“Okay. If…if you’re sure…”
“I’m very sure,” he replied quickly, as if he thought his firm certainty could cancel out her hesitation.
He hovered over her and generally got in her way as she straightened up her workspace and watered down the sculpture. When she scolded him he transferred his considerable energy and attention to her studio. He picked up armatures and admired maquettes, her working models for future sculptures. He asked her so many questions that Megan couldn’t attend to what she was doing.
“Christian, I thought you wanted me to hurry,” she muttered with mixed amusement and exasperation as she tied plastic around her sculpture. He was helping her, but his curiosity about her art seemed to have no bounds.
“Sorry, I’m just interested. I’ve never been in a sculptor’s studio. But I do want you to hurry.” His eyes trailed down her body to her bare feet. “You’ll have to wear shoes. Not because Emilio would mind if you did or not, I just don’t think you’d cherish walking on his floors barefoot.”
He answered her wary expression with a boyish grin that was supposed to convey innocence, she was certain, but in actuality communicated the exact opposite.
* * * *
Emilio’s was tucked innocuously off West Chicago Avenue in a side entryway adorned with no signs, only a dark red canopy. Christian had explained to her in the cab on the ride over that Emilio’s hosted some of the best blues artists in Chicago, but was relatively unknown to all but locals and insiders in the music community.
“How come you know about it, then?” she asked conversationally as they entered the darkened interior of the club. No band was playing yet and the atmosphere in the quickly filling room was relaxed and subdued.
“I’ve known about it since I drank too much beer here one night when I was a punk eighteen-year-old and Emilio kicked me out on my sorry ass.”
“He doesn’t tell the pretty lady that I picked him back up again and sobered him up with a tank of black coffee before I paid for his cab ride home,” a baritone, gravelly voice responded.
Megan watched as Christian hugged a huge bear of a black man who was obviously Emilio. She could tell by his wide grin he genuinely was happy to see the man. They clapped each other on the shoulder affectionately when they parted. “And what you’re not telling the pretty lady is that you called my mom the next day and ratted me out. Emilio Jackson, I’d like you to meet Megan Shreve. Don’t tell her any more half-truths about me, now,” Christian added under his breath.
“Where’s the half truth?” Emilio wondered with wide-eyed sincerity as his hand swallowed up Megan’s in a handshake. “He was only eighteen years old, Miss Megan, carrying around a fake driver’s license and drunk as a skunk. I’ve met his mama since then, and Ms. Lasher would have done the same for me if it had been one of my own kids. You was a mess, Chris. But I guess you didn’t completely screw up your life since then.”
“Thanks for the resounding praise. Remind me to thank you later for scoring so many points with my date,” Christian muttered, his lips tilted in amusement.
Emilio’s eyebrows rose in interest. He turned to study her in earnest.
“He wants to score points with you? Well, well,” Emilio said speculatively as he tucked Megan’s hand into the crook of his bent arm and headed into the club, examining her with warm brown eyes the entire time. “I’m taking you to the best seat in the house. Good band tonight, Harvest Moon. Chris knows all the guys. You like the blues, Miss Megan?”
Christian saved her from having to expose her ignorance by asking Emilio if Seth Down had arrived yet.
“Nah, that poker-faced savage hasn’t come in yet.”
Christian’s right eyebrow rose in surprise as he sat down next to Megan in a plush, circular booth that could easily seat six people. “Savage? That’s not very politically correct, Emilio. Not bright, either, to insult Seth’s heritage when he might be in close proximity.”
“Politically correct? I’m not talking about the fact that he’s part native. I’m talking about the fact that he put my best bartender out of commission for a week the last time he was in here,” Emilio replied hotly. “What can I get you to drink, little lady?”
Megan couldn’t help but smile at Emilio’s abrupt change from irritation to sweet solicitude. “A glass of red wine, please.”
She stilled when Christian draped his arm behind the back of the booth and began to gently caress her shoulder. “Just open up one of my bottles of cab. Oh, and Emilio…that bartender you seem to value so highly was a bigoted, sexist jerk who deserved every bruise Seth gave him that night. I saw the whole thing. And it wasn’t about Seth, either. It was about Sarah.”
Emilio stiffened. “Sarah? That bartender said something to Sarah?”
“Didn’t just say. Did. If Seth hadn’t lit up the guy, I would have.”
Emilio’s usual
ly benign countenance darkened with outrage. “Damn. You should have told me, Chris. Sarah should have. Good thing I fired that worthless piece of crap a year ago.”
Megan couldn’t help but laugh at Emilio’s seamless flip-flop in attitude after he’d walked away. Christian smiled.
“That’s Emilio for you. Just when you think he’s a pushover, he gives you a swift kick in the butt. And just when you think he’s going to ram his fist down your throat, he gives you a bear hug. He’ll probably scowl at Seth the whole night, than send him over his best bottle of brandy at the end of the evening.”
“He seems to care for you very much.”
Christian shrugged, his attention suddenly entirely on her. He lowered his head.