A/N: The Inn of the Seventh Ray is an actual restaurant, nestled in the hills north of LA. I have tried to do it justice, but I'm sure my hundred words can't capture it like the pictures. Check it out at innoftheseventhray dot com, if you'd like.

And I can't say it enough…thanks to Julia, Connie, and Jenna for giving so unselfishly of their time and thoughts!

Chapter Twelve

David didn't think about these things often, but the Inn of the Seventh Ray was about the most romantic public space he'd ever seen, starting with the fanciful wrought-iron gate, and ending on the lushly landscaped patio. He followed the hostess along a meandering brick pathway to a rock-hewn booth tucked into a corner.

From there, he looked out into a sea of green, the tables little white-topped islands dotted here and there. He was no gardener, and couldn't begin to name any of the trailing vines, blooming bushes, and potted trees that enveloped the terrace, but he could appreciate the effect. It was like—what did they call it in fairy tales (on which David was something of an expert, thanks to sneaking into a lot of Disney movies as a kid)?—a bower, that place where the princess sat and sang sweetly to the gathered woodland creatures. Crickets chirped in the dusky air, and he was pretty sure there was a brook babbling away, just on the other side of the booth.

It was, in fact, a pretty odd choice for a business dinner, even a congratulatory one, unless Ed Scharlock had a hidden (very hidden) agenda.

However, in a different world, one without chiseled astronauts who held polymer patents, it would have been the perfect place to bring Maddie, a place tailor-made for crossing from friendship into…something else. They could've sat in one of these booths, just the right height for resting an arm around someone's shoulder. He could've told her stories of his childhood; those urban Catholic school anecdotes would probably be pretty entertaining for an atheist from the suburbs. And if all else failed, he had a stockpile of Richie absurdities to fall back on.

They could have a good laugh, some nice wine, and then David would take his heart in his hands and confess. She might kiss him, or slap him—there was no way of knowing with Maddie. But at least the choked feeling that had gripped his chest for the last few days would ease a little.

He took a long drink of the beer that seemed to have magically appeared in front of him. (Did you order by ESP here?) Damn NASA. Couldn't they keep those guys up there a little longer? A nice Space Station mission—one of those ones where they study the effect on your kidneys of 500 days in orbit—yeah, that would fit the bill.

As things were, though, he sure as shootin' wasn't going to put himself out there against Captain bloody America…at least not until he knew where Maddie stood.

Maddie, Maddie…

Maddie?!

A vision in ice-blue was walking toward his table. The candlelight shone on her strapless dress, winking off the sparkling pin that clasped the fabric at her waist. She wore her hair loose, in the way that he loved: soft curls brushed her bare shoulders, silk on silk.

He stood up, not knowing why she was here—a small part of his brain registered that Scharlock must have invited her too—and not really caring, just feeling a ballooning happiness that for the moment, he had her to himself.

She spotted him, and stopped abruptly. "David? What are you doing here?" She sounded…suspicious. Even a little angry. Something was off.

He decided a vague answer worked best, until he knew what was going on. "Same thing you are."

"Oh, really?" she asked sardonically, raising one eyebrow.

"C'mon, sit down…let's have a drink while we're waiting for him to show up."

Maddie looked wary, but slid into the booth anyway, probably to spare the hostess from their bickering. "White wine spritzer, please," she said in response to the hostess' question.

"Sure you wouldn't rather have champagne? I mean, this is a celebration." He was trying to cajole her out of the impending tirade.

Crossing her arms, she glared at him. "And what business is it of yours, I'd like to know?"

That was a low blow, pulling rank on him at a time like this. He was the one who'd caught Joan Tenowich—she hadn't done anything except cash the check! "Well, Ms. Hayes, of course it is your business. That's the thing about a former model, I guess…they hate to share the limelight."

Maddie's eyes grew wide as her mouth shut tight. David could tell she was trying to rein in an explosion of temper—well, fine! He could be angry, too—her ingratitude! Her arrogance!

"You—you—you're insane!" she whispered fiercely. "You crash an intimate dinner for two, and then accuse me of—what was it?—refusing 'to share the limelight'?!"

"If anything, you're crashing my dinner! I mean, OK, I get it, Scharlock can't miss a chance to meet the famous Blue Moon Girl, but I'm the real hero here, honey—and don't you forget it!" He leaned back in the booth, winded from his protest.

Maddie blinked, looking more confused than choleric now. She put up a hand. "Stop right there, Addison. Who is Scharlock, and why exactly are you here?"

"You mean Scharlock didn't invite you?"

"David—I'm running out of patience. Who is Scharlock?"

"He's the FBI guy. He called, said he wanted to go out for dinner, celebrate the Tenowich case. I figured maybe he called you, too. But if you're not here to see him…"

The answer to his unspoken question crashed down on him a half-second before Maddie replied, "I'm meeting Sam."

