She swept away, putting an extra kink into her walk. I would not have thought that a woman with an ass that bony could make it wiggle so much but she proved me wrong.

I landed.

“A storm walking in,” he said.

“Five minutes here and the waitresses already bat their eyelashes at you,” I said. “It must be a talent.”

He unrolled his napkin, took a round-tipped serrated knife from it, and mimicked being stabbed in the heart. “Actually, it’s not a talent,” he explained, waving the knife around. The knife’s blade looked sharp. “Most people treat waitresses like dogs. They bring you food and wait on you, therefore they must be a lower breed of human being and don’t mind being harassed.”

I took the knife away from him before he hurt himself and put it on the table.

The redheaded Grace returned, dazzled us with another smile, and asked if we were ready to order. I ordered without looking at the menu. Crest asked for churassco and chimichurri in unaccented Spanish. Grace gave him a blank look.

“I think he would like the filet mignon in garlic and parsley sauce,” I said. “The Chef’s special.”

Her face brightened. “Anything to drink with that?”

We both ordered ice water and she departed, wiggling furiously.

Crest grimaced.

“A sudden change of attitude?” I asked.

“I detest incompetence. She works in a restaurant that serves Latino cuisine. She should at least know how the names are pronounced. But then she probably does the best she can.” He looked around. “I must say, this isn’t a place to promote quiet conversations.”

“You have a problem with my taste?”

“Yes, I do,” he said.

I shrugged.

“You are quite . . . hostile.” He did not say it in a confrontational way. Instead, his voice held quiet amusement.

“Was I supposed to pick a quiet place, tastefully decorated and private, that would promote intimate conversation?”

“Well, I thought you might.”

“Why? You blackmailed me into lunch, so I thought I might at least enjoy the food.”

He tried a different line of attack. “I’ve never come across anyone like you.”

“Good thing, too. People like me don’t like it when you try walking over them. They might break your legs.”

“Could you actually do it?” He was grinning. Was he flirting with me?

“Do what?”

“Break my legs.”

“Yes, under the right circumstances.”

“I have a brown belt in karate,” he said. I decided that he found my tough woman persona amusing. “I might put up a fight.”

This was actually fun. I gave him a full blast of my psychotic smile and said, “Brown belt? That’s impressive. But you have to remember, I break legs for a living while you . . .”

“Fix noses?” he put in.

“No, I was going to say stitch up corpses, but you’re right, ‘fix noses’ would’ve made a much better retort.”

We grinned at each other across the table.