“Here,” I said, “at the Mosaic.”
Four eyes widened at me. Yeah, the Mosaic was posh and expensive.
“I’ve never been there,” Mo gushed.
“Have you, Zee?” I asked.
“No.” She didn’t meet my gaze.
“Then you ladies are in for a treat. Please…” I held out both of my arms.
Mo linked her arm through mine right away. Zee was little more timid, but soon her hand rested on the inside of my elbow.
“It’s not often I get to escort the two most beautiful ladies in the show to dinner,” I said in my best Wolfe of Manhattan voice.
Mo giggled. Zee stayed silent.
The maitre d’ greeted us when we entered the restaurant. “Mr. Wolfe! So wonderful to have you with us tonight.”
I disentangled my arm from Mo’s and went for my wallet. I pulled out a hundred and handed it to the man. “We’re going to need a table for three instead of two.”
“Not a problem at all, Mr. Wolfe.” He slid the bill discreetly into his jacket pocket. “Right this way, sir.”
We followed him to the back of the restaurant where a private curved bench booth had been set for two. “Only a moment, and we’ll have another place setting for you.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then, “Ladies?”
Mo and Zee slid onto the curved bench. Nicely done. Now I could choose which one to sit next to, which, of course, was no choice at all.
I slid in adjacent to Zee.
The additional place setting appeared within about ten seconds, and then the sommelier arrived.
“Do you have any questions about our wine list, Mr. Wolfe?” she asked.
“I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to peruse it yet. We just got here.”
“Excellent,” she said. “If you do have questions, my name is Eleanor, and I’m at your service.” She bowed slightly and then left us alone.
I was used to obsequiousness in restaurants. The servers were all out for Wolfe tips. The thing was, they didn’t have to kiss my ass. I always tipped well for good service. That was all I ever expected.
My old man used to like having his ass kissed.
All this time, I’d known he was a bastard. Never in a million years, though, had I considered that he might be a psychopathic criminal as well.
What he’d done to this woman next to me…
She was so strong. She didn’t even know how strong she was.
She turned to me, still with red cheeks. “Thank you for…for having my shoes repaired.”
“You’re very welcome. It’s the least I could do.”
“But the other stuff,” she continued. “The other five pairs. I’m afraid I couldn’t accept them.”
“Of course you can. I want you to have them.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve already shipped them back to the return address.”
My stomach dropped. Why did I care so much? I’d sent out a personal shopper with Zee’s shoe size on a whim. This shouldn’t bother me.
But it did.
“I told her she was nuts,” Mo said.
“You’ll have to excuse Mo,” Zee said. “She’s a shoe whore.”
Zee’s description shocked me a little, but Mo brushed it off.
“I admit it,” she said. “I love shoes, and those were some beauties.”
“It was very generous of you,” Zee said, “but it was just too much.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” I picked up my menu. “What are you ladies in the mood for tonight?”
Nice save, Reid. Why was this bothering me? I’d sent the shoes as a way to woo Zee, but now I realized I truly wanted her to have them. Why?
Was it because…?
Guilt? Guilt for what my father had done to her?
Maybe, though what he did wasn’t my fault in any way. If Roy and I had known what he was doing all those years, we would have stopped it. Tried our damned best, anyway.
But as Riley told us, he most likely wouldn’t have let us.
Derek Wolfe held all the power.
No longer. The bastard was dead and cremated. but his partner in crime—Father Jim—was still very much alive.
And Zee could identify him.
This dinner wasn’t going to get me into Zee’s head or into Zee’s bed. She’d seen to that by inviting Mo along.
I couldn’t blame her, honestly. She was scared. It was written all over her face.
“I’m in the mood for a giant hunk of lasagna,” Mo said and then sighed. “But I’ll probably have the braised cod with lemon.”
I glanced over the menu. “I don’t see that option.”
“It’s not on there,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be cod. Tilapia is fine. Or sole.”
“Sole?” Nieves had ordered the Dover sole at lunch, though I’d had to cancel her order when she left abruptly after getting the call about Leta.
“Any kind of white fish,” Mo said. “Zee and I are on strict diets.”
“Not tonight,” I said. “The sky’s the limit. You ladies order whatever you’d like.”
“And then we’ll have to deal with Tiger tomorrow,” Mo said.
“Who’s Tiger?”
“She’s the choreographer. I swear the woman can see one extra ounce on our bodies.”