold. I like cold."
She smiled at that. "It is very beautiful—and definitely cold." The topic of her hometown seemed to be a good and safe one, because she continued, warming up to the subject of her childhood and life in Maine, talking even as the waiter left their lunches.
"So you pick blueberries with a rake?" Maksim asked in between bites of his crawfish étouffée, after she told him about her multiple summers spent doing something called "blueberry raking."
"No," Jo said with an impish smile. "You pick blueberries with your hands. You rake blueberries with a rake."
Maksim smiled back, enjoying her relaxed demeanor. The way her lack of wariness allowed her dark eyes to glitter with humor and delight. The way she used her hands to tell her story, animated, uninhibited. The way her smile made her whole face light up. No melancholy, no reservation.
And he wouldn't delve back into why he liked all those things so much. He was enjoying himself too much to over-analyze.
"Okay," he said slowly, trying to comprehend such a strange thing to do as a job. "So you use this rake, and what? Rake them into a pile?
"No!" Jo laughed. "I've already explained this twice."
Maksim shook his head, giving her a perplexed look. "I just can't imagine there isn't a better way to get blueberries."
"Well, there isn't. You use this rake, which has tines and a metal back. You slide the tines under the bush and pull up." She imitated the action to clarify. "The berries come off in the rake and gather at the metal back."
"Are you sure?"
Jo laughed again, the sound rich and warm, circling around him like the fit of a perfectly tailored suit. "Yes!"
Maksim laughed, too, realizing he wasn't even pretending to enjoy her story like he so often did with women he planned to seduce. He liked her company—how odd.
"I think you've made this up," he said, grinning.
"I haven't." She smiled, too, as she speared pieces of her salad and popped them into her mouth. She chewed merrily.