Biting the Bride (8 page)

“Oh, always busy on a Sunday,” Delia replied. “Just one, or are you meeting someone?”

“Isabel’s coming in a minute.”

“Okay. I’ll find you a good table.”

“Let me see them,” Sunni said, pointing at her friend’s feet.

Delia smiled and lifted her skirt.

“Jimmy Choo. Nice,” Sunni nodded in approval at Delia’s gold gladiator sandals.

Delia showed her to a table near the fountain. A dozen waiters and waitresses wove through the restaurant pushing portable steam tables stacked with bamboo steamers. At each table they whipped the lids off the steamers and offered various dim sum. The diners pointed to the ones they wanted, and their tables were soon filled with the delicious snack-sized morsels.

“Daddy’s in the kitchen,” Delia said. “I’ll tell him you’re here.” She waved and went back to work.

Isabel appeared, looking flushed, glassy-eyed, and happier than Sunni had seen her in years. Not that Isabel had seemed miserable in the past. She was just quiet and self-contained and didn’t express a great deal of emotion about anything. This suited Sunni, who had experienced enough drama in her early childhood to last a lifetime, but she realized now that perhaps it had been selfish of her to wish for nothing more for Isabel than tranquility.

A waiter came by and Sunni ordered jasmine tea for both of them. Then they selected pork bao, shu mai, and several other dim sum from the carts. Within minutes their plates were piled high and they had to wave the waiters away.

Isabel sipped her tea and then dabbed her lip. “Ouch, that’s hot.”

“So, what did Dennis think of Richard Lazarus?” Sunni asked, ferrying a shrimp dumpling to her mouth with chopsticks.

“He said he seemed like a savvy businessman.” Isabel added a little ice water to her teacup, splashing a bit on the tablecloth.

“No, I mean what did he say about our going out to dinner with him?”

“He said that was none of his business.”

“Did he say that, or did you?”

Isabel winked. “I’m not sure.”

Sunni swirled her tea in the cup, wondering what the leaves in the bottom had to say about her fortune.

“What was he thinking, asking us both out? Are we supposed to think this is romantic?” Isabel used a fork to spear a dumpling. Her hands were too shaky for chopsticks.

“Maybe it’s like
The Bachelor,
and he’s going to give one of us a rose at the end of the dinner.”

“I didn’t think you watched that show. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body.”

“I don’t watch the show, I was just trying to make an analogy.”

Isabel put down her fork, looking uncomfortable. “Listen, Sunni, you met him first, and I saw the way you were looking at him. I think you should go to dinner with him.”

Sunni laughed. “I was going to say the same thing, Izzy. And I must say, I think you were looking at him a little more intensely than I was.”

“Was not.”

“Were too.”

The glazed, happy expression returned as Isabel played absently with a strand of her blond hair. “But, he’s such an interesting man. He plays polo, has a co-op in New York, a town house in London, a country estate in Chichester, or was it Coventry?”

“Okay, okay, he’s a catch. So what shall we do?” Sunni asked.

Isabel smiled mischievously. “I think we should both go out to dinner tonight and see who gets the rose!”

A man in a white cook’s jacket appeared at their table, a wide smile on his face. Sherman Wong was obviously old: his back was hunched and his long hair and beard were as white as Santa’s, but his face was remarkably unwrinkled. With his round face and button eyes he looked like a baby wearing a wig and false beard. Sherman had once casually mentioned being in the 1906 earthquake. Sunni knew he had to be joking or confused, but his actual age was a mystery even Delia couldn’t solve.

She stood up and hugged him. Sherman was exactly the same height as Sunni, perhaps the only man she’d ever met who was. She heard him sniff loudly. He leaned back and peered at her, looking perplexed.

“Where have you been, Sunni?” he asked.

“At work, like usual,” she answered.

“Did you meet someone?”

Sunni caught Isabel’s eyes. Isabel raised her eyebrows. Sunni just shrugged.

“I meet people all the time, Sherman.”

Sherman stroked his long beard, narrowing his eyes at her. “No, I think maybe you’ve met someone special. You have that look.”

“What look?” Sunni asked.

“Flushed?” Isabel suggested, with a sly glance at Sunni. “Overheated?”

“If I do it’s just because it’s hot in here.” Sunni crooked a finger into the collar of her blouse. “You should get air-conditioning, Sherman.”

