CHAPTER 10

Friday afternoon found Chris sitting in the comfort of his home office and surrounded by his favorite technology, which right now included loud but soothing music. He’d just signed off from the weekly online seminar he conducted for technogeeks like himself and now faced over two hundred e-mails he needed to answer but was avoiding. Just couldn’t bring himself to delve into them. Instead, he sat and stared blankly at his computer’s screen saver—a scrolling marquee he’d set up, a note to himself that admonished him to “Click here if you’re a man, not a mouse.”

Drumming his fingers on his workstation’s desktop, he ignored everything in favor of a mental rehashing of the two fairly momentous (in terms of his life, anyway) telephone conversations he’d had today. He couldn’t decide if they were as real as they felt. The first phone call had been from Dianna to tell him he was good to go on Saturday night—meaning she’d be there overseeing the details, everything was set up, and he could pop the question to Veronica. About a thousand emotions, all of them conflicting, had gone through his mind at her news and while he’d talked to her.

Chris didn’t insult himself now by denying how his heart had flopped about in his chest like a landed trout at the sound of her voice and the certain prospect of seeing her again. Still, both he and Dianna had sounded, he admitted, as if they’d just been handed some really bad medical news that affected them both and was hard to accept. Totally unsettling.

She’d casually rung off, saying she’d definitely see him tomorrow night. And that had left him alone with the specter of phone call number two: calling Veronica. Okay, that was something he did every day but not like this, not with so much at stake. Suddenly everything—his whole life, the day outside—had looked different and felt different. Before he’d called her to ask her to play dress-up with him on Saturday night, Chris had first had to get himself past the required what-the-hell-have-I-done thing that came with an overwhelming urge to run screaming into the hills.

Then he’d realized he needed a smokescreen, some legitimate-sounding reason to give her for everything being so senior-prom formal and Casablanca romantic. He’d decided just to say he had some good news he wanted to share with her. Brilliant, no? Of course, there wasn’t any good news to share. Well, not unless she considered his asking her to marry him good news. With that settled, it became all about “now or never.” Chris had weighed those two options. Now. Or never. He’d come this far. It had to be “now.” So, with his heart thumping with dread, or maybe it was anticipation, and his ears ringing, he’d made the call.

Frustratingly, and so “just like her,” Veronica had balked, citing some law seminar she had to attend all day Saturday. She’d insisted she’d be brain-dead and good to no one by the end of the day. Then she’d gone on about how she wouldn’t be staying with him this weekend because of that same seminar, which continued on Sunday. Teeth gritted and fighting flaring irritation with all her roadblocks—did he never come first with her?—Chris had reminded himself of his goal, and also that she had no idea what lay behind his invitation.

He’d ended up telling her that was fine—about not staying over—and, hey, he understood (Understanding Guy, that was him). But his private impulse was to tell her to forget the whole thing. Just tell her to go on to her stupid seminar and he’d see her next week. But then it became about winning. A totally stubborn I-will-have-my-way-for-once thing. What scared him, though, was to realize how much he really didn’t care if he saw her or not. Incongruously, that had spurred him on. Surely, he’d reasoned, that feeling was only the onset of the cold-feet/pulling-away thing that was a part of the commitment ritual.

And so he’d ignored the clanging bells at the back of his mind that said, This is a huge mistake, man; you need to be listening to your heart, and persisted with Ronnie. Finally, she’d caved and agreed to meet him for dinner after Saturday’s seminar. But, really, that was all the time she could spare, and they’d have to make it an early night. With that, she’d rung off.

And now, here Chris sat, dangerously close to a just-fuck-it moment. Why the hell was he even trying? Ronnie didn’t seem to give a damn if she saw him or not. Just like she didn’t seem to give a damn whether or not they took their relationship to the next level. So, why did he? Fiddling with a stray paper clip that had wandered within his reach, Chris really wrestled with why he persisted in pursuing the woman. What had started him down this uncertain road to matrimony, anyway?

