Katie Chandler - Damsel under Stress Part 13

Thirteen.

I had to juggle for a few seconds to keep from dropping my take-out bags. Only when I was absolutely certain Gemma's roast beef and brie sandwich wasn't going to go splat on the pavement did I look up and recognize Ethelinda. "Would you stop that?" I shouted. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Sorry," she said with a giggle. She still wore that hideous reject prom dress, with bits of the fur from her Mrs. Claus outfit peeking out around the neckline. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"When you don't mean to startle someone, you don't appear out of thin air right in front of them. And what did you think was so exciting? I was just getting sandwiches."

She waved her wand in a dismissive gesture. "I wasn't referring to the sandwiches. I was talking about the dragons."

"You knew about the dragons?"

"I hear about things. There's very little that happens to you that I don't find out about."

"Oh." I wasn't sure I was crazy about that idea. There were reasons why I'd never auditioned to be on reality TV. I didn't like the idea of being watched. "Well, 'exciting' isn't quite the word I'd use to describe the dragons."

"Yes, but surviving an encounter with dragons and being rescued by such a brave young man must have been exciting."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you? But trust me, it doesn't work out that way in real life." It occurred to me then that Owen might have been right about the dragons being a trap. Ethelinda herself might have set it, not to put us in danger but because a hero rescuing a damsel in distress from a dragon was such a staple of romantic fantasy sagas. But surely she couldn't be that stupid. If she knew my entire relationship history and all that stuff about our destiny, she had to know what our work entailed and that dragons were pretty darn dangerous. It would be awfully hard to play matchmaker to a couple of piles of cinders. "You wouldn't have happened to arrange our meeting with the dragons, would you?" I asked.

"Moi?" She batted her eyelashes vigorously, as though she was both hurt and offended by my accusation, but she didn't exactly deny it. "Rescuing a maiden from a dragon is a sure way to generate romance. It's in all the stories. I can't begin to count the number of couples I've known who met that way. But that doesn't mean I had anything to do with it."

"You were there. I saw you."

"I was merely keeping an eye on my client. You were hard to keep up with when you were chasing your friend that way."

I wasn't entirely convinced of her innocence, but I could tell arguing would do no good. "Well, for the record, there's nothing romantic about dragons. They're ugly, loud, and smelly. And Owen thought someone was trying to lead us into a trap to kill us, so he spent the rest of the day wondering what our enemies might be up to. He probably wouldn't have noticed if I'd swooned into his arms."

"You didn't swoon into his arms?" For once, she sounded unsure.

"No. I'm not really the swooning type. I'm also not very good at being a damsel in distress. I don't like being rescued. I'd rather rescue myself. We already have a pretty skewed balance of power-literally-in this relationship. Him always having to rescue me doesn't help matters."

"It wasn't romantic, then?"

"No!" For once, I didn't play the good Southern girl and apologize when she looked hurt. I repositioned my bags and resumed walking toward home, making her flutter to keep up with me. "If you did have anything to do with it, or if you were thinking of doing something like that, please give it a rest.

You're really not doing me a lot of favors in the romance department. Not that I recall asking you for any favors in the romance department, beyond one little, tiny bit of information, which you didn't have."

"So falling through the ice didn't give him the chance to warm you up?"

"Aha! I knew that was you! Yeah, there was some warming up and even snuggling, but it also ruined our date just when it was getting romantic. Who knows what might have happened if you'd let things play out naturally?"

"You think I had something to do with that? I'd never do anything to cause you harm."

She looked so hurt that I almost relented. "Look," I said, a little more gently, "things are complicated for us right now because of our work, so when something bad happens to us, neither of us is likely to think about romance as we rescue or comfort each other. Instead, we think that someone's out to get us, so we worry, which isn't too romantic, and since he's very, very dedicated to his work, he tends to go right into work mode to try to solve the problem, and that totally kills the romance."

She perked up. "Oh. Then I shall have to see what I can do to help you with that."

"No! You don't have to do anything!" I called out, but she disappeared before I got the "no" out. I could only begin to imagine what her next tactic might be if she was actually behind all the things that had happened to us lately.

The next morning, Kim reported bright and early to Owen's lab to get her a.s.signment from him. Being sent out into the field undercover must have been the most excitement she'd had in a long time. Her sallow skin almost had a healthy flush to it and she'd lost that pinched look around her mouth. Maybe all she really wanted was to feel needed and important. Or maybe she was just excited about getting that much more of a grasp on my job.

While we waited for her to return with the spells, Owen buried himself in a book that was almost bigger than he was, and I searched the Internet for advertising case studies that might have some bearing on our situation. When Kim had been gone an hour, Owen gave up on reading and started pacing. He seemed on the verge of calling out the cavalry when she finally returned with two large Spellworks shopping bags.

