Chapter 9

"Black coffee to start," Laura recited to the waitress, "Then I'll have a bacon double cheeseburger, all the way, with fries and a side of fruit." Her brown eyes shifted to regard him across the table.

"When in Rome…" Mick offered, as he shifted in the booth, stretching his long legs out over the street and, with his back leaning against the wall, he flung an arm over the back of the booth.

"Make that two," she translated for their server.

"So, you said to start?" he asked once they were alone. She shrugged a shoulder.

"I guess it goes back to me being a 'damsel in distress.' The Fonz has a chivalrous streak as well." He laughed low in his throat.

"Oh, I don't know that I'd ascribe anything so noble as 'chivalry' to myself," he dismissed. "Believe me, my motives weren't purely altruistic." She cocked her head to the side and eyed him with open curiosity.

"Oh? How so?"

"You intrigue me," he answered nervously tugging at his ear. What is it about the girl that inspires the truth to fall from my mouth? "I discovered I wished to get to know you better, and that wouldn't have been possible should they have succeeded in running you off, now would it?"

"I intrigue you?" A pleased smile lit her face and made her eyes glimmer. He couldn't help gracing her with a twinkling smile of his own in return. Planting her elbow on the table, she rested her chin in her palm. "How so?"

"Ego needs a boost, does it?" he teased. She gave him a rueful look.

"After tonight, it might need a complete overhaul." Most every woman he'd ever known would have been reduced to crying waterfalls after what Laura had endured on the evening: breaking the heart of a hopeful suitor, a confrontation with the man who'd physically assaulted her, then the attempt to humiliate her. But not her. Oh, she might have been on the verge of tears when she'd been surrounded by men assassinating her character while jostling her about as though she were not a person but an object of little use, but never had the first one fallen. Not even a half hour had passed and already she was able to approach the evening with humor.

"To start, I've enormous respect for those heels of yours," he offered. She stared at him puzzled, then when the memory of planting that heel in Brad's foot trickled through her memory, Mick was gifted with a lyrical laugh and a pair of brown eyes dancing with humor.

"It did make a statement, didn't it?" she asked, proud of herself.

"A very painful one, I'd wager," he agreed, dropping his feet to the floor, to sit directly across from her, a smile of approval lighting his face.

"As long as you behave, you won't find out," she replied jauntily. Almost as quickly as the smile arrived on her face, it disappeared and she was left staring down at the hands folded neatly in her lap. She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes, chagrined. "I think I broke his nose." A crooked smile lifted a corner of his mouth.

"Oh, you did," he said with a finality that made her head jerk up to look at him. He was pleased to find a look of satisfaction competing with that guilt within her eyes.

"I did?"

"Most assuredly," he confirmed. "I ought to know given I set it back in place for the bloke." All remorse in those brown eyes fled, replaced with anger.

"What did you do that for?" she demanded to know, her voice rising. It would have served the jerk right to sport a crooked nose for the remainder of his life, as far as she was concerned.

Conversation lulled when the waitress returned bearing two ceramic coffee cups and a pot of coffee. They waited patiently as she sat the cups on the table, filled them, then disappeared.

"An offer to fix his nose seemed the most expeditious way to get him alone so we might have a little chat," he answered when they were alone again. "In truth, the reason hardly matters given I broke his nose again." Her eyes widened and she sat up a little straighter.

"You did?" she drew out the question. "Why?"

"Let's just say I found his view on certain matters insulting at best, depraved at worst," he dismissed.

"Well… good." She picked up her cup of coffee and holding it in both her hands, took a sip. "What else?" she dared to ask.

"You don't back down, no matter how frightened you are." Those proud shoulders slumped again and her eyes skittered away from him to look at some innocuous spot on a far wall.

"You could tell?" she asked in a downtrodden tone.

"Not by the look on your face," he assured. Damn, there was that puzzling need to protect her again. Where in the blue blazes were these discomfiting urges coming from. What was it about the lass? Shaking off the thought, he continued. "Your hands had the slightest tremor in them. I can say, with some confidence, that I don't believe anyone else noticed." She blew out a breath in relief and took another drink of her coffee. "Which, by the way, brings me to the third point." She tilted her head in interest.

"And that would be?"

"That you're predictable in your unpredictability." The thought gave her pause and her bows crinkled as she peered at him over the rim of her coffee cup. The waitress's arrival with their meals gave her time to consider the statement, but by the time the waitress walked away, she still had no answers.

"What do you mean?" she asked, puzzled.

"After the scene on the dance floor," he couldn't help the smile when she blushed profusely at the reminder, "Most people women would have made themselves scarce in the aftermath. But not you. Somehow I knew you'd go against the grain and would return. Your pride would demand it." Picking up his burger, he took a large bite.

