[Evelyn stepped out this evening with the intention of meeting people, indulging in a little giggle water, and while the latter thirst has been satiated the former is more than lacking. It isn't so much the clientele as the manner with which they present themselves - desperate and overeager, almost too aggressive, and more than once has she jumped to protect her purse only to realise that a wandering hand was trying to grab at something else.
She expected better and perhaps that is the crux of her current situation: American gin joints, while fun and attractive for the conspiratorial air people adopt when speaking of them, are about as crowded and raucous as any seedy pub back home. The place has become an absolute rowdydow in the last quarter-hour and no amount of wristwatch-checking will satisfy her desire to try and wring some joy out of the occasion.
At the far table in the corner she is afforded the freedom to survey the room as she desires and, unfortunately, it sets her as a target for dapper beaus who want to try their luck. Bawdy speech is all well and good when one gets to know a person, but there's something about the forwardness employed by most of the bar's stags that she finds distasteful. There's no subtlety, no art to the conversation before it inevitably meanders into territory she finds objectionable on the grounds that there is no connexion on a level of wits.
That, and only a fool lifts her skirts for a man who cannot appreciate the difference between rotgut swill and Scotch whisky.
She is just beginning to slide off of her chair to settle up at the bar when a gentleman - the word alone might be generous - seats himself across from her, and someone who appears to be his friend loiters a step or two behind, standing, blocking the way out.]
How ya doin', sweetheart?
[She frowns immediately, and schools the expression into a thin smile.]
Fine, thank you. I was just leaving to settle up.
[They shift again, in such a way that she does not particularly like. A human barricade of two people who appear to have already had one too many drinks on their tab and in their bellies. They look at each other, and Seated laughs, slipping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. He offers her one from his case. She stares at him. He continues.]
[ The thing about Prohibition is that it has anybody who's anybody thinking they can open up their own joint. Meat lockers to boiler rooms, long as there's a key to lock off the space and some spare glasses people put themselves in business. That enterprising American spirit hard at work, Rafe supposes. At least this way it's less a matter of setting up shop and more rooting out the place and making a decent offer. It's still work, mind, since most back alley holes in the wall aren't up to a dog's standards much less Rafe's— Which is why he's here tonight.
This place is a new acquisition, some crumbling half-finished subway station complete with a car left on the track. Hell of a lot of potential, if handled right. He's spent the better part of the night at his own table, idly scribbling observations and figures in a notebook and ignoring the good whiskey sitting in front of him. His focus has been on numbers — who ordering what and how much and when — but he'd have to be blind, missing the steady stream of customers one table seems to draw in particular. Have to be blind and stupid, missing the reason behind it.
Rafe has seen beautiful women, wooed some and peddled some and enjoyed more than his share, but the brunette here... She's a breed apart, he can tell from a glance. The first dog rushing in with his tongue lolled out almost had him stepping in but better judgment prevailed— And he was soon glad for it from what he was able to overhear. Little lady was more than capable of dispatching fools all on her lonesome and Rafe was hard-pressed at times to keep his amusement to himself. Said lady seems to be worn thin by now, though, with these two latest customers apparently sniffing for trouble and eager to find it. Which, whether the lady can handle herself or not, simply won't do in any place he's running.
Ambling from his table to hers, he slips behind Gentleman No.² and clears his throat. ]
Tom. Dick. [ He smiles, perfectly friendly save for the glint in his eyes. ] Why don't you two blouse and find a Harry elsewhere, huh? The lady says she's ready to settle her tab, not for either one of you.
[ Gentleman No.¹ scoffs and pats the lady's hand before standing to join his friend. ]
Excuse me? This is a private party, pal.
[ Gentleman No.² shifts aside, brows knitting even as he makes way for No.¹ to attempt looming over Rafe. He can see the cogs turning and oh, when the realization hits... No.² could put snow to shame. All Rafe does is continue smiling as No.² tugs at a sleeve. ]
George—
No, Charlie, I wanna know where this greasy dago bastard gets off jumping my table.
[ The slur is nothing new, and Rafe's smile stays put. It does get sharper and anyone with sense would know to back away. Quickly. ]
I'd listen to your friend, Tom. I'd listen real close.
[Evelyn is prepared to deal with the worst. It wouldn't be the first time someone attempted to corner her while she was on her way out, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, which is why the hand gripping her little clutch is sorely tempted to snap open the clasp and withdraw something that might give these gentlemen seconds thoughts.
She isn't afforded the time to do so, however.
Their efforts are intercepted by the man who has spent the better part of the evening at a far table, working intently on something with the air of a fanatical accountant. Assuming he was taking stock of inventory Evelyn didn't spare more than a passing glance - people who wish to be left alone tend to exude such an air, and she was managing her own myriad of issues - to note that he was well-dressed.
It stands true up close, when he meanders over wearing a benevolent smile that looks a little too sharp around the edges. He's handsome: laissez-faire good looks paired with attire that fits far too well to be dimestore, no doubt tailored to his precise measurements. Dark hair, pale eyes, the lazy gaze of a predator that smells blood in the water and wants to take its time before striking with swift efficiency. Even his manner of speaking suggests he is aware he picked a fight he will win.
The offending party is collectively bothered, though one of the men in particular looks unnerved on an entirely different level. He knows him. He must know him, and fear him. Poised for flight at the edge of the table Evelyn watches in rapt interest as that shark-like grin grows ever more dangerous.]
I don't gotta take shit from you, guido.
Jesus, George, he's Alieri.