"He's serious if he has good shopping bags," I said as Owen took them from her. They were almost on a par with what you'd find at a high-end boutique, with a shiny logo on the sides and ribbon handles.

"They are good shopping bags, aren't they?" Kim said. "Do you mind if I keep one when you're done with them?"

"We'll see," Owen said distractedly.

"Okay, just let me know if you need anything else. I'm only a phone call away." It was then that I realized her flushed look hadn't been excitement. It had been makeup. She'd dolled herself up to meet with Owen. She'd moved in on my job, and now was she moving in on my man? Fortunately, Owen was too focused on the problem at hand to even notice her or her attempts at fluttering eyelashes. There were times when his focus on work and obliviousness about other things worked in my favor.

We spent the rest of the day with me reading the spells out loud while Owen read over my shoulder so we could compare what he saw to what I saw. That was more than a bit distracting, and if Jake hadn't been hovering to see what we'd found, I might not have been able to stop myself from tackling Owen and throwing him down on one of the lab tables. After clearing it of clutter first, of course.

When I'd read at least six spells and had to take a break because my throat was raw, Owen buried his face in his hands with a groan. "We are in huge trouble," he declared.

"Why? Is there something dark hidden in there?"

He shook his head. "No. There's nothing veiled that I can tell. They're all perfectly legitimate, straightforward spells. Not particularly good ones, granted. They take far more energy than necessary to do that kind of work, and I don't see these spells as all that valuable for day-today life. But there's no reason here for us to stop him or go after him. I can't believe he's really trying to compete with us directly."

"Are we sure he is? Maybe he's just trying to establish credibility so his company will be more acceptable when he wants to introduce something else."

He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his hair. "You know, you could be right. He was able to get to the people who'd be looking for darker spells with his old way of selling through less reputable outlets, but he'd never gain any kind of market share if he went into business on this scale selling darker stuff. But this way, he gets customers, then he has a group of people who might be open to the next round of spells he offers."

"It's like boiling a frog," I said, nodding.

"What?"

"Well, supposedly you can't throw a frog into a pot of boiling water because it'll jump right out. But if you put it in a pot of cold water and gradually turn up the heat, it'll be boiling before it knows it needs to escape. Not that I've tried this myself, of course."

"I can see how the a.n.a.logy works, even if it is kind of disgusting," he said with a grimace.

By the end of the day, Owen looked as tired as I felt. "Are you up for dinner?" he asked, coming around the side of the whiteboard that const.i.tuted my office wall. "Since our lunch yesterday got interrupted, I thought we could go out tonight."

"I know I'm not up to foraging for my own meal. Someone to bring it to me would be nice."

"Then do you want to go home, change clothes, and let me pick you up for a proper date, or do you just want to stop somewhere on the way home?"

"I couldn't begin to pick out an outfit. Let's just stop somewhere."

"Good, I'd hoped you'd say that," he replied with the first genuine smile I'd seen on his face all day. "There's a great Italian place near my house. I can call before we leave and make a reservation."

"That sounds ideal." While he moved all the sensitive material into his more secure office, I hurried down the hall to the bathroom to at least attempt to touch up my makeup and put on some lipstick. I might not have been dressing up, but that didn't mean I didn't want to inject a little glamour into the evening. Before I left the bathroom, I undid one more b.u.t.ton on my blouse, taking the outfit from work-appropriate to just the least bit s.e.xy. Well, as s.e.xy as one of my work outfits ever could be.

When I got back to the lab, I saw that I wasn't the only one who'd loosened up for the evening. Owen was in the process of taking off his tie and stuffing it in his jacket pocket. "Ready to go?"

"Let me get my coat."

As we walked from the Union Square station up to the restaurant, he took my hand, which was a shock in and of itself. It was the kind of gesture I often hoped for from him but that he never seemed to think of. "Tonight, let's forget about work, okay?" he said. "I know it's hard for us to get away from, but let's try it for once."

"That's fine with me," I said, even as I wasn't sure we could pull it off. What were the odds that we could manage a few hours without something weird and work-related happening?

The restaurant was small and narrow, with crisp white tablecloths, frescoed walls, and heavenly scents coming from the kitchen. As soon as we stepped through the door, my mouth started watering. The host approached us and Owen said, "We have a reservation. The name's Palmer."

The host checked his reservation book, then frowned and said in heavily accented English, "My apologies, signore, but there has been a mistake. We should not have given you a reservation when you called."

"But there's a table open, right there. And my name is in your book." He pointed to the entry that very clearly showed a table for two reserved for Palmer at six.

"Ah, but that is because we moved your reservation to another restaurant to accommodate you."