“This is San Francisco. We have natural air-conditioning, it’s called fog.” Sherman smiled, but he hadn’t stopped staring at Sunni. “So what’s his name?”

Sunni waved a dismissive hand at the old man. “I told you I didn’t meet anyone.” She sat back down and redeployed her chopsticks.

Sherman shook his finger at Sunni. “I’ve told you and Delia before, it’s better for you if you stay single.”

“Why’s that, Sherman?” Isabel asked as Sunni shook her head in frustration.

Delia sped by, leading a couple of diners to a table. Sunni could tell they were tourists from their outfits: shorts, cameras around the neck, and newly purchased fleece jackets emblazoned with the Golden Gate Bridge. Tourists came to San Francisco in June expecting the weather to be balmy. They were always sorely disappointed.

Sherman watched Delia’s retreating back with a smile that was tinged with concern. “Because you’re career women, that’s why. It’s not possible for a woman to do both, that’s what I tell my daughter. You have to concentrate on the restaurant, I tell her, or it will fail. The same for your gallery, Sunni.” He turned to Isabel. “But you, my dear, you should get married. Did
you
like the man you two met this morning? ”

“Hold on, hold on, time out!” Sunni stabbed the air in front of the old chef with her chopsticks. “So now Isabel can get married but I can’t?”

“You don’t want to get married, Sunni,” Isabel said gently. “You always say that. ”

She turned her chopsticks on her friend. “No, I don’t, but that’s not the point.”

A waitress passed by, pushing a steam table. Sherman stopped her and pulled a bamboo basket off her cart. He deposited it on the women’s table, removing the lid with a flourish.

“You like the food today? You must try the …” He said an unintelligible word in Chinese and pointed at the dish he’d chosen, a mass of something that resembled boiled cartilage. “We only have it on Sundays.”

“You’re changing the subject, Sherman,” Sunni snapped.

Sherman laughed as he backed away from their table. “I’ve lived with women for a very long time, Sunni. I know when to bow out.”

Chapter 6

Jacob watched a small boy, about five years of age, squeal with delight as he entered the revolving door at the entrance to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel. His indulgent parents stood by as he followed it around and around. After waiting for several revolutions Jacob finally stepped in with the boy. In a few seconds he was in the quiet, orchid-filled lobby, with its soaring ceiling and thick Oriental carpets. He sat down on one of the plush sofas. He was prepared to wait for as long as it took, but it was only half an hour before Richard Lazarus appeared. Of course he hadn’t changed at all since Jacob had seen him last. He was still just as handsome, just as dapper, every bit of him as sharp and hard as a diamond.

Richard paused just as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His head lifted as if he was sniffing the air. Jacob knew he was aware of the presence of another vampire in the room. It took Richard another second to locate Jacob and when he recognized him he visibly relaxed, strolling over with an insouciant smile. Jacob stood up before Richard reached him.

“Why, Jacob Eddington, what a surprise to see you here.” Richard held out a hand, which Jacob ignored.

“Leave now, Richard, and I’ll let you live.” He smiled just enough to show his fangs.

Richard sat down, lifting the fabric of each trouser leg at the knee so that it wouldn’t wrinkle. He had always been fastidious. “How long has it been, Jacob? Twenty-three, twenty-four years? What have you been doing with your time?”

“If you’re not gone by tomorrow morning it will go ill for you.” Jacob had said what he came to say and he started to walk away.

Richard grabbed him by the wrist and stood up in a fluid motion. “You dare to threaten me?”

Jacob pulled out of Richard’s grasp. The air sparked with the tension of their anger. The human occupants of the room intuitively sensed danger, and Jacob noted that several people were watching them with growing alarm. He forcibly calmed himself and let his fangs retract inside his gums. Nothing was going to happen, not in this place.

Richard took a step back and straightened his already perfectly knotted tie. “Jacob, my friend, you didn’t think this out very carefully, did you?”

Jacob said nothing. The other vampire was correct, but what was there to think out?

“You’re looking very well, by the way,” Richard said, a devil’s grin plastered to his face.

“Fuck you,” Jacob replied. He didn’t care for the vulgarity of modern language, but he had to admit that sometimes it was the only way to truly express one’s emotions.