Oh, hell, who was he kidding? He knew. It was simple, really. He’d got tired of the way things were between him and Ronnie. They’d come to that sharp-edged point in their relationship that happens with every dating couple: the point where you either get married or you walk away. All he’d known was he hadn’t been ready to walk away, or maybe was too comfortable to make the effort and have that scene. And certainly, back then, defined as a few weeks ago, no other prospects had loomed on the horizon. Chris made a sound of self-derision. Right, buddy. Not too complimentary to either one of you.

So, had they just got tired, or was it lazy? He couldn’t speak for her, but he believed it was simple impatience on his part—and approaching the big 3-0. Time to make some changes, man, take some risks. All right, he could do that. Then, he had to ask himself: What if Ronnie says no? Pretty much couldn’t ignore that signal. And what will I do if she does? He shrugged, telling himself he wouldn’t know until he asked, would he?

But talk about guilt. Here was some: He hadn’t felt impatient with Ronnie until the moment he’d looked into the gold-colored eyes of one Dianna West. Before he’d met her, he’d thought he knew what he was doing and that he felt good about it. Excited, even. But now? Well, it wasn’t so simple. Ronnie was so much a part of his life. She was the landscape. The environment. And they’d been a couple for so long; and all his friends knew her; and everyone, including his mother, just expected them to get married. It was like an arranged marriage, a societal pressure thing. Like he was obligated to her. How crazy was that?

But if he didn’t at least make the effort, he knew, there’d be at least two consequences. One, he’d have to hear that “fear of commitment” thing, have to have that you’re still scarred from Mary and Joe conversation. And, two, he’d be the bad guy with everyone he and Ronnie knew. He’d then be outside that circle. He’d lose friends; they’d be forced to choose between him and her. And then they’d have to separate their stuff, all the things they’d bought together. Damn, it’d be like getting a divorce, and we aren’t even married.

But Chris realized he didn’t mind being the bad guy. He had been before. And could be again. But first he had to give Ronnie the chance to say yes or no. He owed her that much.

Frowning, Chris shook his head. I owe her that? Man, that sounds like an obligation, a debt I have to pay. Where’s the passion? The heat? The primal urge to merge? Not there. So, proposing out of obligation? What the hell for? They weren’t royalty. The fate of nations wasn’t at risk. But, still, everything else aside, it kind of pissed him off, Chris admitted, to think how far he’d come in the commitment department, following all those years of trying to get past his former girlfriend marrying his former best friend, only to have Ronnie not meet him halfway now. And it stung a bit, in the what’s-wrong-with-me department, to realize she wasn’t pressing him for marriage and that she seemed happy to drift along as things were.

Okay, it’s not like I want the Nobel Prize for getting over an old hurt. It’s just that, I mean, here I am ready to go, and thinking I have the right woman for me, and yet she’s totally oblivious. So what am I—just some easy sex for her? The weekend lay? It’s like I’m the mistress she keeps tucked away and sees only when it’s convenient for her.

That sucked. But too late. The die was definitely already cast. The show was on the road. The horse was hitched up to the cart. Scary. He tossed the paper clip across the room, telling himself that he hated talking to women. Two totally different languages, with theirs being much more complex and subtle. Somebody ought to come up with a Man/Woman, Woman/Man language dictionary, like those Spanish/English, English/Spanish things. Talk about an Oprah best-seller.

Hearing himself, Chris knew exactly what he had to do: He had to talk to a guy. Rick. Chris’s eyes widened. Oh, shit—Rick. That “Yikes!” feeling jetted along his nerve endings as he remembered his mental note to himself from last Wednesday evening. He was supposed to call Rick. That was good. Rick was a guy’s guy. Rick was a married guy. And Rick was a married guy whom Chris always talked to. They had a connection, like brothers.

Relieved to realize that he wasn’t alone on Mars while all the women sat on Venus, Chris eagerly sat forward, lowered the volume on his music, and plucked up his cordless phone. He punched out the number to his best buddy’s personal line at work. Three rings, and then a pickup.

“Rick Hampton here.”