[The name means nothing to Evelyn, unfamiliar with the local realpolitik or the players, but it is apparent that it stands for something to her harassers. The cigarette dangling from the noisy one's lips falls as his jaw slackens, a perfectly good Lucky Strike relegated to the concrete floor when recognition seemingly sinks in.
The change is immediate. Perhaps not deference, but acknowledgement as both of them seem to shift uncomfortably. The loud gentleman hazards a dubious:]
...thought this was O'Malley turf.
[It is politics, she realises. Italian territory.]
These gentlemen were just leaving, [Evelyn states plainly, already tired of being a passive bystander.] Unless I am much mistaken.
um i did nothing of the kind i'm just tryna stay on your level
Clearly you thought wrong, but that's understandable. I can see now that thought isn't your strong suit.
[ No.¹ takes clear offense for a clear insult, building up for a bluster in spite of all common sense before his associate grabs hold of his arm now and steps close to hiss better judgment in his ear. Rafe just waits patiently. The smile on his face doesn't waver for an instant though something hungry flickers in his gaze, all but daring this piss-for-brains to start a spot of trouble that Rafe would have no problem and no small pleasure in finishing.
For good or ill, though, the lady in the equation speaks up and cuts the debate short. For her, Rafe's expression becomes more genuine — more conspirator than carnivore — and he genteelly offers a small bow in her direction. ]
A lady never is, [ he replies earnestly, mischief in his manner if not his tone before he returns his attention to the assholes in question. ] The door is that way.
[ Credit where it's due: they don't hesitate grabbing the out as soon as it presents itself. Rafe's eyes track the two as they take their harried leave, burning a hole in their backs until he sees the door close behind them. Several other sets of eyes find his then, all posing a silent question across the murmur of the crowd and Rafe answers with the barest shake of his head. No, no one need follow and reinforce the message, not tonight. Let the somari shit themselves all the way home, jumping at every shadow for the blow that isn't coming.
Once they're out of the picture, Rafe uncoils himself from a viper ready to strike back into a person. ]
My apologies, miss. I can see you're a kind can handle herself, but you've been batting the full nine tonight. Thought you could use the relief hitter.
Edited (shut up i was in the neighborhood and saw stuff that needed fixing) 2017-12-28 23:28 (UTC)
[The gesture of politesse does not go unnoticed - it is the first one she has received this evening, albeit on the formal side, but she won't protest to the contrary. The gentleman, the Alieri, appears as a jackal might while lurking along the edges of a funeral procession: dark eyes and razor-sharp teeth, waiting for the right opening and daring the offenders to press further. It would no doubt give him good excuse to thrash someone about, if that's the sort of thing that tickles his fancy.
She watches the patronising party smooth its ruffled feathers and turn to its friend, and they make a speedy escape together through the crowd that parts as if they might have suffered plague. Perhaps getting in someone's bad graces here will do that in the same way that a minor faux pas might make one a social pariah back home.
Leaning her hip against the table Evelyn drops her reticule in the chair, expecting introductions from the man who took the half-second to bow at her.
The baseball metaphor is a swing and a miss, if only because she isn't especially versed in the sport. Evelyn raises an eyebrow, prying clues from context, comprehending that his powers of observation are either very keen or his attention span has wandered from his own evening several times in the last four hours.]
You've been watching me.
[There is no accusation in her tone - simply a statement of fact.]
Enjoy yourself?
GASP how dare you accuse me!!! me!!! an inNOCENT LAMB
[ His eyes follow her purse back to the seat, one eyebrow arching eloquent to match hers when as his gaze flickers back to her face. Of course he had hoped after the minor intervention she would choose to stay a while longer but a gentleman never assumes these things, and Rafe had sure as hell expected to do a little more convincing. Not that he's about to complain, no sir. Rule of thumb, that — don't look gift horses in the mouth, accept a white elephant with as much grace as you can, and never walk away from a pretty girl that's given you her attention.
His hands spread in a helpless shrug when she points out the obvious, a smile on his face that only vaguely tries to be apologetic and doesn't lose any sleep not making the cut. ]
Don't take it too personal. I watch everything when I'm working. Although... [ And here that smile gives up the ghost, too wry a grin to even bother pretending it's anything else. ] It does take something special to keep my attention.
[ Without missing a beat, he switches from English to accentless Latin: ] Ego maxime fruendum te dico quarto generosum quid tibi cogitatio eius hairpiece.
[ That particular high hat would've better availed himself of an actual hat instead of the sad mop he came in with. Rafe may have given him a little more credit for the attempts at small talk if it hadn't been clear that he could give a hang about any of the answers. One too many impatient uh-huhs after inquiring about the lady's hobbies and she began to display her stated affinity for tongues; Rafe had already had half an ear tuned to that table but Latin isn't something he hears often, least not outside Sunday mornings, and it'd certainly never sounded so fine coming from any holy roller's lips.
He sidesteps her neat as you please in order to pull out her chair for her. Genteel pretensions and all. ]
Would it be possible to tempt you back into your seat? I'd hate for you to leave with a bad impression of the place. Bad for business, you understand.
[He isn't lascivious. That much she can tell even without the self-aggrandisement, the sureness of his posture and stance, the way he holds himself as though he owns the place. And he does, apparently, based upon his statements. Proprietor of a gin joint, well, enough so that others seem to hold him in high enough regard to avoid confrontation.
He talks with his hands - definitely Mediterranean.
Evelyn is waffling between having one more drink and taking her leave when he speaks in a language that is decidedly dead with a flair that suits the homeland from whence it comes. It makes sense, being the tongue of his people. Catholics are born into the call and response. She blinks at him for a long moment, impressed.]
