of his conversations with his clients, a small bar that contained, instead of alcohol, a variety of coffees, plain and flavored teas, cookies and Fig Newtons (his favorite snack), all to be served to his guests on simple stoneware. He understood that a visit to a lawyer’s office was probably one of the most traumatic experiences most people had to face. Anything he could do to make that experience a little more bearable was worth it.
He swiveled in his chair to face his partner, Clark, who was staring out of the widepane glass window of his office, down onto Temple Street. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cuss. “ This is my blind date?” He pointed at the Niobe Web site up on the computer screen.
Clark tore his attention away from the view. He had covertly been watching Dorian, reflected in the glass, waiting in silence as he read. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Apart from the fact that I don’t do blind dates, and I especially don’t do double dates, I’ve read through the last few months of her archives and I’ve arrived at the only possible conclusion.”
“What’s that?”
“This Rita woman hates men.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he drawled. “Maybe because every single bit of advice she’s given is anti-man.”
Clark came over to perch on the edge of Dorian’s desk, gently moving aside a sheaf of documents. “Maybe it’s not so much anti-man as pro-woman,” he suggested.
“Nice try.” Dorian shook his head. “Have you read this stuff? For every woman that takes her advice, there’s one more man out in the cold. She’s just one more love guru who isn’t about love at all. She’s about a woman’s need to always be right.”
Clark peered at the screen and read the correspondence open in Dorian’s Web browser. “Seems to me, a couple of these guys had it coming. Look at this one—stealing from his poor girlfriend….”
“Maybe this one,” he conceded, “but—”
“Dorian,” Clark interrupted, “it’s just for one night. Just one meal. I’m not suggesting a marriage of convenience. If you don’t like Rita, just stick out the evening and you two can go your separate ways. I’m asking this as a favor.”
To Dorian, it sounded like madness. This was the twenty-first century. What woman over eighteen insisted on dragging her best friend along on a first date? And Clark hardly looked as though he were trying out for the lead role in The Texas Chainsaw Massacre III. He was one of the most buttoned-down men Dorian knew. He had his hair cut once every three weeks, did his nails every fortnight, bought new suits twice a year, owned three or four identical shirts in each color and had his underwear dry cleaned. Clark was as harmless as it was possible to be and still be breathing. “Why’s she so insistent on this gruesome foursome?”
Clark shrugged. “She didn’t say much, other than that she was naturally cautious. I don’t blame her. It’s a scary world out there.”
Dorian snorted. “I’d have thought that chasing down a purse snatcher half your age on her behalf would have been enough of a character reference for any woman.”
Clark looked bashful. “It was just one of those things. She was standing next to me when this guy knocked her over. Next thing I knew, she was yelling about her purse. I just reacted. If I’d thought about it, I probably wouldn’t have run him down. He could have been armed.”
“But he wasn’t, and good won out over evil.”
Clark peered at Dorian for traces of sarcasm. “I guess.” He took on a more optimistic tone. “So you’re doing it, right?”
Dorian smiled. Clark was his friend, partner and mentor. What was one evening? He’d have done much more, if Clark had asked, and they both knew it. “Of course I will.”
He took another look at the screen, examining the small photo that accompanied each article. “Dear Rita” was a good-looking woman with skin that made him think of warm cinnamon. She looked less than thirty, with a mass of fine, dark brown corkscrew twists pulled back into a bun at the top of her head. He wondered if that, together with the stylish glasses she wore, were merely affectations in an effort to look more mature and agony-auntish. The glasses did nothing to obscure the clarity of her honey-colored eyes. Even in the tiny photograph, those eyes were disarming. They at once drew him in and made him squirm. Her cheekbones were wonderful, and her shapely lips tinted by a conservative but attractive shade of lipstick. It was little more than a head and shoulders shot; just enough to enable him to see a hint of cleavage under the beige blouse.
From over his shoulder, Clark observed, “She’s cute.”
“She is,” he agreed. He added slyly, “As cute as your Cassie?”
“Nope,” Clark said immediately. “But you could do worse.”
Dorian laughed. “I suppose I could. You can drop the sales pitch now. I said I’d go. You picked a restaurant?”
“Vimanmek Palace, that new Thai place. It got rave reviews in the Food and Beverage section of The Register last month. We have reservations for seven-thirty.”
Dorian let out a bark of surprised laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. Dead serious.”
“But spicy foods make you sick. You can’t even take Tabasco in your Bloody Mary.”
He looked abashed. “I don’t know what got into me. One minute I was asking her out, the next minute I was suggesting a Thai restaurant. I guess I wanted to sound more adventurous. I’m a boring man, Dorian. My idea of a culinary adventure is dinner at TGI Friday’s.”
Dorian was quick to leap to his friend’s defense, even from a self-inflicted attack. “You’re not boring. You are one of the most intelligent and educated human beings on the face of the Earth.”
“If that isn’t boring, I don’t know what is.” Clark smiled wryly. “But at least she sounded keen. Said she’d been dying to try it, too.”
“That’s all that matters. Chug a bottle of antacid before you get there, and you’ll be all right.”
“Want us to leave together, from here?”
“I doubt I’ll make it back into the office today. You go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”
“Seven-thirty, right?” Clark still looked anxious, despite Dorian’s promise.
He must really like this girl. Dorian did his best to reassure him. “My word is my bond.” He glanced at the heavy platinum watch on his left wrist, rose, took up his jacket from over the back of his chair and shrugged it on. “Got to go now.”
“Elcroft Green?” Clark guessed.
“Yep. Gonna be a long one.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks.” He’d need it. Although the name Elcroft Green sounded like a day spa, it was, in fact, a large medium-security men’s prison in the worst part of town. There was nothing green in it or around it, just a