Instantly relieved, Chris sat back in his chair. “Hey, what are you doing, man? This is Chris.”

“Yo, buddy. How’s it hanging?”

“Pretty good. You?”

“Can’t complain. What’s up?”

Now, see? Right to the point. What was so hard about conversation? Guys did it just fine with each other. No muss, no fuss. No subtitles or subtexts. No html code required. Just pure, clean communcation. “You had lunch with me three days ago at Faidley’s.”

“I certainly did. Wait. Three days ago? That was…?”

“Tuesday.”

“Right. Okay. I love Faidley’s. What’d I have?”

“Son, you had crab cakes. What else?”

“My bad. Beers?”

“Three.”

“Sounds about right. Who paid?”

“I treated.”

“Yeah, it was your turn. So, who’re we ducking here?”

“My mother.”

“Good idea.” Silence. Then, “Is that it?”

“Yes. No.” Chris inhaled, exhaled, and then made it official by saying it out loud. “Tomorrow evening I’m asking Ronnie to marry me.”

“Hey, another good idea. You using Popping the Question?”

“Yeah.”

“Good people, huh?”

“The best.”

“Dianna?”

“Yeah. She’s setting it up.”

“Where?”

“The Palm.”

“Excellent. She’s nice looking, huh?”

“Who?”

“Keep up, man. Dianna West.”

“Oh. Yeah. Very.”

“The secretary’s scary.”

“She’s afraid of computers.”

“No shit? Why?”

“Got fired because of them.”

“It happens.”

“Yeah. I’m going to try to get her over it.”

“If anyone can, it’s you. So, congratulations, man.”

“For what?”

“Getting engaged.”

“Oh. Right. Well, hold that thought until she says yes.”

“She will. You and Ronnie are good together.”

Chris hesitated, then said: “You really think so?”

“I do. But you’d better, too. Got to be sure here, Chris.”

“I am. I’m sure. We’re good. How’s Joanna?”

“Steaming along. Got a big promotion at work.”

“Hey, great. She deserves it.”

“That’s what I said.”

“And your folks?”

“Off to Colorado.”

“Why?”

“Buffalo season.”

“Lying bastard.”

“No, seriously. They got an RV and want that John Denver ‘Rocky Mountain High’ thing, I guess, who knows?”

“Damn. Old geezers lose their reflexes, their hearing, and their eyesight, then they buy a four-ton house-on-wheels.”

“You got it. Stay off the highways, dude. So, we done here?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Okay. Hey, let me know how the thing with Ronnie goes, all right?”

“Sure. You’ll be the first person I call. Hey, be my best man?”

“You bet. I got your back. See ya.”

“See ya. Thanks again.”

“No problem-o. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Chris hung up at the same time as Rick did. See? Mission accomplished. Couldn’t be easier. Why did women have to make everything so hard? And why, all of a sudden, did there have to be more than one of them complicating his life?

*   *   *

“So, are you nervous?”

Chris stood, tense and irritable, in the wonderfully intimate, wood-paneled, low-lit private dining room of the Palm restaurant on Saturday evening. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

“That’s normal, but try not to, okay?” Dianna was fluffing some exotic flower arrangement that sat atop the white-clothed, round dining table and not looking at him. Totally in work mode. “It would put a definite damper on the romantic atmosphere.”

“No doubt.” Chris could not stop himself from hungrily watching every movement of Dianna’s about the room as she, apparently oblivious to the torture he was going through, now fussed with arranging and rearranging the as yet unlit candles placed to either side of the flowers.

Outside the closed French doors to the room, which were directly at his back, he could hear people laughing and talking and carrying on as if this were an ordinary night. It wasn’t. And it was all Dianna’s fault. “Who knew you’d be this damned efficient and could get everything set up so fast, Dianna?”

A candlestick in each hand, she finally looked his way, did a double take, and raised her eyebrows. “Chris, I can see the whites of your eyes. Now, come away from those doors. It’s too late to bolt for freedom.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“No, seriously.” She set the candles down, cocked her head to eye them critically, and added: “Roman could come through the doors at any moment with a full tray. You wouldn’t want him to knock into you and fling food everywhere, would you?”