Sam. Of course. So she had dressed up for him, done her hair for him, put that subtly enticing perfume on…for him.

Damn him to hell.

"OK," she went on. "Game's over. I'd really appreciate it if you'd get out of here before Sam shows up."

He felt numb, bewildered…he couldn't even process what she was saying. He grabbed a conversational straw. "So—Sam—tell me about Sam."

Maddie checked her watch. "David, please—" Her urgency finally got through to him, and he checked his own watch. Seven-forty-five. Scharlock had said seven-thirty. Well, who could blame an FBI agent for being late? The guy was probably busy nabbing a drug kingpin or preventing an assassination attempt.

"Aw, Maddie. Traffic on the 101 was a nightmare—he's probably been held up somewhere. We might as well chat, catch up a little…seems like there's been a lot of…action…in your life lately."

She seemed determined not to take the bait. "Sam is—he's none of your business, is what he is. And you really expect me to believe that you're here—" she gestured around them—"for a business dinner? Ha!" She tipped her wineglass up and took a long sip. "So how did you know we'd be here? Wormed it out of Agnes, I suppose."

Agnes! Suddenly, the coincidence of the situation hit him: he and Maddie, same place, same time…both of their dining partners mysteriously "late." And he hadn't talked to Scharlock himself; Agnes had come into his office with a "message."

"So it was Agnes who told you where to meet Sam tonight?"

"I was on the phone," Maddie shrugged. "He left all the details with her."

David threw back his head and laughed. Well, well, well. Loopy waters ran deep, apparently. Who would've guessed Agnes could be such a schemer? He should probably be furious; the cab fare up here had been exorbitant, not to mention the daydream he'd been spinning about scoring some kind of retainer deal with the Bureau.

But all he could feel was a strange gratitude—he and Maddie were here, together, in this unbelievable setting, and Flash Boredom was cooling his heels…well, it hardly mattered where. Maybe he could turn this whole thing around somehow.

He glanced at Maddie's stony face, the obstinate set of her jaw.

Yeah—not likely.

In any case, he had to protect Agnes as long as he could. Maddie would figure it out eventually, but until then… So he ducked his head, trying to look suitably chastened. "OK, Maddie, you got me. I came up here to get the—the lay of the land."

At first, he thought he was in for an outraged diatribe: "How dare you spy on me like this!", et cetera. But to his surprise, she softened slightly. There was something—a kind of waiting—in her eyes. "Why, David? What difference could it make to you?"

There it was: his opening.

"Just want to be sure I get first crack at the registry list—I'd hate to end up having to give you a toaster."

Coward.

"Fine." She grabbed her purse and slid out of the booth. "I'm going to make a phone call."

David finished his beer and signaled the waiter for the bill. He'd better be prepared to make a very quick exit, if Maddie managed to reach of Sam.

A few minutes later, she came back to the table, frowning. "He's not at the house, not at the conference hotel—we must have gotten our wires crossed somehow."

"Don't suppose you'd want to join me for an appetizer, then," he joked.

"Addison," she warned. She didn't sit back down. "I'd better be going. It's going to take me an hour to get back downtown. Poor Sam! It sounded like he had quite an evening planned." Strangely, though, it didn't sound like she was all that disappointed to have missed it. David's heart gave a little skip of hope.

He stood up to follow her out, but she walked over to the edge of the terrace, gazing down at the brook below. "It's too bad," she said softly. "This place is…amazing."

It suits you, he thought.

She turned to face him, and he took one step closer to her. Her eyes shimmered in the moonlight…God! It was unbearable…

He kissed her, just once, gently. She didn't move. He slid a hand over her shoulder to her neck, feeling the creamy softness of her skin—and he was gone. Drowning in her—her taste, her scent, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, the slippery satin of her gown as he pulled her to him.

She drew away, breathing hard, eyes like violet flame now. Dazed, he traced his thumb along her jaw, reached for her again, and—

SMACK!

David put a hand up to his cheek. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"How dare you! How dare you come up here and spy on me!" (Ah—there it was.) "What gives you the right to—you think you can just—you have the morals of a caveman, Addison!"

She took off, pumps clicking madly on the red brick, nearly bowling over two servers carrying massive trays laden with delicious-looking food.

David kicked a paver in frustration. "Just when I thought we were getting somewhere…" he muttered, as he bobbed and weaved his way through the tables. By the time he got to the parking lot, she was already in the BMW.

"Yo, Mad-day!" he called. "Don't suppose you could give me a—" She shot him a venom-filled look; gravel sprayed from her tires as she squealed out onto the road.

He slumped down on a bench by the valet stand, running a hand through his hair.

A small voice behind him sighed mournfully, "Mr. Addison? I can take you home."