“Yes, but the crisis is over,” Avi retorted. “Now is the time to attend to my body’s needs.”
Well, hell. There went her stomach jumping around like an excited puppy again. She was not interested in his body’s needs—hunger or otherwise.
“How about that supper you and I were going to have?” Avi asked her.
Panic flitted through her belly. “Are you hungry, sir?” she asked Torsten. “Do you want to join us?”
“Nah. I’ll have a pile of incident reports to fill out after this mess. I’m going to head back to the office and get started on that. You two go eat.”
Her and the hot Israeli alone? Together? She didn’t know whether to be delighted or terrified... Definitely terrified. She’d never dated anyone in remotely the same realm of hotness—not a date, dammit. It would be a working supper. No more.
He glanced at Avi. “Can I give you two a ride somewhere?”
“Sure. Drop us off at the north gate.”
He wanted to leave the village, did he? She’d assumed they would just go to the huge, inflatable tent that was the village dining hall. The white tent would easily hold two football fields and was ringed with food stations offering literally any kind of food a person could imagine, from every corner of the world. Chefs and food were shipped in to meet the wants and needs of each delegation present.
They arrived at the gated checkpoint, and Torsten stopped the cart. Avi hopped off and held out a hand to help her out of the backseat. More hesitantly than she wanted to let on, she laid her hand in his palm. His hand was big and warm and gentle, encompassing hers lightly as his fingers wrapped around her hand.
She had no doubt that hand could crush her windpipe. Casually. Hence the gentleness of Avi’s grip was striking.
Drat. There went her stomach again.
He released her hand, but her stomach didn’t go back to normal.
Sheesh. He was just being polite. And she appreciated the gentlemanly gesture. It was always a bit of a balancing act being around men—she didn’t mind being treated like a lady as long as they understood that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, too.
Although truth be told, she doubted Avi actually took her the least bit seriously. The good news: it wasn’t her job to convince him of anything. She was merely here to trade information on Mahmoud Akhtar and then get on with her regularly scheduled life.
Avi, however, seemed inclined to go for a stroll and enjoy the sights. To that end, he led her away from the gate and wound into the blocked-off streets still impressively jammed with partying pedestrians. With the games starting tomorrow, everybody who planned to attend the Olympics was pretty much in town by now.
“Have you gotten an opportunity to get out and see Sydney, yet?” he asked her, leaning in close to be heard without shouting.
Gosh dog it, she really did need to eat, if for no other reason than to weigh down her stomach and keep it from hopping around like a bunny in her belly.
“I haven’t done any sightseeing,” she confessed. “We hit the ground running when we got here and dived right into helping with our delegation’s security requirements.”
“You Americans. Always in such a hurry.”
“We get more done that way,” she retorted.
“What’s the point, though, if you miss the beauty of life along the way?”
“Philosopher, are you?”
He shrugged. “I enjoy every moment as much as I can. And I try not to take anything for granted before I die. Life’s short, after all.”
“That’s a pretty dark view of the world,” she responded.
“I live in a country where every time you step out of your house you knowingly put your life at risk. And I don’t exactly have a boring, routine job.”
“Still. I try not to dwell on death. I would rather focus on being and staying alive.”
“On that we are in complete accord,” he murmured, ushering her across a blocked-off street crowded with pedestrians. They slipped into a dark little restaurant called The Adler, and the sudden silence was a relief from the noisy party outside.
The bay window of the restaurant held a large, carved wooden mountain with little wooden skiers mounted on its painted slopes, and a collection of cuckoo clocks hanging above it. She was going to go with this being a Swiss-themed joint.
They had no trouble getting a table and sat down in a booth in a back corner. A tea candle in a glass globe gave out most of the light, and the table had an odd well cut into the middle about a foot deep.
“What is this place?” she asked curiously.
“Fondue joint,” Avi replied. “Best cheese fondue this side of Zermatt, Switzerland.”
“Huh. I took you for a steak and potatoes kind of guy.”
He leaned back and grinned. “Perhaps you’re guilty of misjudging me as badly as I initially misjudged you.”
“What did you initially take me for, then?”
“A groupie who managed to sneak into the village to pick up hot athletes,” he answered frankly.
“Gee, thanks,” she replied sarcastically.
He shrugged unapologetically. “You wouldn’t be the first one.”
He wasn’t wrong of course. Just yesterday, the American delegation had chased out a half-dozen drunk Polish guys from the American athlete building. They’d claimed to be looking for an American high jumper who was also a high-fashion model and on the covers of all the fashion magazines these days.
“If you’re not a steak and potatoes guy, then how would you describe yourself?” she challenged.
A waitress came and Avi ordered quickly in German: some sort of meal package for two, and then Rebel’s limited German gave out as he and the waitress conversed in the tongue quickly and fluently, ending on a laugh. Rebel had to stop herself from glaring off the flirting waitress, which privately stunned her. She had never been the jealous type before, and it wasn’t like she had any claim on Avi Bronson, thank you very much.
The waitress brought a fondue pot filled with a creamy cheese sauce, a platter of bread cubes and a handful of long dipping forks.
“It’s hot,” Avi warned her. “Don’t burn your mouth.”
She nodded and dipped a bread cube in the smooth sauce that smelled lightly of wine and Emmentaler cheese. She blew on the bite and popped it in her mouth. “Oh my God,” she groaned. “That’s fantastic.”
“Told you.”
“I will never question your culinary recommendations again.”
He smiled a little as he dipped a cube of his own. “I take my food very seriously.”
“What else do you take seriously? You never answered my question of how you’d describe yourself.”
He shrugged as he swirled a bread cube in the pot. “I would like to think I’m on my way to becoming a Renaissance man. You know what I do for my work. In my free time, I enjoy art, music, reading and good food.”
“What kind of art?” she asked.
“Modern interactive art is my passion, but I enjoy a good Rembrandt as much as the next person.”
“Music?”
“Every kind. Except Nazi-metalhead.”
“Books?”
“That’s a