“No, but why would he have a tray? I haven’t ordered anything yet. And whoever heard of a guy named Roman, anyway? What kind of a name is that for a waiter?”

Dianna again gave him her full attention. With an eyebrow raised and her lips pursed, she looked like a reproving elementary-school teacher. “Chris, I am going to cut you some slack, based on your nerves. But be nice. Roman is Eastern European, and he’s very good at his job.”

So why was she defending Roman? She should be on his side. “He may be, but I’ll never know. I can’t understand a word he says. I’ll spend all evening saying ‘What?’ or order the trout and he hears lamb. I hate lamb. Who eats lambs anyway? That’s sick.”

Now Dianna sighed, sending him the same harassed-mother look his own mother had worn all his teenage years. “Chris, if you keep up in this vein, you’re going to end up having to breathe into a paper bag.”

Chris frowned his eyebrows down over his nose. “I wanted to go to the Brass Elephant. I like Italian.”

“And I told you I checked and they were booked. Some big private party.”

“So you just called here and they were available?”

She cocked a hip and clamped a hand to her waist. “Nothing is that easy. Lenny and Olivia were supposed to have this room tonight. But Olivia got a head cold and they had to cancel.”

“Somehow I just knew this was all Lenny and Olivia’s fault.”

“Anyway,” Dianna said pointedly, “I simply substituted you and Veronica.”

“You’re telling me that I have the same taste as Lenny Daschowitz?”

“No. Only the same room. Everything was upgraded for you. And you will be fine because the people here are every bit as wonderful as their award-winning cuisine.”

“You sound like a promotional brochure.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You know what? Even if you can’t, I’m going to stick to the point.”

“Which is?” Chris suddenly had no idea why he was picking this fight with Dianna, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“Everyone here has worked very hard to pull this together and see that this evening goes well for you. Everyone.”

Seeing the appeal in her eyes, and feeling its effect on his mood—could he be a bigger shit right now?—Chris relented. “I know they have, and you have. Look, I’m sorry, Dianna. I really am. I’m just saying this didn’t have to take place this weekend. I needed time to get used to the idea, really. That’s all I’m saying.” He rubbed agitatedly at his forehead. “Hell, I should have just done something simple like pop the question at McDonald’s.”

Finally, a smile from Dianna. “Somehow, Chris, I don’t see Veronica at McDonald’s. Picture this: You give her the ring and the kid behind the counter asks her if she wants fries with that. Not a pretty picture.”

“You got that right. But I’m just shook here. Needed more time.”

“So you said. Only, I couldn’t wait, Chris. I needed to do this now.”

Something about the way she said that had Chris frowning. “Why?”

Dianna started to speak, closed her mouth, stared silently at him, and then looked down and away, fiddling with the tablecloth, straightening wrinkles that weren’t there. “Because I have other clients to focus on. And because I want those computers,” she said quietly.

“That’s not what you were going to say.” Even as he said it, Chris knew he shouldn’t be prodding this conversation along—not here, and not tonight. But he couldn’t seem to help himself. There was so much left unsaid between the two of them; so much that suddenly seemed urgent to say. “Come on, Dianna, talk to me.”

She abandoned her fluffing of the table’s accoutrements and faced him directly. “There’s nothing to talk about. Look where you are and what you’re getting ready to do. End of story.”

“Maybe.”

A look of disbelief had her raising her eyebrows. “Maybe?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“Chris, the Mona Lisa is less enigmatic than you are right now.”

“I don’t know about enigmatic, but I am hungry. You want to cut for McDonald’s with me? That sounded kind of good. I’m thinking a Big Mac.”

Dianna pursed her lips. “I will personally kill you if you even think about leaving here right now. Look, you’re just nervous. It’s normal. Maybe you’d feel better if we did a run-through.”

“A run-through?”

“A rehearsal of sorts. Do you have the ring?”

“The ring.”