Multum observasti.
[Kept very close watch, indeed. She scrutinises him carefully, a businessman with every intention of keeping arses in seats, wondering if he wants something more even as she settles back in the chair.]
I don't usually go to these sorts of places alone. [Evelyn remarks, suddenly feeling very awkward. It's as though half the eyes in the room are trained on the table where the head honcho is going out of his way for a stranger.] I moved recently, but you probably already know that.
[ Gently nudging her in, Rafe crosses to sit opposite — after swapping chairs for one from another table, untainted by asshole association.
He does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice her discomfiture, and just as easily ignores the curious glances he knows he's earned them both. Not everyone in here recognize who he is and what he represents but those who do know enough to keep aware of the true power in the room. Said power rests easy on his shoulders, a mantle as tailored to him as his perfectly starched shirts. ]
Just moved here? You don't say. Where from? Jersey? [ Yes, yes, he knows he's hilarious but that doesn't mean he doesn't like to hear people acknowledge it. ] Yeah. I could kind of tell as much. Though I'll have to assume not going on your lonesome is simply because you're never short a body to keep you company.
[ Well. Let him amend that. ]
Bodies of better stock than we've seen tonight, at least.
[ Further proof of his import comes way of a waiter's prompt appearance, inquiring if either needs anything. Rafe purses his lips, eyes flickering over his newfound companion as he considers — again, not lascivious. Merely assessing. He prides himself in pegging a person's poison. ]
Champagne cocktails, I think. If that's amenable to you, Miss...?
no i'm just having trouble seeing through all this bullshit
[Jersey. Evelyn rolls her eyes but it isn't entirely in bad humour, because the joke itself is delivered so drily it might as well be a glass of prosecco. He follows it with a compliment in true formulaic performance, something to no doubt soothe her ruffled feathers - if they are indeed ruffled - but in his defence he isn't wrong. Evelyn is more likely to take someone along with her to evening events like this, just to act as a buffer when things get strained.
Leaning an elbow on the table she smiles politely at the server who has whisked in out of nowhere, been appraised, and been given an order that she almost wishes wasn't accurate so she didn't feel as caught off-guard as she already is.]
Carnahan. Evelyn.
[There is a warmth that reaches her for the hapless waiter, who nods when she adds,]
Champagne cocktails are just fine.
[The man departs from them swiftly to fetch their drinks and Evelyn turns back to Alieri, sensing the lazy posture of another predator. This is his territory and while it is clear he intends to protect those within it who mean him well, she shouldn't be so careless as to tread on anyone's bad side. Everybody has one: it is writ into the sharp edge of his jaw, the razor-thin smile and the casual but penetrating gaze from beneath heavy lids.]
If I am to understand you are the owner of this establishment, you needn't treat me so well unless we are to be on forename terms.
w o w w w w w w w w i don't need to take that from you!!
[ She reads him about as well as he does her and Rafe can't fault her probing gaze — she'd be entitled to begin with, triple after the night she's already had. The only concession he makes to her assessment in kind a slight cant of the head that patiently awaits verdict. He's securely at the top of the food chain, without a doubt, but it doesn't translate to condescension. No, Evelyn has already shown her claws to other men who assume themselves her better and he respects another predator when he sees one. He wonders if her bite would be as sharp.
It's a distracting thought.
Rafe nods in slow approval, lets the name sit on his tongue to get the feel for it and enjoy the taste. It's elegant. Classy. Suits her perfectly. ]
Then suppose I should get on fixing that, hm? [ He allows himself a moment's smugness at being right before his smirk dims into something more palatable for conversation. ] Rafe. Short for Rafael. The Alieri you already heard and yes, this is my place. Or at least mine to manage, anyway.
[ His fingers, momentarily laced before him, spread in a clear show of what can you do. ]
Hence why I'm here tonight, though I doubt the bar's quality enough to draw across the pond.
He has every right to be after a performance like the one he gave in front of those hoodlums, the fact that he's got his hands in this entrepreneurial pie. Evelyn mouths his name - Rafael, it's deliciously Biblical - and watches his hands spread, comforting, open. A gesture of welcome to put her at ease and a habit developed from working tense negotiations like the one only minutes prior.
She settles back into her chair, much more at ease, and toys with the strand of pearls around her neck. It's an obvious opening and she knows that she is interested or she would have walked out already, so getting to know a local fellow might actually do her some good.]
I moved here a month ago, with my brother. Specialised in antiquities back home, so I've been working in Egyptian art at the Metropolitan.
[The smile that dances over his mouth and tugs at the arch of his eyebrow is becoming increasingly interesting. Evelyn winds her necklace around a finger.]
[ It seems rights to cockiness are well-shared and Rafe whistles quietly, impressed. He's spent his fair share of summer days at the Met — one of the few free and cool places to retreat from Manhattan's swelter. The culture had been an unexpected but welcome bonus. ]
You must be pretty phenomenal to land the gig in a place like that. [ A rougher operator would point out the obvious, that Evelyn comes packing beauty and brains, but Rafe figured that went without saying even before knowing her credentials. Aside from smarts, it's a bigger pointer than a posh accent to at least some money. No other way to go and pay for the kind of schooling to open doors like that. Would dovetail with the good breeding so plain as should warrant an exhibit plaque. ] Why not try somewhere closer to home?
[ His eyes momentarily fall away from hers, attracted by motion and then happily distracted watching Evelyn's slim fingers and the curve of her throat. Leaning on his elbows, forearms crossed against the table, he doesn't do her the disservice of pretense. She meant to catch his attention, he willingly caught the bait, and the appreciative gleam shows it well-received.
