CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You seem pensive,” he said. He appeared as little more than a silhouette on the other side of the dining table.
“And you . . .”
He looked at her thoughtfully, a shy curl of the lip delineated by an overhead spotlight. “I didn’t realize this place would be so formal. I don’t mean to imply anything . . .”
She returned his smile.
The restaurant was very dark—lit by spots and tea-lamps that barely drew the occupants from the shadows. The ceiling was indistinguishable; the walls covered in heavy, gathered, ink-colored silk; the floor a jet marble cloaked in silver and black Persians, scattered with cushions. The furnishings, also, were silver and black—polished, modern takes on pre-revolutionary French styles, upholstered in buttoned black leather that sighed with the sli
