“And let’s hope it doesn’t go like last time,” he said with a laugh. “I like Rod and Owen, but I don’t want them showing up on all our dates.”
I’d been so good about not thinking about a certain other person, and there my date had to go and mention him. I distracted myself by focusing on his casual mention of “all our dates.” That was the kind of detail Marcia and Gemma would want to hear later when we analyzed every second of this date. There was a strong implication that he wanted to make this a steady thing. Then again, would he have asked me out at all if he already knew he didn’t want to see me again after this date?
This dating stuff was way too complicated, and I was too old to be such a novice at it.
The cab pulled up in front of a Midtown restaurant. Ethan paid the driver, then got out and helped me out of the cab. He held his arm out for me to take—my mom would have been so impressed with such a gentlemanly show of manners—and escorted me inside. I was surprised to see one long table rather than the usual restaurant arrangement of scattered individual tables.
“It’s a wine dinner,” Ethan explained. “There’s a wine selected to go with each course, all from the same winery. I thought it would be fun. We’ll have other people to chat with and an automatic topic of conversation.”
I was all in favor of having a topic of conversation that didn’t involve magical intellectual property, which was what we’d talked about on our last date. I was nervous about the wine, though. In addition to being a total lightweight who’s under the table asleep after a couple of glasses, I had the world’s least sophisticated palate. I couldn’t find anything wrong with white zinfandel, something that drove my roommates crazy. They said no real wine drinker would go near that pink stuff. I’d look like a total hick among people who could discern a hint of oak in a full-bodied red, or whatever it was people said when they were analyzing wines.
We had to mingle with the other diners while eating appetizers brought around by waiters. I wasn’t exactly sure what was in each bite, but the wine they gave us with that course was pretty good. I sipped at it, knowing I needed to pace myself.
The crowd, however, was enough to drive me to drink. These people reminded me of my old job, the one I left when I joined MSI. They’d all probably be shocked and horrified that a small-town Texas girl was in their midst. I was careful to suppress my accent while making small talk. These were the kind of people who’d automatically look down on me for not being a born-and-bred city slicker. I felt a bit better when I saw that Ethan looked stiff and uncomfortable, too. He didn’t know anyone there, either.
He edged closer to me after one waiter passed by with a tray of what looked like liverwurst on toast. “Sorry about this,” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t realize we’d be dealing with the yuppies from hell.”
“Just as long as you promise to defend me,” I whispered back.
The host urged everyone to take their seats. Fortunately, Ethan and I were seated next to each other so we had a chance at private conversation. The array of silverware on the table was intimidating, not because I didn’t know how to use it (my mother is a good Southern woman who taught us proper table manners, so I knew to work from the outside in), but because of the number of courses it implied. A glass of wine with each course would mean I’d be horizontal before we got to dessert. My bigger worry was that alcohol might lower my inhibitions enough for me to talk about work, which was not a good idea with a job like mine. Then again, everyone would probably write off any weirdness to the drunkenness. I vowed to myself that I wouldn’t finish each glass of wine.
At the head of the table, a well-dressed man stood up and tapped his water glass with his knife. He reminded me of the man who’d tried to start a community theater group in my hometown. Even though he was in a tiny Texas farming community, he’d acted like a theater impresario. It took him a while to figure out that avant-garde surrealist drama didn’t go over well in that setting.
This guy wouldn’t have looked out of place wearing a sweeping cloak and a monocle. He was introduced as Henri, a representative of the winery providing the evening’s selections. “Good evening, everyone,” he said. In spite of his French name, his accent was pure American. “Welcome to tonight’s dinner. You’ve already been enjoying our Estate Sauvignon Blanc with the canapés. I’m sure you noticed the lush texture and hints of passion fruit and pear.”
Frankly, I hadn’t noticed any of that. I pretty much just tasted wine. If it was all made out of grapes, how was it supposed to taste like passion fruit?
“With our first course,” Henri continued, “we’ll be serving our famous Pinot Gris. You may detect flavors of apple and lemon, with a midpalate burst of ginger. It complements the salmon with mango salsa we’ll be serving.”
Waiters brought out fresh wineglasses, then filled them with a wine that looked to me a lot like the one we’d just been drinking. I followed everyone’s lead in swirling the wine—only sloshing a little over the edge—and sniffing it. Yep, smelled like wine. Everyone then took a sip and seemed to ponder the flavors. I couldn’t taste anything but wine. No apple, lemon, or ginger. I was horrified when I noticed Ethan nodding sagely. Was he really into this stuff? On our first date, he took me out for hamburgers. This was a real switch.
Then again, was it so bad if he was a wine fanatic? Learning something new would be good for me. I complained all the time about feeling like a hick in New York, and here was my chance to do something to change that. I took another sip of wine and tried desperately to taste all those delicate flavors that were supposed to be there.
We went through another course that came with a wine Henri described as “creamy with citrus undertones.” I had a hard time thinking of wine as creamy. Ethan leaned toward me and asked, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
After three glasses of wine—even if I didn’t drink the whole glass—I was feeling pretty good, regardless of whether this event was my cup of tea—make that glass of wine. “Sure!” I said cheerfully, raising my glass to him.