Genteel pretensions only go so far between two adults who both know the score. ]
Oh, I'm an altar boy. Couldn't you tell?
[ As evidenced by his saintly behavior thus far. ]
Home is an old boys' club and I'm too impatient to wait until they've all expired.
[Ever the pragmatist Evelyn lifts and lowers one shoulder in half of a shrug, accepting the compliment in stride. New York is more hospitable and liberal-minded by nature, a welcoming environment for a traveling academic who sought scholarly succor in the comforting arms of a museum far from the madding crowd. The bureaucracy of English spheres, both political and school-minded, is something that has ground her to exhaustion and this new land is ripe for the taking.
Rafe leans in obligingly and Evelyn, encouraged by the obvious interest, mirrors his movement. With a smile like that, he's no altar boy. He's either well educated or religious - perhaps both. Like the Irish, Italians are just as Catholic and the innocent, dark-haired fellow across from her doesn't strike her as the sort of man to avidly go to confession.
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned: I scared the piss out of two bar patrons hassling a woman.
Unconvinced that Rafael Alieri is a simple business owner with an extremely flirtatious demeanour and a penchant for dead languages, Evelyn smirks. His behaviour reminds her of the sort of arrogance she sees in the seedy districts back home, where shades move in the alleys and make deals, run races, build evening clubs. A working class industry passing itself off as the new elite.]
It's Saturday night, Rafe. [She lets his name roll over her tongue, tasting it.] Only naughty fellows stay out this late when they have a service in the morning.
[ Rafe can't help but bark a laugh, too familiar with the sentiment and delighted at how bluntly she lays it out. He supposes he ought to count himself lucky— Old guards take their sweet goddamn time no matter the field but at least he has more options to expedite the process than Evelyn does. Then again such options might service her as well— The Egyptian wing has no shortage of coffins, and what's one more corpse to freshen up the selection?
It's an amusing thought for all it remains a private one, the extra humor easily camouflaged between the earlier laugh and the arrival of their drinks. Not that he pays them any mind. He prefers his liquor sharper than this, stronger, and feels fizz best left to Schweppes and company.
As for sweetness... With Evelyn opposite him, hazel eyes sparkling with wry curiosity, he thinks he's set on that front. ]
See, but that's the point. Gotta keep confession lively. You can't have the good fathers embarrassing themselves dozing off behind the screen so I take it upon myself to make it interesting for them. [ A solemn nod. ] Just my humble way of giving back.
[Their drinks arrive and Evelyn pulls hers closer by the stem. An appreciative sniff before consumption seems necessary in the presence of a near-stranger and she is struck with dry champagne and the underlying sweetness of liqueur. Raspberry. It's as if he knows her already. Her approval is only acknowledged with the brief raising of her eyebrows as she replaces her glass on the table, listening to him continue.]
Really.
[Evelyn, who is neither excessive religious nor the sort of person who would willingly confess to her flaws - even within the privacy of the confessional - has always found the notion of that theological secrecy to be a fascinating one. Words traded do not pass beyond the confines of the three walls, the curtain and screen, and in that way it is not altogether dissimilar from conversations held in dimly-lit booths and tables at the edges of a bar of questionable repute.
Chewing her lip, she smiles at him again and her gaze skips over the loosened tie, the rumpled collar of the working class man who starches for appearance, to impress.]
What sort of sins do you intend to confess tomorrow?
[ Her nose wrinkles with that delicate sniff and Rafe is struck in kind with a singular thought: God, that's a cute nose. It almost doesn't tie into the rest of the picture— Evelyn's dress is scintillating, the décolletage is riveting, the eyebrows downright loquacious, but that nose is nothing but cute and Rafe thinks that may be best of all.
It isn't a word that usually comes to mind much when he looks at a woman but then again he's got a feeling down deep in his bones that there's little of the usual that applies to Evelyn Carnahan. ]
Well, I'm a big believer in improvisation and besides. The night's still young. Plenty of time to get a respectable list squared away.
[ A blind man could feel the trail of eyes along his neck but Rafe isn't denied the view, though it leaves him craving something more concrete. The nails resting ever so delicate at the base of her glass, for an instance, or the rouged lips curling up in a smile the Devil himself would envy. The way Evelyn keeps looking, maybe she'll so oblige. The cocktail doesn't stay overlong, just long enough on Rafe's tongue to ensure that yes, the mix is right — striking the right balance between dry and sweet to be flavorful without overpowering — before going down the hatch, the empty glass returning to clink gently against Evelyn's. ]
[He certainly doesn't waste any time. Evelyn was treading into territory best left to those who like to commit to something all at once, and it's a little difficult to dance around a subject when one's conversational partner is so outrageously blunt. Contrary to her usual, she finds that she prefers it. It is an honesty of character so rarely found these days.
Rafe knocks back his drink easy enough, quick swallows before the empty glass gently taps hers on the table, a few sips left. She could prolong the inevitable for the sake of being a marvelous pain or she could just as easily agree to his terms, see where the night takes them both. She can't say that she isn't awfully curious.]
I'd like that.
[Comes the frank reply, knuckles grazing his as she draws her hand away, back to her lap. He is warm, intelligent, and clearly of good enough humour to jest without coming across as an absolute prick and Evelyn feels her suspicions settle like the liqueur at the bottom of her drink, all dark sweetness. The toe of her shoe brushes his ankle and the edges of her smile are sharp.]