“We have fought before, and we are equally matched. You know this,” Richard said calmly. “If you choose to confront me one of us will die, probably you, since I’ll wager you haven’t been honing your skills in the last two decades as I have been.” Richard reached out and flicked an imaginary speck of dust from Jacob’s shoulder. “And when that happens, who will take care of Sunni?”

Desperation seized Jacob’s body like an iron vise as he absorbed the import of Richard’s words. His fangs descended and his fists clenched. His entire body was seized with an overwhelming desire to kill Richard Lazarus.

Richard bowed at the waist. “It was a pleasure seeing you, Jacob. I’m sure we will meet again soon.”

The interior of Restaurant Gary Danko was what Sunni imagined it might be like inside a womb—dark, warm, and red. The staff moved in slow undulations, as if they were propelling themselves through liquid. The walls were covered with velvety fabric that muted the sounds of voices and clicking silverware. The few windows were also covered in velvet drapery, so the visual effect could be controlled. A maître d’ in a charcoal gray suit led her to a corner table where Isabel and Richard were already seated next to each other on one of two banquettes. When she arrived Richard stood up, a little awkwardly, as he was hemmed in by the table, and gave a slight bow. He didn’t reach for her hand.

Sunni realized immediately that the outfit she’d chosen—black wool trouser suit and a green silk blouse—while appropriate for a business dinner, was woefully casual in this situation. Isabel’s blond hair was arranged in an up-do, with soft curls that drifted down her neck, and her black silk cocktail dress showcased her ample cleavage. A diamond pendant that Sunni had never seen before hung in the cleft between her breasts. There was a competition going on, and Isabel was in it to win.

Sunni slid onto the banquette on the other side of the table, across from Richard Lazarus. He was wearing one of the nicest suits she’d ever seen—blue pin stripe, cut narrow in the waist and shoulders—worn with a cotton shirt that shone like satin. When he smiled at her she felt the same uncomfortable flush come over her that she’d experienced in the gallery. The maître d’ shook out her linen napkin and placed it in her lap, then handed her a padded leather menu the size of a doormat. Disconcerted, she opened her menu so that she could look at something besides him.

“So happy you could join us,” Richard said.

What was that accent of his? Supposedly he was from London, and he did have an accent, but it was different, a bit sharper in the consonants, than a standard British accent. It reminded her of the way Jacob Eddington spoke. Was it possible the two men were from the same place?

“I’ve never been to this restaurant, but I’ve heard great things about it.” Sunni glanced at Isabel’s chest. “That’s a beautiful necklace, Isabel. Is it new?” Sunni asked.

“This old thing? I’ve had it forever,” Isabel said, touching it.

Richard’s eyes settled on Isabel’s chest for the briefest of moments and then skittered away. “Lovely, very lovely,” he said.

Sunni couldn’t tell whether he was speaking of the necklace or the bosom underneath it, but she still experienced a twinge of jealousy. Their waiter, a handsome older man with dark, wavy hair, approached to offer them a cocktail. Richard inquired after the man’s origins, and when he said he was Italian, they engaged in a brief burst of conversation in his native language. Sunni ordered a martini, the strongest drink she could think of. Richard ordered a bottle of twenty-year-old cabernet sauvignon for the table.

Next the waiter brought an amuse-bouche: brie and crab soup served in a shot glass. Richard didn’t touch his, and when the sommelier brought the wine over he indicated that Isabel should approve it. She tasted it and pronounced it delicious.

Sunni ignored the crab soup, but gulped her martini. To cover her nervousness, she began firing questions.

“So Richard, where are you from?”

Richard fingered the diamond tack in his scarlet silk tie. “Originally from Providence, Rhode Island, but I have lived in England for many years.”

“Ah, that explains your accent,” Sunni said. And perhaps its similarity to Jacob Eddington’s, she thought. “And I’m curious about your art collecting. Do you specialize in baroque, or are you more eclectic in your tastes?”

“I have always loved beautiful things,” Richard smiled pointedly at Isabel. “In my youth I began with Renaissance art. I managed to get my hands on one or two Rembrandts when they were more reasonably priced. They’re still the pride of my collection.”

“What do you mean, ‘in your youth’? You’re still young, Richard.” Isabel said, batting her false eyelashes.

Richard laughed. “You do me honor, my lady. ”