"Of course it would," she retorted. "It's a man-eat-man world out there. Can you imagine what it's like for a woman? A man gets angry and it's justified, whereas when a woman gets angry it's 'is it that time of the month, deary?' Running away only reinforces the belief a woman is weak, incapable of standing up for herself." She puffed out an aggravated breath and, dropping her eyes, focused on the burger and fries before her. Grabbing the ketchup bottle, she streamed a heaping portion onto her plate, then drew a French Fry through it.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" he asked softly. The question earned a long exhale.

"What's to tell?" she asked, lifting then dropping a hand. "I met him at a party. I had seen him around campus before, and his reputation had preceded him: intelligent, athletic, a good sense of humor. We spent some time getting to know one another. I liked what I found… or at least what he presented himself to be," she added, with some bitterness. "He invited me up to his room, I suggested my room instead." She held up a hand to stop him before he said anything. "Stupid, I know." His brows lifted at the descriptor. "Everything was fine until he turned into a Neanderthal. When I told him to stop," another lift and drop of the hand, combined with a shake of her head, "He was of another mind. I changed it for him."

"What did you do?" he prompted in a quiet voice meant to keep her engaged. For the first time since she'd begun speaking she looked him in the eyes, a defiant gleam in her own.

"Pulled his hair until he released me, then kneed him where it counts. Then the threats ensued. A couple of intentional near misses with my baseball bat convinced him that he should leave." A look of admiration appeared on his face, as she shrewdly studied him. "But, you already knew that, didn't you?"

"He shared with me his own perverted viewpoint, yes," he admitted. "I don't think he'll be bothering you again, if that's of any comfort." Her eyes narrowed upon him.

"I don't need someone to fight my battles for me, Mick," she told him. "If I'm ever to be seen as a man's equal, I have to fight my battles on my own."

"I wasn't fighting your battles," he insisted. "I was merely expressing a viewpoint that ran counter to his own." This time it was he who held up a hand and dropped it. "Women are not the only gender that faces preconceptions, Laura." The tilt of her head suggested he'd captured her curiosity, and he had.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, for instance, will you ever fully trust a man's intentions after what the buggering twit put you through?" he challenged. The shake of her head was unconscious and immediate, although it took her longer to answer.

"No, I won't," she admitted quietly.

"Good," he replied, firmly, again drawing her eyes to him.

"Good?" she questioned. "Doesn't that answer run counter to your own argument about men and preconceptions?"

"It does," he agreed. "But whether I like it or not that I might be lumped in with the likes of Powers, at least at first, the world is filled with men just like him. If having to prove I'm unlike him prevents another man from having an opportunity to do what he'd intended? That's fine by me." Pushing her empty plate away from her, she reached for her now cold cup of coffee. Immediately, with a pair of fingers in the air, he called the waitress to the table. The woman automatically picked up a coffee pot and brought it with her.

"More coffee?"

"Please," he confirmed.

"Would you like dessert this evening?" she asked, while topping each of their cups off with the hot brew.

"Do you have chocolate cream pie tonight?" Laura asked. The gentle look of longing in her eyes held him spellbound and he wished, fervently, it was him she was thinking of to cause it.

"We do," the server confirmed. Laura turned to look at him.

"Split a piece with me?" she asked, hopefully. Although he wasn't normally a sweets eater, how could he possibly say no?

"With pleasure," he agreed. She took a long drink of her coffee as the table was cleared of their dinner plates and the waitress departed.

"You mentioned London earlier," she commented. "Is that where you're from?" His accent was unmistakably British, but she detected an underlying cadence that was both lyrical and full of warmth.

"I've spent a bit of time there now and again over the years." He'd have to be careful of this one, he reminded himself. She'd picked up a single nugget of innocuous information and had filed it away for later consideration.

"Spent time there, but aren't from there. Am I right?" she asked, leaning forward and resting her chin in her hand.

"You are. I was born in Ireland, actually," he confirmed. No harm in her knowing that. It wasn't as if there weren't tens of thousands of men across the Emerald Isle who were referred to as Mick, he reasoned. She tipped her head to the side, thoughtfully.

"Ireland," she intoned in a voice that suggested she found the notion romantic. "Gaelic, right?"

"You are a curious one, aren't you?" he asked. He gave her a bemused smile as he lifted his coffee cup for a drink.

"If I'm going to go to bed with you, I'd like to know a little something about you," she shrugged. He sputtered and coughed when his coffee went down the wrong pipe. Setting his cup down, he reached for his napkin and dabbed at his mouth with it.

"Just like that, eh?" he managed, throat still raspy.

"That is where things are heading, aren't they? Or am I misreading your interest?" she asked, widening her eyes flirtatiously. Positively bewitching, he thought to himself. He'd believed a seduction would be necessary to get her into his bed, and she'd gone and flipped the tables on him yet again.

"I can't deny the thought holds an undeniable appeal," he admitted.

"So, Gaelic, right?" she pressed on, as though they'd never taken an off-ramp in the conversation.

"Yes," he confirmed, then amended, "Although the Queen's English is far more common these days."

"Say something to me in Gaelic," she requested.

