All Night Long (8 page)

"Oh, my dear." Millicent gave a little trill of laughter. "You're very welcome. But it wasn't I who noticed the steam coming out of your ears. It was Matthew. He sent me to get you. Here she is, dear, temper intact," she said to her son as they entered the foyer, "and none the worse for wear."

Millicent stood back, watching consideringly as Matt solicitously helped Susannah on with her coat. Then she stepped forward and took Susannah's shoulders in her hands. "It was lovely to meet you," she said, surprising Susannah with a light kiss on the cheek. "I hope you'll visit again." She turned to her son, presenting her cheek for his goodbye kiss. "Have a nice dinner, you two," she said cheerily, and went back to her other guests.

Susannah waited to comment on that until they were on the other side of the front door. "Dinner?" she said, giving Matt a slanted, sideways look.

Matt shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "I had to give her some reason why we weren't going on to the concert with the rest of them."

"Oh." That made sense. "Right." She tugged the lapels of her camel-hair coat closer against the creeping San Francisco fog and followed him down the wide front steps and through the open wrought-iron gate to the sidewalk.

"I was planning on grabbing a quick bite to eat somewhere after I dropped you off at your place." He glanced at her as they crossed the sloping sidewalk to the American-made luxury car parked at the curb. "But if you haven't eaten yet...?"

"Well, no," she said slowly, knowing she shouldn't even be thinking what she was thinking, "I haven't, but..."

"I know this great little out-of-the-way place in North Beach," Matt said as he opened the car door for her.

"Italian?"

Matt nodded. "Of course."

"Hmm." Susannah hesitated, as if her mind weren't already made up. "Italian
is
my favorite."

"And you have to eat tonight, anyway."

"True."

"We could discuss what you learned about my mother tonight. What kind of man you think she'd like."

"A business dinner?"

Matt nodded. If she wanted to call it a business dinner, that was fine by him—just as long as they both knew what was really going on. "Sure," he said, "why not?"

"All right," she said, throwing caution and good sense to the wind. She got into the car. "Italian it is, then."

Chapter 4

They had to park around the corner from the North Beach restaurant, in a small lot with one light pole and uneven pavement. A short, poorly lit alley ran between the buildings to the street. Matt used the less-than-perfect conditions as the perfect excuse to touch Susannah, cupping her elbow to guide her around a pothole and then, a moment later, sliding his hand to the small of her back, ostensibly to guide her in the direction of the restaurant.

Smooth move,
thought Susannah, making no protest when his hand moved from the small of her back to gently ride the curve of her waist. It wasn't as if he could actually feel anything through the heavy fabric of her coat, anyway. And his hand did feel good there. Warm and, well, just...good. His arm behind her back made her feel oddly sheltered, as if he would protect her from any dangers lurking in the shadows.

Not, she assured herself, that she actually needed any protection. Once they were through the alley and out on the sidewalk, the footing was perfectly even and safe. And there were so many people around that it was hard to avoid being jostled by them. The worst that could happen was that she might get her purse snatched.

But she still didn't move away from his touch.

* * *

"Do you like Chianti?" Matt asked a few minutes later, without even opening the leather-bound wine list the waiter had handed to him.

Susannah barely glanced up from her menu. "Chianti's fine," she said, her mouth already watering at the descriptions of Italian delicacies listed on the menu.

"Two glasses of the house wine," Matt ordered, handing the wine list back to the waiter. "And an order of bruschet—" he broke off and glanced across the table. "Do you object to garlic?"

Susannah raised an eyebrow. "In Italian food?"

Matt smiled, acknowledging her point. "An order of bruschetta to start," he said to the waiter. "Then I'll have the eggplant parmigiana. Susannah?" He waited until she looked up at him again. "Are you ready to order?"

Susannah closed her menu, giving in to temptation without a fight. "Three-cheese lasagna with white sauce," she said, promising herself she'd only eat half of it. She handed her menu to the waiter with a smile of thanks.

"Very good," the waiter said approvingly, as if they had ordered exactly what he would have chosen himself. He took the menus and the wine list and disappeared.

It was very quiet at the small cloth-draped table after the waiter left. Too quiet. Unnervingly quiet. A veritable haven of quiet in the busy little restaurant. They smiled at each other across the candlelit table, suddenly uneasy, oddly hesitant.

Susannah moved her spoon a millimeter closer to her knife and tried desperately to think of something to say.

Matt positioned the saltshaker more precisely on the tablecloth and wondered what had happened to his savoir faire.

They both reached for their water glasses at the same time.

Susannah took a sip of water.

Matt took a sip of water.

They put the glasses down at the same instant and chanced another fleeting glance at each other, another nervous smile.

Susannah looked down and adjusted the napkin in her lap.

Matt reached out and plucked a slender bread stick from the container sitting in the middle of the table. He broke it in half between his long fingers. "Bread stick?" he asked, feeling like a fool. He hadn't been this tongue-tied around a woman since junior high school.

"Yes, thank you," Susannah said gratefully, reaching for it as if he'd offered her a lifeline.

They nibbled in silence for another long few seconds.

"Good bread sticks."

"Yes, they are."

More silence.

