“No, because I’m just not the creative type.” A troubling possibility occurred to him, one he had not considered until now. “Is there a significant other in your life who might not like the idea of your having dinner with me?”

“Nope. Why do you think I signed up for the Four Event Success Guaranteed package?”

He nodded. He felt a little more cheerful for some reason. “That’s good.”

“Convenient, you mean.” She smiled a little too sweetly. “For you.”

“Well, yes. The fewer questions, the better. I don’t have time for long explanations.”

“You’d better make time, because I’m going to ask for a detailed explanation.”

“I thought Arganbright—”

“Victor told me diddly-squat. Just that this is about Vortex and that the Foundation is paying me to assist you.”

Before Harlan could say anything, the waiter appeared, hovering with an air of expectation. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”

“You certainly can,” Olivia said. “I’ll have a glass of the house sauvignon blanc.”

“And for you, sir?” the waiter said.

It dawned on Harlan that what he wanted was a stiff shot of whiskey, but he decided to go with a glass of wine on the theory that it would make a better impression.

“The house red,” he said.

It was a compromise, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. White wine was a bridge too far.

The waiter left. Olivia studied the menu as if the decision of what to order was a matter of grave importance. He was so hungry he would have been thrilled to open a can of beans. He picked up his menu. When he was finally able to decipher the fancy font and translate it, he settled on cioppino. After about two seconds he reminded himself that high-end restaurants usually served small portions. He added a side of pasta topped with pecorino. He probably needed vegetables, too. He decided the zucchini and feta fritters would cover that issue.

He set aside the menu just as the wine arrived. A large basket of focaccia and a little dish of greenish-gold olive oil arrived with it. He seized a chunk of the bread, plunged it into the olive oil and took a large bite.

He chewed, swallowed, drank some wine and tore off another hunk of bread.

Olivia watched him work his way through the basket of focaccia. She made no comment, but he thought he caught a glint of humor in her eyes. He flushed.

“I told you I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” he said around a chunk of the focaccia.

She ignored that. “You didn’t mention which hotel you’re booked into here in Seattle. Is it nearby?”

“Right. The hotel. I don’t have a room yet. I wanted to find you first.”

“How did you find me tonight?”