"D'fhéadfadh mé a bheith i dtrioblóid leat," he said, rattling off the first thing that came to mind.

"That's lovely," she sighed. "What does it mean?"

"You could get me in trouble, if I'm not careful," he answered, honestly. If the dimple flashing in her cheek were any indication, she was taken with the idea.

The waitress discretely dropped a plate holding the pie and the check between them, then walked away.

"Where do you live?" Cutting through the tip of the pie, he held the fork up to her mouth. The corner of her eyes crinkled and their depths glimmered as she opened her mouth and accepted the offering. When the decadent flavor swirled around her taste buds, she openly hummed with pleasure, making his pulse pick up a notch.

"That is so good," she murmured.

"Wherever the wind takes me," he answered her former question, spooning another bite into her mouth. She pointed her fork at the pie.

"Try it," she ordered, then took another bite herself. "So you just move from place-to-place?" He gave his head a quick shake then took a bite of the pie.

"I go where the job is," he explained, "And when I don't have a current… contract… " He cleared his throat, and indicated the pie with his fork, "It's, uh, quite tasty," he noted, then set down his fork. "…then I take a holiday to wherever I'm drawn to at the moment." She mulled what he'd said for a minute, then took another bite of pie.

"I'm not sure if I find the idea of living like that absolutely thrilling or completely terrifying," she confessed. She held up her fork, offering him a bite.

"I'm enjoying watching you too much," he refused with a lift of his brows to drive home the point. "Why's that?"

"I would love to travel the world, to see all the places I've ever dreamed of, but the idea of not having a home base?" She shook her head. "As much as I enjoy being at Stanford, when I go home to my grandmother's? There's just a comforting familiarity that wraps itself around me. No matter how bad the day, I feel a little better just being there."

"Were you raised by your grandmother?" he wondered.

"No," she answered, matter-of-fact, elaborating no further. The corner of his mouth twitched. So, she can be as evasive as myself when she pleases, he mused. After consuming the last piece of the pie, she shoved the plate away and picked up her coffee, draining it. "Let's get out of here," she suggested, reaching for her purse then removing her wallet.

"And here I thought we were getting on well," he commented. She cocked her head at him and gave him a questioning look.

"So did I."

"Yet you insult me," he feigned affront. Her brows crinkled.

"I have?" She mentally rewound the last few minutes in her head reviewed. A shake of her head and lift of her brows indicated she had no idea how she'd done so.

"A gentleman always pays for the meal," he smiled. Eyes lighting with humor, she laughed, and dropped her wallet back into her purse.

"As a poor college student, far be it from me to argue." She took his proffered hand, and stood then watched as he dropped several bills on the table. She found, again, that she rather liked the light touch of his hand on the small of her back as he paid the check at the register then escorted her outside to the car.

"So, has the time come for us to part this evening"? he wondered, as he reached for the door handle on the passenger side of the car. She turned and leaned her back against it, preventing him from opening it. He lifted a brow in question, stilling when he saw the desire pooling in her brown eyes.

"Kiss me, again."

She needn't ask twice. From time-to-time throughout the meal the memory of her lips beneath his had flitted through his mind. Straightening to his full height, he stepped to her and lifted her heavy hair over her shoulder. A hand caressed her neck, his eyes held hers, as he slowly bent his head.

His lips whispered over hers.

He hadn't imagined it, back at the fraternity house. Despite the kiss being merely a ruse, a frisson of desire had raced through him then, as it did now. With a hum, he slipped his arm around her waist, tugging her closer, as his hand left her neck to cup the back of head. His lips settled more firmly on top of hers.

"Mmmmm. I didn't imagine it. The kiss really was that good," she praised in a mumur, when their lips parted. She tugged his head back down.

Pleasure rumbled low in his throat again.

Need suffused desire. Warning bells sounded in his head, the furthest recesses of his mind acknowledging again that he could find him in deep waters with the lass if he didn't exercise caution. Instead of backing away…

He pressed closer. He yearned to know her flavor. A touch of his tongue to her lips and they willingly parted for him. A shiver raced down his spine as he savored the taste of chocolate and coffee mingled with the honeyed warmth that was hers alone.

She did a little humming of her own, as her hands slid up his chest and over his shoulders. One hand came to rest on the back of his neck, while the other buried itself in his hair. She lost herself in his full, rich essence, her body molding to his when his hand slid from the small of her back to apply gentle pressure between her shoulders.

When their lips at last parted, he continued to hold her in his embrace and the young man who'd already acquired so much elan along his travels, stared down at the petite lass in his arms, positively gobsmacked by the feelings she stirred with him. That she blinked up at him with soft, kiss-dazed brown eyes was his undoing. So when she asked…

"What are you doing until you leave on Sunday?"

…He watched his steadfast rule of 'only an evening of pleasure' walk out the door as his mouth said, quite of its own volition…

"I suppose that depends on whatever it is that you seem to have in mind…"