"How did you—"

"How is—"

They gazed at each other for a full five seconds, and then, mercifully, burst out laughing at their adolescent silliness. It broke the tension, freeing them from the stilted, unnatural silence.

"You go ahead," Susannah invited graciously.

"Ladies first," Matt insisted gallantly.

"I was only going to ask how your campaign is going."

Matt shrugged. "According to the
Examiner,
I'm ahead in the polls. According to the
Chronicle,
I'm behind. Which means it's way too early to be making any predictions. Especially when you realize that over half the people polled have absolutely no idea who I am in the first place. District judge isn't one of those positions most people know, or care, anything about," he explained with a shrug.

"What does your campaign manager think about your chances?"

"Harry says if I get out there and campaign hard for the next five months, I'm a shoo-in come November. Provided I don't make any really stupid mistakes in the meantime, that is."

"You don't sound as if you agree with him."

"Oh, I agree with him. I think I stand an excellent chance of winning my father's old seat on the bench. I just don't like the idea very much, that's all."

"You don't like the idea of what?" Susannah's expressive eyebrows rose. "Winning your father's old seat?"

Matt gave her a look that said she should know better than that. "Campaigning," he said dryly.

Susannah shook her head. "And you call yourself a politician," she chided playfully.

"I call myself a lawyer," he corrected. "And I can't be a lawyer and campaign the way Harry expects me to at the same time."

"Then why are you running for district judge? You had to know what it would involve before you agreed to it."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

"Are you saying you
didn't
know?"

"Oh, I knew," he admitted. "On some basic level, anyway. I just didn't expect the process to be so..." He fell discreetly silent as the waiter returned to set their wine and appetizer on the table. "All-encompassing," he finished when the waiter was out of earshot again.

"All-encompassing how?"

"Campaigning tends to take over your life," Matt said. "And it can easily become a full-time job, if you let it. I can't afford to let it. I've got a court calendar that's backed up from here to last Christmas. The Delaney murder trial is scheduled for August and one of my key witnesses has suddenly changed her mind about what she saw. The conviction in the Mendoza drug case is up for appeal." He shook his head. "Despite what Harry says, I can't be running around to every pancake breakfast and Rotary Club luncheon to shake hands and make speeches. I have more impor—" He broke off suddenly and stared at her across the width of the small table. She was leaning slightly forward, chin balanced on her fist, head tilted, listening raptly to every word he said. "So this is how you get your clients to spill their guts," he said, more than a bit discomforted to realize he'd been spilling his. He wasn't usually so forthcoming. "Very sneaky."

Susannah ignored the teasing comment. "It sounds to me as if you're not completely committed to the campaign," she said, her expression serious and thoughtful. "Are you sure you want to be a judge?"

Matt stared at her for a second, nonplussed. No one had ever asked him that question before, not directly. He hadn't even asked it of himself. "Of course I want to be a judge," he said lightly. "I've wanted it my whole life."

Just not yet
.

He hastily pushed the traitorous, unwelcome thought aside and reached for his wineglass. Holding it aloft, he waited until Susannah echoed his gesture and lifted hers, too. "To romance," he said, deliberately changing the subject.

"Romance?" Susannah murmured, disconcerted by the abrupt change of topic.

"My mother's," he clarified, smiling innocently at her over the rim of his glass. His savoir faire, he was happy to note, was firmly back in place. The nerves were gone. And thoughts of whether he did or didn't want to run for district judge were best left for another time. "The one she's going to have as soon as you find her a suitable date."

"Oh. Yes, of course," Susannah agreed. It
was
the reason they were having dinner together. "To romance." She took a small, quick sip of her wine and put it down. "I think you'll be pleased to know that, after meeting her tonight, I think I have the perfect man."

"Oh?" He lifted a thin slice of bruschetta—grilled garlic bread coated with a mixture of chopped tomatoes, onions, garlic, capers and herbs—and placed it on a small plate in front of Susannah before taking one for himself. "Who?"

"I don't think you'd know him. He hasn't been in California long." She picked up her bruschetta between two fingers. "Ever hear of Carlisle Elliott?"

Matt shook his head.

"He's a widower. Sixty-four. Average height. Average weight. Very healthy and active. And quite attractive, too. He looks a little like Cesar Romero, only shorter. Anyway, he moved out here six months ago after selling his nursery business in Iowa." Susannah took a bite of the single slice of bruschetta she'd already determined was all she was going to allow herself, pausing for a moment to savor the sublime mixture of tastes. "He lives over in Sausalito," she said, after she had swallowed. "On a houseboat."

"He lives on a houseboat?" Matt's savoir faire deserted him again for a brief moment as he watched Susannah lick a bit of crushed tomato off the side of her finger with the tip of her little pink tongue.

"Now, don't be a snob, Matt," Susannah advised him, completely misinterpreting the strangled note in his voice. "Your mother certainly isn't. And she's the one who'll be going out with him."

* * *

"So your grandmother left you the house and a trust fund. That still doesn't tell me how you got from County Social Services to The Personal Touch," Matt said, handing her an extra fork so she could share his cannoli. Although she'd declined to order a dessert for herself, she'd looked at his as if it was the Holy Grail and the Hope Diamond combined. "From what I know of you so far, I'd have expected you to open a halfway house or a shelter for battered women or something along those lines. Not a dating service."