He shook his head. “I represented her in the divorce. No dating clients, and I have a policy about dating former clients in divorce cases. Just a bad idea.”

“Penny Whistledown.” Laurel pointed at him. “I remember you handled her divorce, and you dated her a couple years after.”

“Which is why I know it’s a bad idea.”

“She was so needy. If she couldn’t get you at home or the office, she’d call the house nagging Parker about where you were.” She sipped her wine again. “That, Counselor, was a serious error in judgment on your part.”

“Guilty as charged. You’ve had a couple.”

“Uh-uh. I steer clear of needy men.”

“Errors in judgment. Drake, no, Deke something. How many tattoos did he have?”

“Eight, I think. Maybe nine. But he doesn’t count. I was sixteen and hoping to piss off my parents.”

“It pissed me off.”

Her eyebrows winged up. “Really?”

“Really. He hung around most of that summer, in his torn-off-sleeve T-shirts and motorcycle boots. He had an earring, and I think he practiced his smirk in the mirror.”

“You remember him better than I do.”

She paused while Ben served the salads, topped off their wine. “We know too much about each other’s dating past. Could be dangerous.”

“I won’t hold yours against you, if you don’t hold mine against me.”

“Fair and reasonable,” she concluded. “You know, people are wondering what we’re doing, what’s going on with us.”

“What people?”

“Here, tonight. People who know you.” She inclined her head slightly toward the table where the three women were pretending not to be talking about them. “And people who know me.”

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Not really. Maybe a little.” She shrugged and gave her salad her attention. “It’s natural enough, especially when one of us is a Brown of the Connecticut Browns.”

“I’d say it’s natural enough because I’m sitting here with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“Good. That’s very good. A popular standard for a reason.”

He laid his hand on hers on the table. “I know who I’m looking at.”

Undone, she turned her hand over to link her fingers with his. “Thanks.”

Let them wonder, she thought. Let them talk. She had what she’d always wanted right in her hand.

They ate, sampling each other’s choices, sipping good wine, talking about whatever came to mind. They’d always been able to talk, Laurel mused, about anything and everything. She found herself able to put that glass wall around them, close everyone else out on the other side and savor the interlude as much as the meal.

Ben set a trio of mini soufflés on the table. “Compliments of Charles, the dessert chef. He heard you were here and wanted to do something special for you. He’s a little nervous,” Ben added, lowering his voice as he leaned down.

“Seriously?”

“You’re a tough act, Laurel. If you’d rather have something else—”

“No, this is great. They’re beautiful.” She sampled the chocolate first, with a dollop of whipped cream. And closing her eyes, smiled. “Gorgeous. Try it,” she told Del, then took a taste of the vanilla. “Really wonderful.”

“He’d love to come out and meet you.”

“Why don’t I go back? After we do justice to these.”

“You’d make his day Thanks, Laurel.”

She tried the last while Ben walked away. “Mmm, the lemon’s exquisite. Just the right blend of tart and sweet.”

“A Brown of the Connecticut Browns. That’s what you said before.” He shared the soufflés with Laurel. “But I’m with the Diva of Desserts.”

“Diva of Desserts.” A laugh bubbled out, then she paused and just grinned. “I like it. I may get a sign. God, I’m going to have to work out like a maniac tomorrow, but I don’t want to hurt his feelings,” she added and took another bite. “Listen, I’ll only be a few minutes in the back.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he said, and rose to take her hand.

“It’ll have calmed down by now,” she told him. “The dinner rush is well over. But don’t touch anything. Julio can be fairly insane. If he threatens to fillet you like a trout, don’t take it personally.”

“I know Julio. I’ve met him several times when he’s come out to the table.”

Laurel spared Del a glance as they approached the kitchen. “Then you don’t know Julio.”

She pushed open the door.

Calm, she’d said. They obviously had different definitions of the term. People moved everywhere at once, it seemed to Del, and the noise level—raised voices, the clatter of dishes, the hum of vents, the thwack of knives, and sizzle from the grill—was simply huge.

Steam rose in air thick with heat and tension.

At a section of the enormous stove, Julio stood in his apron and short chef’s hat, cursing steadily in several languages.

“Can’t decide?” he boomed. “Need more time?” He erupted with a stream of gutter Spanish that singed the already simmering air. “Don’t want mushrooms, want extra carrots. Assholes! Where’s my f**king plate, goddamn it.”

“Nothing changes,” Laurel said just loud enough for him to hear.

He turned, a scrawny man with beetled black brows over molten brown eyes. “You, don’t talk to me.”

“I’m not here to talk to you.” She turned away to approach the younger man who’d stopped drizzling raspberry sauce around a slice of chocolate cake on a dessert plate. “You must be Charles.”

“Don’t talk to him until he gets that done. You think this is a social club?”

Charles’s eyes rolled in a handsome face the color of freshly ground coffee. “Please. Just one minute.”

He completed the plate with a scattering of berries, added thin cookies around a bowl of trifle. As if by secret signal, a waitress scooped them up and out the door.

“I’m so pleased to meet you. So pleased.”