If I was feeling good, that was nothing compared with the rest of the guests. They were practically swooning in rapture with each sip. I’d thought I’d be a lightweight in a group of real wine aficionados, but they were acting drunker than I was—a lot drunker. The woman seated next to me was nibbling on her husband’s ear and halfway crawling into his lap, while he had a hand up her sweater. I fought back the impulse to tell them to get a room and turned to the other side of the table, where a man who’d introduced himself as a cardiologist was wearing his necktie around his head like a bandanna. This felt more like a frat party than a wine dinner. I appeared to be the most sober one there, except for Ethan.
I leaned over to him. “Do these things usually get like this?”
“I’ve only been to one other, and behavior there was a little more restrained. Frankly, this is a lot more fun.”
They switched to a red wine with the main course, which meant I could finally tell the difference from the last few wines. I still didn’t taste the clove, coffee, or wood flavors Henri promised, for which I was somewhat grateful. It seemed to me that if your wine tasted like wood or coffee, you’d throw it out. The other guests knocked back the wine like they were doing tequila shots, so I doubted they were noticing the flavor nuances, either.
By the time we got to dessert, I was barely registering the life story Henri told us about the wine. I thought he said something about moldy grapes, but that couldn’t be right. It didn’t sound like the sort of thing you’d brag about. I did like the wine, though. It was probably my favorite of the evening because it was so sweet. They served it with poached pears that would have been a challenge to eat under the best of circumstances. As tipsy as I was, it was nearly impossible. I spent about five minutes chasing a pear around my plate, only to have it leap onto Ethan’s plate.
“Oops, sorry about that,” I said, hoping my words didn’t slur too much.
“No problem.” He gently returned the pear to my plat
e with his fork. I thought I detected a wink behind his glasses when he added, “Want me to cut that up for you?”
“What, and then have multiple moving targets?”
He chuckled. “Good point. You’re not used to having this much wine, are you?”
“Is it so obvious? I’m not even drinking the whole glass. Well, except this one. I like this one.”
“Don’t worry. It only looks like a slight bit of motor coordination difficulty. In this crowd, you look like the picture of sobriety. I’m not sure you could be obnoxious, no matter how drunk you got.”
Aww, wasn’t he sweet?
By this time, the party was in full swing. I shouldn’t have worried about people noticing me struggling to eat my pear. Their attention was more likely focused on the female stockbroker standing on the table and doing a striptease. The things she wore under her pin-striped suit showed that there was a whole other aspect to her personality.
Henri and his cronies chose that time to swoop in with order forms, going one by one to the guests. I noticed that each guest stiffened, losing the looseness of intoxication for a second or two before taking a pen and signing the form. After the paperwork was completed, the host made a note on his clipboard, and the guest passed out. It reminded me of something I’d seen recently, but in my foggy state I couldn’t quite remember what it was.
Fortunately, Ethan was practically sober, so I thought maybe he’d know what was going on. I tapped him on the shoulder and whispered, “Is there something odd about this, or am I just drunk?”
But before he could answer, Henri had reached me with his order form.
“And are you enjoying your evening, mademoiselle?” Henri smarmed to me.
“Oh yeah, sure,” I said, trying to approximate the level of drunkenness at the rest of the table without resorting to removing my clothes. I sensed it would be best to play along until I was sure what was happening.
I must have done a good job (not that I had to fake being drunk) for he went straight into salesman mode. “Then if you’ve enjoyed the wine this evening, I’m sure you’d like to order several bottles so you can repeat the experience while dining at home. We offer discounts if you buy a case, and you can mix and match the wines in the case.” He then handed me an order form and a pen and said, “Now, what would you like to order?”
“Nothing, thanks,” I said cheerfully, handing him back the order form and pen.
“Are you sure?” he asked a little more forcefully, handing the form and pen back to me.
“Yeah. Not only can I not afford a case of wine, but I can’t think of where we’d store it in our apartment, unless maybe we threw a scarf over it, put some candles and magazines on it, and called it a coffee table.” That struck me as the funniest thing anyone had ever said, and I collapsed in hysterical giggles. I glanced at Ethan to see if he appreciated the humor. He just frowned.
But he wasn’t frowning nearly as severely as Henri was. “I’m sure you’d like to order,” he said in a commanding tone, and the hair on the back of my neck stood straight up. It wasn’t his tone that had that effect. Magic was being used nearby. It might not work on me, but I could feel it. Suddenly I realized what it was I’d been trying to remember. The behavior of the guests when Henri handed them the pen and order form reminded me of when the people at MSI had tested the initial spell being marketed by Phelan Idris, a rogue wizard with very different ideas of how magic should be used. That spell made it possible to control the actions of others. Was that what was going on here?
When I still didn’t order any wine, Henri moved over to Ethan, who was as immune to magic as I was. He had similar results, except for the witty quip about using the case of wine as a coffee table. Instead of making jokes, Ethan studied the form like the lawyer he was. “There appear to be some errors on this order form,” he said at last. “Surely you aren’t charging this for a case of wine? It doesn’t match the market prices I’m familiar with. Maybe you accidentally got the decimal point in the wrong place.”