[ Evelyn feints and daintily so, makes just the briefest contact allowed by polite society in front of prying eyes but Rafe can feel the electricity behind it, can practically see the sparks arcing between them. The way she smiles, he knows she can too. It flips a switch somewhere, a sudden rush of energy that flickers under his skin, bucking in the stall and demanding to be spent doing anything besides mincing around each other like show ponies. ]
As if I'd allow anything but. Got my city's reputation to think of, after all.
[ Rafe rises to his feet and peels off a couple bills for the table, then offers Evelyn his hand. No flourish or genteel dandying this time, just a last step to seal the invitation with the added bonus of feeling a bit of her skin pressed against his own.
[Comes the wry response, because he hasn't exactly given her cause to draw her Beretta. The night is young.
Rafe is a smart man - like her he must be able to identify the pull, like two magnets placed in proximity, something fascinating and disastrous. Evelyn has always found herself drawn to danger and it seeps from him as though he has been doused in it, like a particularly strong cologne, or gasoline. She wants to explore it further, posthaste.
Watching him shell out easy money for his own place of business is amusing - a kindness to the servers, no doubt - Evelyn eyes the motion, the peculiar cadence of his movements. It almost has a rhythm to it, something so cultivated as to almost appear natural. Performance art in real time. He offers her his hand and she slips hers into his palm without hesitation, curious as to their roughness: fine, small abrasions from hard work or handguns, perhaps both. Barely-raised, thin lines of scar tissue. By comparison her fingers must seem so soft, sparser calluses from working with surveying equipment in the desert.
Clever euphemism. He might get lucky.]
Very. [She stands, genteelly moving past pleasantries when she loops her arm in his, expecting to be escorted properly.] I'm interested in what your city has to offer.
[ Rafe chuckles at what's surely anything but an idle threat, imagining nothing more lethal than a long and sharp hatpin hidden in that handbag. (If only he knew; his mouth would be watering even more.) Yes, her hand is terribly soft in his own and all the smoother for the scant few academic's calluses he can feel — though not for long as Evelyn tucks herself against his side. Much as he laments the loss of her hand (and promises himself a more thorough examination later) it's an equitable trade-off and he crooks his arm for her all good and proper, his other hand coming to rest on her elbow with a smile. ]
New York's got everything to offer, [ he corrects, no small amount of pride coloring his voice. His city. God, but he likes the sound of it. Can hardly wait until it's true in every sense of the word. ] The only question's how much time a body's got to take advantage of it all.
[ Once they step outside it takes no time at all for his car to be brought round, though the "valet" that exits the car is markedly broader than the other boys waiting by the door and in a pinstriped suit to boot. A quick word is had after he helps Evelyn into the passenger seat, rapid-fire Italian in quiet tones before Rafe claps the bruiser on the shoulder and crosses to the driver's side. The engine purrs to life and they pull away from the curb and into the night.
Drumming his fingers on the wheel, Rafe considers the substantial possibilities available to them, late hour notwithstanding. When in doubt he always falls back onto the cardinal sins for inspiration. Lust is certainly at the fore but is probably best tabled for now, which brings him to the old standby— ]
[Lucky for them, she has all the time in the world. The museum hasn't yet learned how to utilise her to the best and most effective of her capabilities, and until her pushing nets her more responsibility she is happy to spend her free hours better learning the city and all its dark corners.
Like a gentleman he bends his elbow, allowing her to adjust the contact however she prefers as he leads her outside. Handbag slung over her other arm she might hazard to say they paint a remarkable picture, dark-haired figures in collusion. He helps her into an automobile that, frankly, would leave her older brother salivating. Jonathan has always had an affinity for the industry and while Evelyn appreciates the convenience of them, she never learned to drive.
Apparently it isn't an issue for Rafe.]
Starving.
[The valet looked more like muscle, his figure retreating behind them, hulking and formidable. Perhaps not a body guard, but something similar. Americans are so odd.
Luxuriating on leather seats she eyes the delicious curl of his fingers around the steering wheel, the quirk of his mouth as he presses for more speed. There is something altogether mischievous in the smile she sends his way.]
You wouldn't happen to know any excellent local establishments that are open this late, would you?
[ Cars are a more recent luxury but one that Rafe latched onto soon as they had the means. Half the reason and the one he gave was because if there was anything that spelled out the future, it was these babies; the other half, the one he kept to himself, had to do with the rumble of metal and pistons firing under his feet and the slick smell of petrol curling in his nose. Judging from his passenger's reaction, she seems to understand the appeal.
Then again maybe that smile is solely because of Rafe and oh... Hell, but that smile is going to get him into trouble. (He can hardly wait.) ]
Do I happen to know— [ He laughs, a dark and rich sound that matches the rest of him. ] Miss Evelyn, I know you're new to our sunny shores but one of the things you're gonna learn is that this city? Don't sleep.
[ The proof of that statement is all around them. Traffic is light but trickles steadily around them with Broadway gleaming in the distance, a hundred thousand bulbs crackling electric under the stars. Even with the late hour it's all alive and raring and ready to be taken for all that can be had.
Rafe debates their options, wonders if he may as well steer clear for Times Square where Horn & Hardart await with as many choices as a body with a nickel could think of but an automat? Not the first impression he's gunning for. Murray's would still be swinging but that place has been on the outs and for someone of Evelyn's expertise, the Gardens would seem even more hackneyed than it already was. These and more scroll through his head but the longer he takes, the longer to get there, the greater the odds he'll have to strong-arm a suitable place into staying open for them. Headwaiters always got a weird look on their face when threatened, all bug-eyed and gasping like a—
Now there's an idea. ]
How you feel about seafood? Darb or ice?
