It didn't surprise her to find him waiting for her at the foot of the stairs; he would have heard her moving about upstairs, noted the click of her heels in the hallway as she left the bedroom. The contrary voice in her head suggested he simply wanted to be certain she didn't bolt out the front door.
He had discarded the apron and unrolled his sleeves, covering his dress shirt with a three-button suit jacket. The green and gold accents in his tie matched her earrings. She found she missed the casual look – though he did cut a fine figure in the suit – and wondered what he might consider appropriate breakfast wear.
That thought nearly caused her to miss a step. He was there in an instant, his hand reaching out to steady her.
"I trust you haven't been indulging in morphine this evening, Clarice. I'd hate to have to remove your wineglass from the table before you've tasted the selection."
He kept hold of her hand, his thumb brushing across her knuckles as she descended the final two steps, before he raised it to his lips for a kiss. His eyes never left her face. She looked away.
"I save the morphine for holidays, Doctor, so you're safe for a few more weeks. Best put the wine away on Halloween, though."
And now she'd implied – again! – that this … oddity … might not be a one-time occurrence. That they might plan future events. Together.
He nodded as though she had spoken in all seriousness and responded with equally grave formality.
"I will be certain to keep that in mind, Clarice." He raised his left arm and drew her right arm through it. "May I escort you to table?"
"By all means, Doctor. Is it still mine, or did you redecorate the house while I was at work, too?" Her tone gently teased; she felt a sense of giddiness spiraling up her spine at the notion that she could tease him.
"Not at all, my dear." He steered her into the dining room and guided her into a chair at the elegantly set table. The stemware, the flatware – hell, the whole dining service – was definitely not hers. "I thought I might save something for another afternoon."
She had been teasing; was he? If she took him at his word, it meant he too had given thought to a more … long-term arrangement. Out of his presence, the thought would have sent her into a mental panic. In his presence, it merely heightened her sense of exhilaration. His very presence was a reassurance that she wasn't simply imagining his … concern … for her. Without it, darker voices prevailed. She frowned, unsettled by the notion that he affected her so.
"If the table setting offends you, Clarice, perhaps a pizza box or takeout container might suit?"
She lifted her eyes from the plate, absently noting that he was now standing to her right, a bottle of wine in his hands.
"Digging through my trash, Doctor?"
He playfully wrinkled his nose at her.
"Nothing so gauche, I trust." He poured a half-measure of wine into the smaller, thinner wineglass to the right of her plate. It was white wine; given the nature of the man pouring it, it was no doubt expensive and well regarded as well, but awareness of color exhausted the stock of Clarice's wine knowledge. He moved smoothly around the table to pour his own and left the wine chilling in a small bucket. "I'll be just a moment with the first course."
In spite of the formality – perhaps because of it? – dinner was a relaxed affair. It seemed the doctor could effortlessly put her at ease, smoothly directing the conversation, giving her room to question and debate on a variety of light topics. Art, music, literature, cuisine, travel … somehow every avenue of discussion led to the next, all were intellectually stimulating, and none was emotionally threatening.
By the time they had finished the soup and salad courses and started on small dishes of sorbet – what she considered an icy dessert treat and he called a palate cleanser – Clarice's eye caught the clock on the wall and she realized with some startlement that nearly two hours had already passed.
Her mind reluctantly acknowledged that she could grow to enjoy such evenings … no, not just the evening. The sharing. The contentment. The company.
But it was an all or nothing prospect. If he truly did want more than just this from her, she would have to leave everything behind. She could never come back, either. And she would have to accept all of him … and give all of herself in return. He would never permit less.
The sorbet chilled her throat as she swallowed.
When she looked up, he was silent, watching her. It had been that way all evening; he was, she presumed, reading her every expression, analyzing her every motion, knowing her every thought nearly before she did. Well, perhaps not that last one, she granted, although it certainly seemed that way.
But his attention, intense though it was, never made her squirm like a suspect in interrogation. It felt … right, that he should know her, that he should see her. His gaze was unlike the leers she had received from less circumspect men – which wasn't to say that there wasn't a certain … warmth … to it at times. But it was clear that her body wasn't the only thing he saw when he looked at her.
He listened as she oh-so-slowly articulated her thoughts on subjects outside her realm of expertise, subjects she truly had only begun to study as a way to get closer to him. To catch him, of course. He treated her as an equal in the conversation; he never spoke over her, never displayed impatience as she worked through her thoughts.
His attention was constant, unswerving, and utterly devoted to her.
Maybe that wasn't something to fear. Maybe it was something to embrace.
She couldn't see her expression when the realization struck her, but something in her face seemed to have satisfied him. He smiled faintly at her, the corners of his mouth just barely turning up, his eyes crinkling slightly, and then he picked up the thread of the conversation as if the pause had never been.
The pleasant, unhurried pace and light talk carried them through the main course (rare beef tenderloin paired with a red wine) and the dessert course (a sinful caramel cheesecake concoction – the source of the sweet scent she had detected from upstairs - paired with yet another wine).
"I'll have to invest in a wine rack if it's your intention to continue spoiling me like this, Doctor," she teased. "And I'll need to run ten miles a day to work off dessert."
He rose from his seat, coming around the table to grasp her chair.
"If you've finished, Clarice, perhaps you'd care to relax in the front room while I clear?"
"I could help with…." She waved a hand at the table.
"Nonsense, my dear. Unconventional though the setting may be, I am still the host, and it is not the guest's responsibility to clear the table." He smoothly pulled the chair back as she stood and gestured her toward the living room. "Please, make yourself comfortable."
She went without further argument, deciding that forcing her way into the kitchen would only make him suspect that she distrusted him – and, truthfully, despite the human organs he had served to society members and former clients, despite the blatant demonstration of cannibalism she had witnessed herself at Paul Krendler's home, she still trusted him, on some level, to be honest with her.
If he had wished to serve her something formerly human, he would have confronted her with the knowledge when he had set the plate before her. He would have challenged her, goaded her, so that he might enjoy her reaction. After years of study, she had barely scratched the surface of Hannibal Lecter, but she was as certain as she could be of one thing, at least: He would rather provoke her with honesty than calm her with lies.
Lies were for people like Paul Krendler. People like Frederick Chilton.
The doctor had left a table lamp on in the living room; its light cast a soft glow across the couch and chairs. Clarice tilted her head, considering, and flexed her toes. She opted to settle at one end of the couch and slipped off the shoes. Curling her legs under her was a careful maneuver given the style of the dress, but she managed eventually.
If only she could manage her growing nervous tension so easily. The state of relaxation she had achieved in his presence was fading now, as it occurred to her that the time must be drawing near for the purpose of his visit. The long answer. He hadn't broached the topic at all during dinner; he had, in fact, deftly turned aside any foray into serious territory.
"I wish I knew what you want, Doctor," she murmured. "I wish I could be certain of what I want."