Apparently he hadn’t exuded certainty with his response because Dianna crossed the small room with quick, stiff strides and clutched at his arm, turning imploring eyes up at him. “Tell me you have the ring.”

“Okay. I have the ring. I do. I have it.” She let go of him, and Chris patted himself down, now faking a panic. “Oh, shit. The ring.” Dianna’s expression fell. Laughing, Chris said, “Just kidding.” He patted his chest, indicating the inside pocket of his suit coat. “Right here.”

“Chris, that was not funny. If you had any idea how many times my clients have forgotten to bring the ring.” Dianna consulted her watch, a slim, gold, feminine thing. A fleeting expression of pain, maybe, crossed her face and was gone. She looked at Chris. “Ten minutes before nine. Veronica should be here soon.”

She said it like “my life will then be over.” Or was he imagining it? He didn’t know. He couldn’t sort the wheat from the chaff of other people’s emotions tonight. Not with his own in such turmoil. In fact, right now his heart threatened to pound right out of his chest—just explode through his skin like that thing in Alien that got after Sigourney Weaver. “Did you have to tell me the time? I thought you were trying to calm me down, Dianna. Knowing that the moment is nearly at hand doesn’t calm me down—”

“Chris.” She clutched his arms and really gripped them tight. “Look at me. Breathe.”

Hard to do, especially with her almost hugged up against him, but he tried. He did, nodding and indicating that he was better now. “All right. Under control here. It’s all good. Besides, Ronnie won’t be here on time. She’s always late.”

“Not a problem. We’re not on anyone’s time clock here. Well, I mean you do have to vacate at closing time.”

“When’s that?”

“Midnight.”

“We won’t be here that long.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Ronnie has an early day tomorrow. A law seminar.”

Dianna looked totally appalled. “She’s calling it an early night on the very evening you ask her to marry you?”

“It was already scheduled. But she doesn’t know I’m going to ask her, remember. And, let’s face it, she might say no. Like I said, an early night.”

“Chris, every man I’ve ever represented has thought his girlfriend would say no.” She sounded so downhearted. “Now, let’s look at you.” She eyed him critically, much as she had the room … so calm and collected … and then he saw her throat working and heard the hitch in her breathing. “So. You’re fine. Wonderful, in fact. You look great.”

“Thanks. But I hate wearing a suit. Against the techno-geek code.”

Dianna raised her head until her gaze met his. She smiled, sort of a wounded-fawn smile. Chris clenched his hands into fists to keep from pulling her to him and holding her close and stroking her hair. It wasn’t a lack of courage, he knew, that kept him from doing that very thing. Instead, it was the realization that tonight didn’t belong to him and Dianna. It belonged to Ronnie. He owed her this moment. One entanglement with a female at a time. That was the rule. Chris fussed around in his new suit, tugging on the jacket, pulling at his tie. “Have I said yet that I hate wearing a suit?”

“Yes. And I said you look great in it.” Her smile now was more a teasing, friendly one. But she quickly lowered her gaze away from his eyes and pointed to his chest. “I especially love this thin pinstripe. Very dashing.”

“I hate it.”

“You said that.”

“Good. So what do I do now?”

“Well. Okay.” She folded her hands together and looked around at all the arrangements. Then she focused on him. “Let’s do a trial run. We’ll get that big question and all the nerves that go with it out of the way.”

“What question? What are you talking about?”

“Chris.” Dianna turned her face up to him, her golden eyes liquid with meaning. “Popping the question. Asking the woman you love to marry you.”

He nodded. “All right. Dianna, will you marry me?” The words were out even before he knew he was thinking them. What the hell was going on here?

Suddenly the air crackled with awareness and electricity. Staring into Dianna’s surprise-rounded eyes, Chris felt the hairs on his arms stand up. He fully expected the crystal sconces hung on the walls to pop and shatter, so thick was the atmosphere with desire and anticipation as he held Dianna’s gaze. His mouth dry, Chris swallowed, certain he could actually feel his blood coursing through his veins. “So, Dianna, what do you say? Will you marry me?”