[ May be late where a restaurant's concerned, but the day's only just begun for the fishmongers and their best customers. ]
[Rhetorical question. He seems so unabashedly proud of his city, and is apparently one of the local landed gentry, as it were, so he therefore becomes the best source of intelligence with regards to politics and entertainment alike. The culinary arts are always iffy when spending time with new people - you never truly know how cultured a palate is until you see its interests firsthand - but he knows his way about town and looks thrilled to engage her for as long as he can.
It's really all she could ask for, when she never expected to spend her evening like this in the first place. Pleasant surprises all around.
She watches the lights of the city, thousands of them glittering so much brighter than those in London, as they stream past the automobile windows before winking out into darkness behind them.]
Copacetic.
[Turning away from the glass to look at him, elbow propped against the car door and fingernail lingering over a lip, Evelyn smiles again.]
I confess I'm actually rather curious about the cuisine here. I haven't had much exposure to it, yet.
The thing about New York cuisine's simple, really. [ Rafe's tone veers toward the professorial, happy to impart the knowledge to an admittedly eager mind. ] Toss a dart at the map and you can get it here, and done up better than the original.
[ Boasting? Eh, maybe a little, but the claim holds water. A brisk walk from Park Row to Washington Street would see you well supped on anything from dumplings to baklawa and everything in between. Manhattan holds all corners of the world within its narrow shores— Or least all the corners that mattered most, none more than his own corner.
Which is where he takes them, turning north with the looming black of Central Park on their left and the breeze off the East river on their right. Rao owes him an extra favor after that mix-up at the tailor and a generous helping of greenbacks will make up the difference. With a concrete plan to act on, he relaxes. Leans back in the seat, arm propped against the door with a single lazy hand on the wheel.
Like as not, the driver studiously following a couple cars behind them is likewise relaxing now that Rafe is angling for home territory. The family isn't so large (yet) to warrant a bull's-eye on his back, or at least not a very large one. Still, it doesn't hurt nothing to be careful. ]
Already I told you. New York's got everything. It all depends on what you want and how bad you want it.
["Better than the original" is a steep claim to make, and one that has her raising an eyebrow at him across the way. He isn't a braggart, but God, is he proud - perhaps both of his own origins in whatever city his family came from, and the one in which he was raised. These are Rafe's streets through and through, a confidence in the leisurely way he drives downtown, fond smile hovering over his lips.
Even neutral, he seems to entertain wry amusement in his expression, something which makes Rafe's company deliciously humourous. On anyone else it might look snide, even arrogant, but he gives it an approachability. Effortless. Easy.
She isn't, but he certainly makes her want to be.
The car slows and she leans toward the glass, catching trims and storefronts as they slide by before the negative space of crisp letters over a glowing window rolls into view. It is echoed by the sign lit up against the cornice. A corner establishment, bright red. Rao's.]
I should have known better than to wonder where an Italian might take me to dinner.
[They crawl to a stop and she glances at the side-mirror, watching quietly as another vehicle pulls up against the sidewalk not far behind them. The man from the club, who retrieved Rafe's automobile. An apparently diligent and dedicated employee. Or a bodyguard.
Evelyn doesn't see the need to wait for him to open her door, far too self-sufficient for formalities when she's out and about without an official escort. She slips into the brisk night air, reticule over her wrist, admiring the intimate venue. It's small, and frankly looks as though it is closing up for the evening.]
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uncalendula) wrote2017-12-07 11:15 pm
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She expected better and perhaps that is the crux of her current situation: American gin joints, while fun and attractive for the conspiratorial air people adopt when speaking of them, are about as crowded and raucous as any seedy pub back home. The place has become an absolute rowdydow in the last quarter-hour and no amount of wristwatch-checking will satisfy her desire to try and wring some joy out of the occasion.
At the far table in the corner she is afforded the freedom to survey the room as she desires and, unfortunately, it sets her as a target for dapper beaus who want to try their luck. Bawdy speech is all well and good when one gets to know a person, but there's something about the forwardness employed by most of the bar's stags that she finds distasteful. There's no subtlety, no art to the conversation before it inevitably meanders into territory she finds objectionable on the grounds that there is no connexion on a level of wits.
That, and only a fool lifts her skirts for a man who cannot appreciate the difference between rotgut swill and Scotch whisky.
She is just beginning to slide off of her chair to settle up at the bar when a gentleman - the word alone might be generous - seats himself across from her, and someone who appears to be his friend loiters a step or two behind, standing, blocking the way out.]
How ya doin', sweetheart?
[She frowns immediately, and schools the expression into a thin smile.]
Fine, thank you. I was just leaving to settle up.
[They shift again, in such a way that she does not particularly like. A human barricade of two people who appear to have already had one too many drinks on their tab and in their bellies. They look at each other, and Seated laughs, slipping a cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. He offers her one from his case. She stares at him. He continues.]
Shit, you from England or somethin'?
[Evelyn blinks.]
Or something.
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This place is a new acquisition, some crumbling half-finished subway station complete with a car left on the track. Hell of a lot of potential, if handled right. He's spent the better part of the night at his own table, idly scribbling observations and figures in a notebook and ignoring the good whiskey sitting in front of him. His focus has been on numbers — who ordering what and how much and when — but he'd have to be blind, missing the steady stream of customers one table seems to draw in particular. Have to be blind and stupid, missing the reason behind it.