A muscle jumped in Henri’s jaw, and I knew we’d caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. I tugged on Ethan’s sleeve. “I think something strange is going on here,” I whispered.
Ethan smiled at Henri and said, “Would you excuse us for a moment?” Then he stood, reached around Henri to grab my wrist, and pulled me to my feet. “What is it?” he asked.
I forced myself to be as coherent as I possibly could be in my condition. “It’s a spell he’s using. I’ve seen one like it before. It’s like the one Idris was selling, the one he signed papers saying he wouldn’t sell anymore because it was based on MSI intellectual property. It lets you make people do things, and they don’t even know what they’ve done.”
“But he can’t sell that spell—that contract was supposedly unbreakable.”
“I don’t know how it all works. Maybe these people bought the spell earlier. The contract might not affect spells sold before it was signed. Or maybe it’s a slightly different spell and they were testing it. It seems a bit different. But I’m pretty sure they’re using magic to make people order the wine, and I’m even more sure the wine was enchanted, especially considering I’m almost the least drunk person here and I’m a total lightweight.”
“Okay, then let me handle this.” We went back to Henri, me hanging on Ethan’s arm, partly for support and partly because he was pretty hot when he was being all authoritative. “It does seem like there are some irregularities on these order forms that I’m sure you didn’t intend.”
Henri raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?” he asked icily.
That set me off, in spite of Ethan’s warning grip on my arm. “You don’t know who you’re dealing with here, do you?” I asked, unable to hold back a triumphant grin. “I know what you’re trying to pull, and I’m not going to let you get away with it. Enchanting all those people with your magical wine, then hitting them with a spell to make them buy wine at inflated prices.” I tried to keep my voice low, so it was just between us, but it seemed to echo loudly throughout the restaurant. I’d forgotten that I tended to talk louder when I was drunk. Oops. Not that anyone else noticed. The ones who weren’t passed out were too busy doing the limbo under a curtain rod with the heavy velvet drapes still attached to it.
Ethan gripped my arm hard enough to cut off the circulation. I caught the hint and shut up. “I think she’s had a bit much to drink. But I do think there’s a problem with your forms. I’m an attorney and I’d be happy to correct the forms for you before anyone leaves. No fee, unless you want to send me home with a bottle of that Botrytised Semillon.”
“Was that the sweet one?” I asked.
He looked down at me with a fond smile. “Yes, that was the sweet one.” He pinned Henri with a steely gaze. “So, want to take me up on that offer?”
“Of course. Thank you. I’m grateful you caught my error.” Henri didn’t sound the least bit grateful, unless he was grateful to be given such an easy out. He’d still make out like a bandit on wine orders, since everyone was both drunk and enchanted from the wine, but he wouldn’t be able to pull off the full scam.
While Ethan went around the table correcting the forms, I drained his unfinished glass of the sweet wine. It sure didn’t taste like it was made from moldy grapes. If they were tricking people with enchanted wine, the wine was still good without the magic.
When Ethan returned to me, Henri approached him with a bottle of wine. “With our compliments, sir, and thank you again for your assistance,” he said with a thin-lipped smile.
“Glad to be of service,” Ethan said, giving no indication that there was anything out of the ordinary about the situation. “Now I’d better get her home. She seems to have had a little too much fun tonight,” he finished with a laugh. “Come on, Katie.”
The floor refused to cooperate, and if it hadn’t been for Ethan’s steady guiding arm around my waist, I probably wouldn’t have made it to the exit without taking a bad tumble. The cool air outside made
me a little more alert, but the moment we were safely ensconced in the backseat of a cab, I suddenly felt very sleepy. I rested my head on Ethan’s shoulder, and he put his arm around me.
“Mmm, that’s nice,” I murmured.
“You’re really drunk, aren’t you?” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Sorry about that. It honestly wasn’t my plan to get you wasted. I just wanted to do something nice.”
“You were trying to impress me,” I said, only realizing after I’d heard the words that I’d said them out loud. I was never going to drink on a date ever again.
“Yeah, maybe a little bit, since I don’t think I impressed you so much on the first date.”
“Why can’t I have a normal date, one where magic isn’t involved? Did I ever tell you about the frog guy?”
“No, you didn’t. Maybe later. But wouldn’t normal be boring?”
“That’s what I used to think. Now it might be nice.”
“Well, you can never claim there’s no magic to our relationship,” he said with a soft laugh. “I can’t believe we still haven’t managed a magic-free evening. You’re sure they were using magic?”
“Yep. I could feel it. There’s a little tingle. Besides, did any of that look normal to you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been to some law firm parties that looked a lot like that.”
I must have drifted off to sleep, for next thing I knew I felt cold air on my face. I opened my eyes and realized that Ethan was carrying me from the cab to the front door. I then closed my eyes because the movement made me dizzy.
Ethan pressed the buzzer, then Marcia’s voice said over the speaker, “What?”
“It’s Ethan, bringing Katie home. She’s a little, um, incapacitated.”
“Come on up.”
Ethan gave me a little shake. “Katie? Wake up.”
Once Upon Stilettos Page 2