He noticed that she had to inhale through her slightly opened mouth, a mouth he very much wanted to kiss. “That’s not funny,” she said. “You’re here to ask Veronica. Not me.”

Talk about bursting a balloon with a pin. Prick. Pop. The moment was over. The air cleared; Chris’s blood cooled. “Right. I’m sorry, Dianna. I don’t know what all that was about. I wasn’t trying to be funny. It just … came out.”

“It’s okay. Really. No big deal.” As if she were looking for something she’d mislaid in the room, she cut her gaze here and there. “Uh, why don’t you go ahead and be seated? And I’ll…” Her voice trailed off. She set herself in resolute motion, heading for the closed French doors to the room. “I’ll just go have Roman bring you a drink. What would you like? I seem to remember rum and Coke.”

“Dianna. Stop.” He put a hand out to her, but of course she was already out of range. “Have a drink with me.”

She turned to look back at him. Her expression said she’d closed herself off to him. “Sorry. I’m on the clock.”

“But it’s my clock. And I’m asking you to have a drink with me.”

She tensed. “On second thought, maybe you shouldn’t have a drink.”

“On second thought, I think I need one. I’m about to pass out.” He wasn’t, but he thought it would get her attention.

It did. “Don’t you even think about it, mister.” She stalked back over to him and clasped his arm. “Think good, positive thoughts.”

Now he had her where he wanted her—in front of him and touching him. “You mean like Veronica saying yes?”

Something indefinable flickered in Dianna’s eyes, darkening them. “Okay.”

Damn her. She wasn’t going to allow this thing between them. But what the hell did he expect her to do? As she’d just said, he was here to ask Veronica to marry him. So what did he expect Dianna to do? Orchestrate some big emotional end-of-the-movie scene where she confessed her love for him and he ran away with her? Hardly. “So,” he began, mad for some reason he didn’t want to explore, couldn’t afford to explore. “Thinking good thoughts. Veronica saying yes. Visualizing it. Seeing it happen.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, Chris.”

“Believe me, I am. Very seriously.”

Nodding, acting as if she didn’t want to be in his way, Dianna stepped back, away from him, and crossed her arms under her breasts. She looked great, Chris decided, standing there in a sleeveless slim black dress that ended above her knees. She’d pinned her dark hair up off her neck. Very Audrey Hepburn slender and graceful.

Warning: I can’t keep doing this. Knowing the truth of that, and going for light banter, Chris wagged a finger up and down Dianna’s figure. “So, is this your disguise? It’s not very good, if it is. I’d certainly notice you. In fact, I already have.”

“That’s because I’m standing in front of you. And it’s not a disguise. I never said I’d be in a disguise.”

“Veronica will notice you.”

“Only if I’m standing here in this room with the two of you. Which I most definitely won’t be doing.”

“Why not? You could hide behind that big fake potted palm over there.” He pointed to one in a corner of the room.

Dianna’s gaze followed his pointing finger. “A great idea. Why didn’t I think of that?”

He was doing it again, admiring her profile, watching her, wanting her and wanting to say Stop this speeding, out-of-control train. “Dianna,” Chris heard himself say. She met his gaze. “Veronica is due here at any minute. Tell me, if she came through that door right now and saw us like this, what could we say was going on?”

Shaking her head, Dianna opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it. Blinking, looking somehow emotional, she stared up at him, her eyes rounded gold disks, like molten precious metal. “I don’t know.”

Though he knew all the reasons why not, why he shouldn’t, Chris suddenly felt he had to push her, had to get a response from her. It was that important. “Okay, you don’t know. Well, here’s something else, Dianna. What if she does say no? What would that mean for you and me?”

She looked genuinely perplexed by that. Not a good sign. As if she’d never even considered them a him and a her. “Me and you? There is no me and you, Chris. This is about business. You’re my client. That’s all there is to it.”

Despite her denial, which he didn’t believe, Chris was on fire, full of that passion he kept saying he didn’t feel. “Do you really believe that, Dianna? That’s all there is between us—a professional relationship? And that’s it?”