Rafe has seen beautiful women, wooed some and peddled some and enjoyed more than his share, but the brunette here... She's a breed apart, he can tell from a glance. The first dog rushing in with his tongue lolled out almost had him stepping in but better judgment prevailed— And he was soon glad for it from what he was able to overhear. Little lady was more than capable of dispatching fools all on her lonesome and Rafe was hard-pressed at times to keep his amusement to himself. Said lady seems to be worn thin by now, though, with these two latest customers apparently sniffing for trouble and eager to find it. Which, whether the lady can handle herself or not, simply won't do in any place he's running.
Ambling from his table to hers, he slips behind Gentleman No.² and clears his throat. ]
Tom. Dick. [ He smiles, perfectly friendly save for the glint in his eyes. ] Why don't you two blouse and find a Harry elsewhere, huh? The lady says she's ready to settle her tab, not for either one of you.
[ Gentleman No.¹ scoffs and pats the lady's hand before standing to join his friend. ]
Excuse me? This is a private party, pal.
[ Gentleman No.² shifts aside, brows knitting even as he makes way for No.¹ to attempt looming over Rafe. He can see the cogs turning and oh, when the realization hits... No.² could put snow to shame. All Rafe does is continue smiling as No.² tugs at a sleeve. ]
George—
No, Charlie, I wanna know where this greasy dago bastard gets off jumping my table.
[ The slur is nothing new, and Rafe's smile stays put. It does get sharper and anyone with sense would know to back away. Quickly. ]
I'd listen to your friend, Tom. I'd listen real close.
binch u out here showing me up with your tags
She isn't afforded the time to do so, however.
Their efforts are intercepted by the man who has spent the better part of the evening at a far table, working intently on something with the air of a fanatical accountant. Assuming he was taking stock of inventory Evelyn didn't spare more than a passing glance - people who wish to be left alone tend to exude such an air, and she was managing her own myriad of issues - to note that he was well-dressed.
It stands true up close, when he meanders over wearing a benevolent smile that looks a little too sharp around the edges. He's handsome: laissez-faire good looks paired with attire that fits far too well to be dimestore, no doubt tailored to his precise measurements. Dark hair, pale eyes, the lazy gaze of a predator that smells blood in the water and wants to take its time before striking with swift efficiency. Even his manner of speaking suggests he is aware he picked a fight he will win.
The offending party is collectively bothered, though one of the men in particular looks unnerved on an entirely different level. He knows him. He must know him, and fear him. Poised for flight at the edge of the table Evelyn watches in rapt interest as that shark-like grin grows ever more dangerous.]
I don't gotta take shit from you, guido.
Jesus, George, he's Alieri.
[The name means nothing to Evelyn, unfamiliar with the local realpolitik or the players, but it is apparent that it stands for something to her harassers. The cigarette dangling from the noisy one's lips falls as his jaw slackens, a perfectly good Lucky Strike relegated to the concrete floor when recognition seemingly sinks in.
The change is immediate. Perhaps not deference, but acknowledgement as both of them seem to shift uncomfortably. The loud gentleman hazards a dubious:]
...thought this was O'Malley turf.
[It is politics, she realises. Italian territory.]
These gentlemen were just leaving, [Evelyn states plainly, already tired of being a passive bystander.] Unless I am much mistaken.
um i did nothing of the kind i'm just tryna stay on your level
[ No.¹ takes clear offense for a clear insult, building up for a bluster in spite of all common sense before his associate grabs hold of his arm now and steps close to hiss better judgment in his ear. Rafe just waits patiently. The smile on his face doesn't waver for an instant though something hungry flickers in his gaze, all but daring this piss-for-brains to start a spot of trouble that Rafe would have no problem and no small pleasure in finishing.
For good or ill, though, the lady in the equation speaks up and cuts the debate short. For her, Rafe's expression becomes more genuine — more conspirator than carnivore — and he genteelly offers a small bow in her direction. ]
A lady never is, [ he replies earnestly, mischief in his manner if not his tone before he returns his attention to the assholes in question. ] The door is that way.
[ Credit where it's due: they don't hesitate grabbing the out as soon as it presents itself. Rafe's eyes track the two as they take their harried leave, burning a hole in their backs until he sees the door close behind them. Several other sets of eyes find his then, all posing a silent question across the murmur of the crowd and Rafe answers with the barest shake of his head. No, no one need follow and reinforce the message, not tonight. Let the somari shit themselves all the way home, jumping at every shadow for the blow that isn't coming.
Once they're out of the picture, Rafe uncoils himself from a viper ready to strike back into a person. ]
My apologies, miss. I can see you're a kind can handle herself, but you've been batting the full nine tonight. Thought you could use the relief hitter.
LIES and SLANDER
She watches the patronising party smooth its ruffled feathers and turn to its friend, and they make a speedy escape together through the crowd that parts as if they might have suffered plague. Perhaps getting in someone's bad graces here will do that in the same way that a minor faux pas might make one a social pariah back home.
Leaning her hip against the table Evelyn drops her reticule in the chair, expecting introductions from the man who took the half-second to bow at her.
The baseball metaphor is a swing and a miss, if only because she isn't especially versed in the sport. Evelyn raises an eyebrow, prying clues from context, comprehending that his powers of observation are either very keen or his attention span has wandered from his own evening several times in the last four hours.]
You've been watching me.
[There is no accusation in her tone - simply a statement of fact.]
Enjoy yourself?
GASP how dare you accuse me!!! me!!! an inNOCENT LAMB
His hands spread in a helpless shrug when she points out the obvious, a smile on his face that only vaguely tries to be apologetic and doesn't lose any sleep not making the cut. ]
Don't take it too personal. I watch everything when I'm working. Although... [ And here that smile gives up the ghost, too wry a grin to even bother pretending it's anything else. ] It does take something special to keep my attention.
