“Excellent choices,” the no-nonsense waiter said, turning to smile at Grace. “And welcome to our humble island. I know you’ll love every bite of the ravioli. It’s seafood tonight. Magnifico,” he said, kissing his fingertips.
Once the waiter had hurried off, Zeke didn’t know how to progress through the awkward initial phase of being out with a woman—the time after the food order had been taken and the drinks or salad hadn’t yet arrived as an icebreaker.
Grace opened her purse. She extracted a packet of folded papers—and filled the emptiness for Zeke. “Here are my permits. You said you wanted to see them. Now’s probably the best time. Then I can stow them away again without the risk of getting marinara sauce all over them.” Her mouth tilted up prettily on one side.
Zeke reached out blindly, thoroughly captivated by a deep dimple winking at him from her soft-looking cheek. He fumbled and dropped the papers atop a candle flickering in a red glass holder. “Jeez,” he yelped, snatching them away, and slapping them on the table to douse the flame.
“Ah, so that’s your plan,” Grace teased. “You think if you set them on fire and turn them into cinders, I’ll have to give up my quest. Sorry to disappoint you, Zeke, but I had copies made at the hotel before I went up to shower. The originals now reside in the hotel safe.”
“I didn’t drop them on purpose,” he muttered gruffly, feeling his cheeks heat. “I didn’t actually access them, but I’m aware they’re on file at our courthouse. I went there after we talked. I needed to check out Kemper’s options before phoning my boss at his office in Dallas.”
“Oh. So then you know I have salvage rights for as long as it takes to explore the floor of the bay.”
Zeke adjusted the pages so the low candlepower highlighted the intent and the signatures. He studied the permits, folding them closed as their waiter returned with a wine bottle and crisp house salads. Pulling the cork, the waiter offered him a taste. Zeke nodded in approval and the man poured their glasses. After a sip, Zeke set her papers aside. “These are mine, you say?”
Grace shrugged. “If you want. I assure you they’re valid.” She dug into her greens.
“I’m sure they are. However, I’d like to fax copies to Pace Kemper. He’s not going to be happy,” Zeke muttered right before he speared a cherry tomato. “Any delay costs Kemper Oil money. But I think you know that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, in the offhand way people did when they didn’t really care. While Zeke shifted salad aimlessly on his plate, Grace steadily ate hers.
Zeke put down his fork and twirled his glass. “You aren’t sorry. If you were, Grace, you’d pack in your search and let us go on about the business of drilling for oil that U.S. consumers depend on. It’s a necessity. I’d hoped you’d see that we’re involved in a serious debate here.”
Grace pushed away her empty bowl. “Well, you’re blunt. Is that what your employer believes? That I’d let a little wine and a meal convince me to quit? Just like that?” She set down her fork and snapped her fingers. “I don’t happen to consider my mission frivolous.”
Zeke’s irritation showed for a moment in his tightly pressed lips. He blotted away the bad taste with his napkin; as he crumpled it in his right hand, he muttered, “Frivolous is your term. You’re jumping to conclusions, Ms. Stafford.”
“Grace. And no, I don’t think I am. What’s this about if not to buy me off?”
“Grace, my boss asked me to try and negotiate an amicable agreement for us both. Pace Kemper is a reasonable man who happens to believe it’s more conducive to talk business over a nice meal.”
As if on cue, the waiter appeared and began to slide a variety of steaming, aromatic dishes between Zeke and Grace. Zeke grabbed up the permits moments before a plate of ravioli would have landed on top of them.
“May I bring you anything else?” the waiter asked, efficiently removing their salad plates as he topped up their barely touched wineglasses. “Is the wine to your liking, sir?”
“What?” Zeke tore his eyes from Grace. “Oh, it’s great.” He took a healthy swig.
Grace could only gape at the amount of food. Zeke was the one to ask belatedly for grated Parmesan on the spaghetti and the lasagna. “This all looks so fantastic. I hope you have a big family, Zeke. I doubt we’ll make much of a dent. I foresee most of this going home with you.” She dished up generous servings to her plate from each platter. Yes, she acknowledged, she was fishing as to who this handsome man had waiting for him at home. Grace told herself it was mere curiosity and a way to steer him off business talk for a while. She so rarely went out to dinner with someone else picking up the tab, and Grace wanted to relax and enjoy tonight’s experience.
She was a teacher in an elementary school where most of her co-workers were also female, so eating out was always Dutch treat. At one time she’d begun dating a science teacher she’d met on a district project; later she’d discovered that he had lied and was married. Deception hurt. She hadn’t recovered from it yet.
Zeke avoided her bait. He didn’t respond and made no apology for it. But it pleased him immensely to see her tuck into her food. Eating kept them both occupied for a while. Until Zeke glanced across the table and said, “Based on your setup, I take it salvage isn’t what you do for a living.”
Grace shook her head. “I’m a first-grade teacher. In San Antonio. That’s how I could take on this project. It’s summer break. I don’t need to be back in school until the day after Labor Day.”
“A teacher?” That jolted Zeke. He took another swig of wine. “So, what’s your experience with undersea salvage? It can be dangerous, you know.”
“This bay isn’t all that deep. And I happen to believe a person can learn any skill through reading up on it. Libraries are a great source for how-to books, Zeke. I bought used but serviceable equipment. I know what I’m doing.”
“That damned boat is a piece of junk.”
“Well…” Grace turned her eyes away. “I didn’t get realistic figures on boat rentals in this area. It seems the costs I was given pertain to out of season boats—when the shrimp aren’t running. But Jorge is confident his boat will suffice for my needs.”
Zeke rolled his eyes.
“Worried about my welfare?” she asked with a hint of challenge.
“Nope. I’m calculating the added cost to Kemper if Jorge’s damned boat sinks over where we have to dig our well. I didn’t factor in clearing the bay of debris.”
“You’re all heart, Rossetti.” Grace reached for the tortellini plate to take a second helping, but Zeke shot out a hand. They both pulled back fast, as though shocked by the brush of callused palm against soft flesh.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, her hand hovering above the table. “Am I being piggish? I told you I had a big appetite.”
“Nothing close to that. Eat all you want. I just wanted to mention that they serve homemade spumoni ice cream for dessert here. I always save room for a dishful with my coffee.”
Grace gazed longingly at the tortellini, but she sat back. “In case you can’t tell, I’m torn. I’ve never tasted homemade spumoni ice cream. I can’t pass up trying something new.”
“Are you a runner?”
“Me?” Grace laughed. “I’m the least athletic person I know. I swim and scuba dive because I grew up outside Corpus and there wasn’t much else to do for entertainment when