His fury was buried somewhere beneath the calm expression he wore on his handsome features. He didn’t offer to help settle her into her chair, which was for the best. If his hands had brushed her shoulders, she didn’t think she could stop herself from leaning into him.
When he took his seat, she asked, “Did you enjoy your shore leave?”
Ian scanned the menu card. “It’s like that, is it? Are we to talk about the weather next?”
“There’s no reason to begin a perfectly nice dinner with antagonism.”
“I don’t believe you. You’re itching for a fight. Look at the way you’re clenching your hands.”
Defensively, she buried them in her napkin.
The waiter arrived with a tray of fresh oysters in mignonette sauce, and Diana boorishly seized one so she’d have something to swallow along with her annoyance.
Ian reached for an oyster with less ferocity. He ignored the perfectly good fork on the table and slowly lifted the shell to his lips before tipping the oyster into his mouth. It was the vulgar way that ship hands ate fish.
Diana found it wildly seductive.
He polished off three more oysters in similar fashion. “You enjoy having atête-à-têtewith me. I’m the only one who opposes you, and you find that novel.”
“I don’t enjoy being at odds with you. I’d rather be allies.”
“Allies who steal from one another?”
The perfunctory nature of his tone was more irritating than his accusation. She preferred his anger over his icy detachment because at least that didn’t leave her feeling cold and floundering over how to respond.
The awkward silence persisted until the waiters cleared their plates and reset the cutlery. “Mademoiselle, we have something delicious tonight. A seasonal specialty.”
“Indeed.” Diana attempted to sound bored so Ian wouldn’t suspect she was listening attentively. The “seasonal specialty” was a code Widow had used in the past. When it was too dangerous to put orders in writing.
“What is the dish?” Ian asked with forced politeness.
“Langoustines in a fresh butter and vermouth sauce.” The waiter kissed his fingertips. “We only have the ingredients for a short time. Our supplier says there will be nothing left in two days.”
The message confirmed the timeline Amelia had decoded to rendezvous for the cargo exchange.
“Well then,” Ian murmured. “These must be transformative langoustines.”
“Can one buy them here, in La Rochelle?” Diana asked.
“Oui, mademoiselle. There is one specific shop.” In a stage whisper, he said, “The man you need to ask for is Monsieur Donastia. Friends like me call him Sebastian.”
Ian fixed Diana with a hard stare meant to attack her composure. She hoped he enjoyed disappointment; he would not rattle her enough to confirm the name was the signal of their next destination. San Sebastian—Donastia, to Basque speakers.
When the waiter darted away, Ian’s glare didn’t relent. “Are you going to tell me why you invited me here tonight, or are we dashing off to track down the illustrious Sebastian Donastia? I have a sneaking suspicion he’s left La Rochelle for parts south. The northern coast of Spain, methinks.”
The transformative langoustines arrived along with brioche and butter, and a plate of steamed greens.
Ian paid the food little notice. “Go on, Diana. Confess your sins. The seasonal specialty can wait for whatever it is you dragged me here to say.”
She arched her brow and enjoyed the small catch of his breath, and the confirmation she could still render some emotional reaction from him other than disdain. “Let’s enjoy dinner and test your theory on my preference for challenging conversations.”
“And when we finish?”
“I will give you a bank draft for the appraised value of the emeralds, plus ten percent.”
His eyes widened fractionally. He hadn’t anticipated she’d come right out and mention the necklace, and she braced herself for his anger, or at the very least, a cold rebuttal.
He looked thoughtfully down at the food, drew a long breath, and quietly began to eat.