“Yeah, we covered that,” Gunter said. Matt nodded, thought a minute longer. “There are some important bills coming up for a vote; we could give you a call a couple of days ahead of time and you could get sonic shots of him in a legislative setting. There is a candidate debate next month in front of the state conference of the League of Women Voters . . . that usually draws a huge crowd. How’s that for getting started?”
Either Gunter’s martini was better than he was letting on, or he had finally found his reason for living. “This is great!” he said, nodding furiously and slapping the table, which drew the attention of the five men and two women who were now sitting around three tables Tom had daisy-chained together. “That is exactly the sort of thing we need!” He paused long enough to look at his watch. “Listen, we need to split if we’re going to catch our plane.” He stood up. “We’ll call early next week to set these things up. Don’t worry about the tab. We’ve got it,” Gunter said, and started slinking off toward Tom’s end of the tables.
“Thanks!” Matt said, and smiled as Heather rose much more reluctantly to her feet.
“Well, it was nice meeting you,” she said, smiling at Matt. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you around.”
“Right,” Matt said.
“Well . . . okay. Later.” Heather tore her gaze away from Matt the Stud and looked at Rebecca. “Later.”
Yeah, later. Way later. Maybe so later that it’s never, how about that? “Bye-bye now!” Rebecca called after Heather. Next to her, Big Pants chuckled. She took another drink as Heather disappeared into the crowd, tried to ignore him, and when she couldn’t do that, forced herself to focus on him “What?”
“You. You’re surprisingly interesting, you know that? Not all uptight like I originally thought.”
“Uptight?”
“That’s what I said,” he agreed with a chuckle. “I had you pegged as a little too uptight for your own good. But now I see you’re much more than that. I mean, either you’re accusing people of stealing your quesadilla, or lining up your pencils, or having secret meetings. I’d call that pretty feisty, wouldn’t you?”
What’s that, your best line? “I am not feisty.”
“Feisty is not a line,” Matt said pleasantly. “It’s an observation.”
Crap, had she actually said that out loud? Wow . . . she was going to have to be more careful with her thoughts. And visualizations, because she really couldn’t look at him without visualizing . . . yikes. Definitely didn’t want to go there, she thought fuzzily, stealing a glimpse of his hand. Rebecca looked at her wineglass(es). And was duly alarmed by how many empty ones there were carefully arranged in front of her, lined up like little soldiers. Where had all those come from?
“And furthermore, for the record, if it was a line, I wouldn’t waste it on you, Miss Priss.”
“Why not?” she demanded, strangely incensed. But before he could answer, she blurted, “If you tried a line on me, I’d just laugh. Ha. Haaaa.” She slapped her wineglass down, and felt, all of a sudden, warm and very mushy inside. Not good mushy. Sick mushy.
Matt was looking at the pile of empty glasses in front of her. “So tell me . . . are those all your wineglasses? Or did you just walk around the room and take them?”
That did it. Indignant, she glared at him. “I. Don’t. Know.”
Matt laughed; the sound of it gained the attention of the men on the other end of the table, including Tom, who waved at Rebecca. At least she thought he did; she looked over her shoulder and didn’t see anyone else she knew, other than the waitress. At last! She held up one finger—and could have sworn the waitress rolled her eyes.
When she looked around again, Tom’s big flaccid face was looming in front of her. “Hey, let me ask you something, Rebecca,” he said, bracing himself against the table. “I got a friend over there. Fred Davis is his name. Owns KTXT television.”
Big fat deal. “How nice for him,” she said plastering a woozy smile on her face.
“He’d really like to come over and say hi. You know . . . maybe see what you are doing later?”
“Later?”
“Yeah, later. You know.” He winked, ignored Matt’s groan. “Like maybe y’all could get a drink or something.”
Rebecca blinked. Tom smiled. Dear God, was he . . . “Are you . . . are you setting me up?”
Tom shrugged, looked over his shoulder. She peeked around him, saw Fred and a very oily smile that sent a shiver of revulsion down her spine. “Come on, Rebecca. You’re divorced, and there’s no evidence of any guy hanging around. Hey, I’m just doing a pal a favor, that’s all.”
“Sorry, Tom, you’re too late,” Matt said cheerfully.
Both Tom and Rebecca looked at him and said, at the same moment, “Huh?”
Matt stretched his arm across the back of Rebecca’s chair, which she was half tempted to kick, but that didn’t seem feasible with Tom looming over her. Matt leaned slightly forward, so he was just inches from Tom, and whispered, “Rebecca is having dinner with me.”
The bark of hiccupped laughter, Rebecca realized, was hers.
Chapter Twelve
‘Tis the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and have her respected . . .
CHARLES LAMB