“I don’t know.” She’d raised her voice and looked scared or uncertain. “Why are you doing this, Chris? Why now? Why tonight?”

“Because after tonight, it can’t be said, Dianna. It’s now or never.”

She hugged herself, sending him a beseeching look that made him feel like a jerk for taking this tack. “Veronica is not going to turn you down, Chris. I can’t imagine any woman turning you down.”

“Thanks. Yet, she very well could.”

“So, is this a pride thing? If it is, I’ll be so disappointed in you.”

“It’s not pride. I’m just being realistic.”

“About what? Trying to steel your heart against the possibility of her saying no? Is that it?”

Chris shrugged. “Not as much as you’d think.”

“Because if it is, I see this all the time.”

“You’re not listening to me, Dianna. And, no, not this you don’t.”

Frowning, Dianna studied his face. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Okay, then tell me how what you’re feeling is different.”

“Here’s the thing, and it’s hard for me to admit. See, I just don’t know”—since I met you—“if I’m hoping more for a yes or a no from her tonight. I don’t know which one will upset me more.”

Dianna’s eyebrows arched upward. “Oh, Chris, then what are we doing here? Why did you have me set this up?” She shook a finger at him. “And before you think of it, let me say up front that my concern here has nothing to do with money or keeping my business’s one-hundred-percent track record intact.”

“I knew that, Dianna.” No sense kidding himself. He wanted to hear her say she was concerned about him.

Dianna roved her gaze over his face. “My concern here is totally for you. And quit smiling like that. Just let me point one thing out to you: If you’re not sure of Veronica’s feelings for you, or your feelings for her, all you have to do, Chris, is not ask her tonight.”

“What, and chicken out?” Go back to the way he and Ronnie had been before he got this crazy idea to ask her to marry him? Go back to the uncertainty and the vague dissatisfaction? Have nothing reconciled? Then throw in what he felt, could feel, or thought he might feel, for Dianna? No, thanks. “Major ulcer” was written all over that. “And put myself through this again at some later date? No.”

“I swear, you are such a guy, Chris.” She didn’t mean it in a nice way. “This—tonight, here, all of this—is the rest of your life. It’s not about chickening out. It’s about, well, love. And getting it right. The face on the pillow next to yours every morning. The important stuff.”

“I know all that, believe me. Why do you think I’m acting like a jackass? I have no clue if I’m doing the right thing. I thought I knew. But now I don’t and I think I’ll take that drink now.”

“What?” He’d caught her off guard. “Oh. The drink. All right. I’ll go get it and bring it to you.” Dianna made as if to hurry off again.

“No.” This time Chris succeeded in snagging her before she got away. Her bare arm felt warm and firm in his grip. He turned her to face him, clasping her now by both arms. “I want to go to the bar, and I want you to have a drink with me.”

“We’ve been over this, Chris. I can’t. I have to go check on … things.”

“There are no things left to check on. We both know that.”

She stood quietly in front of him and lowered her gaze to about the level of his tie tack. But she didn’t pull away. Their pose could only be called intimate. He wanted nothing more than to lean down and kiss her forehead right at her hairline. It looked so tantalizingly sweet and innocent—

With a bang, the double French doors to the room suddenly opened inward. Everything happened at once. Chris’s breath caught, Dianna gasped, he let go of her, and they both turned to see—

Roman the European standing there. If he’d noticed anything untoward about their intimate pose and guilty breaking apart, he gave no hint of it. He did, though, speak in heavily accented English, looking from Dianna to Chris and back as he spouted an entire paragraph of words that Chris stood no chance of fathoming. Then Dianna said, “Okay. Thank you,” and Roman nodded and bowed and backed out of the private dining room, closing the doors after him.

Alone again with Dianna, Chris looked to her. “What the hell did he say?”

Her expression unreadable, Dianna fisted her hands at her hips and stared up at Chris. “Oh, he said a lot, but the bottom line is we have a little more time than we thought.” Dianna smiled up at him. “So, sailor, wanna buy me a drink in the bar?”