Owen turned to me and gave me a confused look. I responded with a shrug, and Owen returned his attention to the host. "I don't understand. I made a reservation for two not too long ago. I spoke to you, if I'm not mistaken. And now you're telling me you moved my reservation to another restaurant-and that it's somehow to accommodate me?" His voice remained calm and even, so you would have had to know Owen to realize exactly how angry he was. The fact that he turned white instead of red was the only visible sign.

I put a hand on his arm. "It's okay. Maybe they can give us something to go and we can eat at home," I said. "That might be even better."

The host shook his head. "No, no, you do not understand. The new reservation, it is for a better restaurant. We will even arrange for a car to take you there. Make it a nicer evening, no?"

Owen again looked to me. "What the heck," I said with a shrug. "Just as long as the car isn't being driven by the same drivers we had the last time."

We went outside to wait for the car. "I don't get it," Owen said, still stewing. "I eat there regularly, but not to the point they'd go out of their way like this for me, and I've never heard of a restaurant sending business to another place. I know that me having a real date is a special occasion, but I didn't think they'd go nuts just because I made a reservation for two." After a moment of silence, he laughed. "Wait a second, I know what's going on. I bet Rod did it. I told him what I had in mind earlier in the day, and player that he is, he probably didn't think it was good enough. And maybe I do need dating lessons from the master."

"Just as long as you don't take too many lessons from him. You don't have a second date with someone else lined up for later this evening, do you?"

"One person at a time is all I can handle," he said as a white limousine pulled around the corner and stopped for us.

A uniformed chauffeur-who was fully human and not at all goofy-looking, thank goodness-got out of the car and came around to open the pa.s.senger door for us. "Mr. Palmer?" he said.

"Um, yeah. This is for us?"

"Yes, it is. Now, miss?" He held a hand out to me to help me into the limo. With a glance and shrug toward Owen, I stepped in and settled onto a plush leather seat. Owen then joined me. "Please enjoy the champagne during your ride," the driver said before closing the door.

"Yeah, this is definitely Rod," Owen said, eyeing the champagne in the ice bucket and the red rose lying on the seat between us. "It's very much his style. Shall we?" he asked, indicating the champagne.

"Sure, why not? We might as well enjoy this."

He popped the cork, then poured two gla.s.ses and handed me one. "Cheers," he said, clinking his gla.s.s against mine.

"To a work-free, stress-free evening," I said.

"Oh, I'll definitely drink to that."

As I leaned back in the seat and stretched my legs, I said, "This is the life." Never mind that in the rush-hour traffic, walking or the subway would have been much faster. Traffic jams weren't so bad when you weren't driving and when you had champagne.

"And he's a better driver than we had on our last trip," Owen added. "BRAAAAKE!"

His imitation of Rocky was so uncanny and so unexpected that I almost choked on my champagne. "Wow, when did you become a comedian?" I sputtered.

"There's a lot you don't know about me. Come to think of it, there's a lot I don't know about me." He sounded almost, well, bubbly, and then I realized the champagne must have gone straight to his head. I knew he wasn't much of a drinker, and I didn't remember him taking a break for lunch.

"You might want to ease up on that stuff," I warned, feeling my own head get a little fuzzy. But before we had a chance to get too tipsy, the car came to a stop and then the pa.s.senger door opened.

We'd arrived at a restaurant Gemma was always talking about because of someone famous having eaten there with some other famous person the night before, both of them wearing something fabulous by an equally famous designer. It was the kind of place where the paparazzi hide in the bushes nightly, just in case one of their usual targets happens to drop by. Even on a slow night they could probably get at least one tabloid-worthy photo of a socialite showing off the latest designer creation.

That made me suddenly self-conscious of my work clothes, which were nowhere near stylish and which probably bordered on frumpy. It was going to take a lot more than undoing one b.u.t.ton to make me fit in here. In fact, I was fairly certain that this was all going to turn out to be one huge mistake and they wouldn't let us inside.

I wasn't the only one having such worries, apparently. Owen froze just inside the restaurant doorway and patted his pockets. "I bet I'll need my tie to be let in here," he said. "It looks like that kind of place."

That was when I noticed something different about Owen. It must have slipped my attention earlier because he was wearing a dark overcoat, but inside, with the coat unb.u.t.toned, he was now wearing a different suit. It wasn't that much nicer than his work suit, since his work clothes were usually really nice, but instead of his usual white shirt he now wore a dark blue dress shirt with a bit of a sheen to it along with a silk tie in a similar shade. It was a look I recognized from some movie star at the previous year's Oscars.

"You've already got a tie on," I said, and to his credit, he actually checked instead of automatically telling me he thought I was wrong.

"This is weird," he said. "And I guess since you're seeing it, it's real." He then blinked as he looked at me. "I'm not the only one it happened to."

