"So you just happened to be walking by the center now?" she asked, finding it a rather strange coincidence, but then it wasn't terribly strange compared to what had been happening to her of late.
"I don't live far from here," he answered, and she had no reason to doubt that. "And I'm heading to the Quarter."
"Really? Where is your place?"
"On Ursulines." He realized his explanation made no sense.
So did Jo. "So you walked back to Esplanade only to head back into the Quarter?"
"I had an errand to do." He didn't volunteer more than that, and Jo got the feeling asking him anything more wouldn't get any answers. And what did it matter anyway? She was just infinitely glad she wasn't alone.
"Where were you headed?" he asked casually, and she wondered if he really didn't notice that she was running like a madwoman away from the center.
"Home," she said automatically, then bit the inside of her lip. She could have said anything that would have made less sense than that, and she almost groaned with relief when all he said was, "See, you were taking the roundabout route, just like me."
He smiled at her, and she got the feeling that he knew she was lying, but he wasn't going to question her about it. And she appreciated that. How was she supposed to tell anyone that she thought she was seeing her dead sister?
They walked silently for several moments until Maksim stopped in front of a restaurant, Laforesterie.
Jo hesitated. The historical building with its large windows, gas lights, and flower-decorated balcony looked very posh, and very expensive.
"I don't think I'm dressed for this place," she said, gesturing to her wrinkled skirt.
Maksim glanced down at his own black T-shirt and jeans, which he was still wearing from this morning. Probably dirt stains on his ass from the concrete stoop. "You look great. Besides, my clothes are very likely covered in paste and fruit juice and other viscous liquids that are best not contemplated."
Jo raised an eyebrow. "Like you couldn't make paste look good." She blushed as soon as the words were out of her mouth.
What was she saying?
Maksim studied her, feeling assured for the first time in a long time. So she thought he looked good in paste. Not the best compliment he'd ever received, but he'd take it. It was the first time she'd said definitively that she found him attractive.
He moved forward to open the door for her, ushering her in.
She thanked him with a small smile, and he marveled at the way that slight curve of her lips made his spirits soar. Of course, every sign of her growing more comfortable with him brought him closer to getting the sex he wanted.
And he could keep telling himself that was all that mattered.
Jean-Pierre, the maître d', came forward as they entered, straightening his bow tie. He bowed to Maksim.
"Good evening, Mr. Kostova. Your usual table?"
"Yes, thank you, Jean-Pierre." Maksim placed his hand on Jo's lower back as he escorted her into the restaurant, and was very pleased when she didn't move away from the touch.
All good signs.
Jean-Pierre led them straight through the main dining room with its dusky blue walls, crystal chandeliers, and heavy, gold brocade curtains adorning the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The smaller, more private room off the main room was decorated in burgundy and gold with more extravagant chandeliers and velvet.
"Here we are," Jean-Pierre said, waiting at the side of the table as Jo took a seat. Maksim pushed her chair in. Then he took the chair across from her, the table in a small alcove that made it private and quiet enough to talk easily.
"Enjoy," the maître d' said, handing first Jo, then Maksim a menu.
Jo looked around, then fidgeted with her shirt, tugging at the button front.
"You look lovely," Maksim assured her, his voice low and full of sincerity. He told himself that was just part of his usual shtick, his way of getting what he wanted. Manipulation—as natural to him as breathing. And that was the only reason why he was thrilled by the rosy blush that colored her cheeks. Certainly not because that frightening paleness had disappeared.
Jo busied herself with her menu. He did the same, not wanting to push too hard. This was a game of moving forward, then retreating. Giving the one you wanted the chance to become comfortable with the situation—the inevitable situation.
Of course, he didn't know which one of them he was trying to let get comfortable.
"So you eat here often?" she asked, still scanning the fare.
He looked up from the menu. "Yes."
"I have to admit, this is a little out of my price range."
"Well, tonight is my treat. I don't like eating alone. And I do all too often." Maksim wondered why he'd admitted that. He'd like to think it was because he was angling for her sympathy. Sympathy that would again lead to her trust, then more intimacy. But he wasn't really sure why it had popped out of his mouth.
"I find that hard to believe." There was no sympathy in her voice. She thought he was fishing. "I'm sure there are plenty of ladies who would love to join you."
"But you're not really one of them, are you?" This time he was angling. For an admission. And the answer was more important than he wanted to admit.
"Tonight, I am," she said, and he thought there was much more to that answer than she was admitting.
What had she been running from?
"But I can't let you pay," she added. "I already owe you for a lunch."
"No, you don't."
Jo gave him a reprimanding look that she'd seen her use on the children at the center when they weren't listening.
"I'm paying. So just enjoy it. Or else I will think you are rude." He raised an eyebrow, daring her to challenge him.
She held his gaze for a few more moments, then relented. "Okay. But you have to let me pay you back."
He raised an eyebrow and grinned slowly, suggestively.
"With a lunch," she added firmly, but then smiled, too. For the first time, she seemed to let go of whatever happened back at the center.
"Lunch on me?" she said, waiting for him to agree.
The image of a buffet set up on her bare body flashed in his mind. His body reacted instantly. Mmm, his two favorite things. Food and a naked woman.
He looked across the table. Especially this woman. Her hair had been pulled back in a haphazard knot, tendrils framing her face. Pink still colored her high cheekbones and her dark eyes watched him in return. Her seashell-pink lips parted just slightly.
"I'm a great cook," she blurted, clearly uncomfortable with his attention. Then she blushed again, as if she knew that was a leading comment.
And he didn't miss the chance to take the lead. "Well, that's how you can pay me back. I don't often get a home-cooked meal."
Jo didn't answer, and Maksim wondered if that was because she didn't want to cook for him and didn't know how to tell him so. Or if she did want to, and wasn't pleased with that desire.
"So where is home?" she asked, obviously trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. "I realized I've never asked, and I haven't been able to pinpoint your accent."
"I'm from Russia, a little village called???????????." His limited Russian sounded fluent since it was his pat response, and because the accent in the eighth circle of Hell was remarkably similar to that of Russia. Which was just a coincidence, not a commentary on Russia and its inhabitants.
"I've never heard of it," Jo said. "Although, I must admit, I'm not that familiar with Russian towns."
Maksim shrugged. "It is very small. I wouldn't expect you to have heard of it." Plus it was fictional place literally meaning, "eighth circle."
"Is your family still there?"
"No, my family is a bunch of vagabonds."
"Really. How many are there in your family?"
"I come from a very large family. But the ones I'm close to are my father, who, while I don't see him much, plays a big role in who I am. I occasionally see my twin brothers, Pasha and Andrey. And I was…am very close to my half-sister, Ellina."