It was my turn to look down at myself. Instead of my frumpy work clothes, I had on a low-cut, flowing dress in a complicated print. I'd seen one very much like it-or possibly even the same dress-in one of Gemma's fashion magazines. If it was the same dress, I wouldn't want to take my coat off because then I'd feel naked. As it was, I kept wanting to pull the top up. I'd have to remember to sit up straight, or else the neckline would hit my waist.

The maitre d' greeted Owen, then called someone over to take our coats. I considered putting up a fight for mine, but decided to be a big girl about it. Still, I couldn't help but cross my arms over my chest as we were escorted upstairs. The dress left my arms bare, so I hoped it was warm in the dining room.

In spite of our designer duds, we were n.o.bodies for this kind of place. Owen might have looked like a movie star, but no one knew who he was. Meanwhile, if they had any idea who I was, they wouldn't have let me in the door for fear of damaging their cool rating. As a result, our table was strategically located behind a large potted plant. "Dr. Livingston, I presume," I quipped as we fought our way past the greenery to get into a banquette. I looked around the room at all the beautiful people making sure they were seen eating beautiful food and unconsciously straightened my spine. "Don't tell Rod because I wouldn't want to hurt his feelings, but I liked the original place better. This is nice, but that would have been more comfortable."

"I know. This wasn't quite what I had in mind for the evening. I was hoping we could relax." I noticed that he was sitting up straighter, too.

A waiter came and pushed back the palm fronds so he could hand us leather-bound menus before reciting a list of specials that sounded more like avant-garde poetry to me. Owen's face was about as blank as mine felt, and he just smiled and nodded at the waiter. I hoped the menu was a little more understandable. It was about the size of an abridged version of War and Peace. Owen had magical tomes in his office that were less intimidating.

"I may have to just point to something on the menu," I said. Most of the dishes seemed unnecessarily complicated to me. I was a pretty good cook, if I said so myself, so I recognized all the culinary terms and ingredients, but I'd never considered putting any of them together in quite this way. Aspects of some of the dishes sounded like they might be good, but then there would be some oddball ingredient thrown in, as though the chef had an uncontrollable urge to make the dish different. Like, they couldn't just serve beets as a side dish. It had to be beet froth, whatever that was.

I went with something that sounded like it might be a steak with sauce on it when the waiter reappeared to take our orders. If I didn't like the sauce, I could always sc.r.a.pe it off. Owen ordered the same thing. The waiter sniffed disapprovingly when we declined a meeting with the sommelier.

"I think I've had enough to drink for the evening," Owen said, rubbing his head, as soon as the waiter disappeared. "I'm still fuzzy from the champagne in the limo. But I guess that's terribly unsophisticated of us."

"Well, I am a hick from a small town in Texas," I drawled. "I don't know what your excuse is." I shoved aside a palm frond so I could look out into the rest of the restaurant. "If you had a machete with you, there might be good people-watching here. We could even get ourselves kicked out by asking for autographs. Wait'll the folks back home in the trailer park hear about this."

He must have still been feeling the champagne, given the way he laughed at what I didn't think was a very funny joke. "I think I like you a little bit drunk," I said.

He rubbed his temples again, like he was willing his wits to return fully. "Gloria would be disappointed in me. She's a confirmed teetotaler."

"No wonder you can't hold your liquor. Wait a second, how did you manage the champagne at the office party?"

"Did you see me drink much of it? Besides, I ate a full meal before I went. This is on an empty stomach. I think I forgot to eat lunch."

This may have been the most relaxed we'd ever been together as a couple. We weren't talking about work, and although the situation was far from normal, disaster hadn't yet struck. I was afraid to even think about it, lest I jinx us. "I don't think Gloria would expect you to turn down champagne in the back of a limo. She'd want you to have a little fun."

"Did you meet the same Gloria I know? No, you probably didn't. She was practically cuddly at Christmas. But she doesn't believe at all in losing control. With power like this at your beck and call, you must always be in absolute control of it. One slip can have serious consequences." Then he winced. "And I guess I blew that with my stunt in Times Square. I should know better than to act that rashly." There went the relaxation. I knew I shouldn't have thought about it.

I peered through the palm fronds again, trying to take note of any celebrities I saw and what they were wearing because I knew Gemma would be dying for details. Then I saw someone I recognized. Sylvia Meredith was sitting at a table on the other side of the room. The man she was with had his back to me, so I wasn't sure who he was. There was a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice bucket on a stand by their table, so they must have been celebrating something. Or maybe people who came to this kind of place regularly drank champagne like it was iced tea and didn't have to be celebrating anything.

I ducked back behind the camouflage. "Sylvia Meredith is here," I hissed to Owen, even though the room was noisy enough that I doubted anything I said would carry all the way to her table. "You know, the one we think is teamed up with Idris."

Owen immediately looked about as alert as he could manage with champagne still in his system. "Where?"