[ Without missing a beat, he switches from English to accentless Latin: ] Ego maxime fruendum te dico quarto generosum quid tibi cogitatio eius hairpiece.
[ That particular high hat would've better availed himself of an actual hat instead of the sad mop he came in with. Rafe may have given him a little more credit for the attempts at small talk if it hadn't been clear that he could give a hang about any of the answers. One too many impatient uh-huhs after inquiring about the lady's hobbies and she began to display her stated affinity for tongues; Rafe had already had half an ear tuned to that table but Latin isn't something he hears often, least not outside Sunday mornings, and it'd certainly never sounded so fine coming from any holy roller's lips.
He sidesteps her neat as you please in order to pull out her chair for her. Genteel pretensions and all. ]
Would it be possible to tempt you back into your seat? I'd hate for you to leave with a bad impression of the place. Bad for business, you understand.
SQUINT
He talks with his hands - definitely Mediterranean.
Evelyn is waffling between having one more drink and taking her leave when he speaks in a language that is decidedly dead with a flair that suits the homeland from whence it comes. It makes sense, being the tongue of his people. Catholics are born into the call and response. She blinks at him for a long moment, impressed.]
Multum observasti.
[Kept very close watch, indeed. She scrutinises him carefully, a businessman with every intention of keeping arses in seats, wondering if he wants something more even as she settles back in the chair.]
I don't usually go to these sorts of places alone. [Evelyn remarks, suddenly feeling very awkward. It's as though half the eyes in the room are trained on the table where the head honcho is going out of his way for a stranger.] I moved recently, but you probably already know that.
i'm sorry is my halo too shiny for your eyes
He does her the courtesy of pretending not to notice her discomfiture, and just as easily ignores the curious glances he knows he's earned them both. Not everyone in here recognize who he is and what he represents but those who do know enough to keep aware of the true power in the room. Said power rests easy on his shoulders, a mantle as tailored to him as his perfectly starched shirts. ]
Just moved here? You don't say. Where from? Jersey? [ Yes, yes, he knows he's hilarious but that doesn't mean he doesn't like to hear people acknowledge it. ] Yeah. I could kind of tell as much. Though I'll have to assume not going on your lonesome is simply because you're never short a body to keep you company.
[ Well. Let him amend that. ]
Bodies of better stock than we've seen tonight, at least.
[ Further proof of his import comes way of a waiter's prompt appearance, inquiring if either needs anything. Rafe purses his lips, eyes flickering over his newfound companion as he considers — again, not lascivious. Merely assessing. He prides himself in pegging a person's poison. ]
Champagne cocktails, I think. If that's amenable to you, Miss...?
no i'm just having trouble seeing through all this bullshit
Leaning an elbow on the table she smiles politely at the server who has whisked in out of nowhere, been appraised, and been given an order that she almost wishes wasn't accurate so she didn't feel as caught off-guard as she already is.]
Carnahan. Evelyn.
[There is a warmth that reaches her for the hapless waiter, who nods when she adds,]
Champagne cocktails are just fine.
[The man departs from them swiftly to fetch their drinks and Evelyn turns back to Alieri, sensing the lazy posture of another predator. This is his territory and while it is clear he intends to protect those within it who mean him well, she shouldn't be so careless as to tread on anyone's bad side. Everybody has one: it is writ into the sharp edge of his jaw, the razor-thin smile and the casual but penetrating gaze from beneath heavy lids.]
If I am to understand you are the owner of this establishment, you needn't treat me so well unless we are to be on forename terms.
w o w w w w w w w w i don't need to take that from you!!
It's a distracting thought.
Rafe nods in slow approval, lets the name sit on his tongue to get the feel for it and enjoy the taste. It's elegant. Classy. Suits her perfectly. ]
Then suppose I should get on fixing that, hm? [ He allows himself a moment's smugness at being right before his smirk dims into something more palatable for conversation. ] Rafe. Short for Rafael. The Alieri you already heard and yes, this is my place. Or at least mine to manage, anyway.
[ His fingers, momentarily laced before him, spread in a clear show of what can you do. ]
Hence why I'm here tonight, though I doubt the bar's quality enough to draw across the pond.
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He has every right to be after a performance like the one he gave in front of those hoodlums, the fact that he's got his hands in this entrepreneurial pie. Evelyn mouths his name - Rafael, it's deliciously Biblical - and watches his hands spread, comforting, open. A gesture of welcome to put her at ease and a habit developed from working tense negotiations like the one only minutes prior.
She settles back into her chair, much more at ease, and toys with the strand of pearls around her neck. It's an obvious opening and she knows that she is interested or she would have walked out already, so getting to know a local fellow might actually do her some good.]
I moved here a month ago, with my brother. Specialised in antiquities back home, so I've been working in Egyptian art at the Metropolitan.
[The smile that dances over his mouth and tugs at the arch of his eyebrow is becoming increasingly interesting. Evelyn winds her necklace around a finger.]
What sort of wholesome American boy knows Latin?
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You must be pretty phenomenal to land the gig in a place like that. [ A rougher operator would point out the obvious, that Evelyn comes packing beauty and brains, but Rafe figured that went without saying even before knowing her credentials. Aside from smarts, it's a bigger pointer than a posh accent to at least some money. No other way to go and pay for the kind of schooling to open doors like that. Would dovetail with the good breeding so plain as should warrant an exhibit plaque. ] Why not try somewhere closer to home?
[ His eyes momentarily fall away from hers, attracted by motion and then happily distracted watching Evelyn's slim fingers and the curve of her throat. Leaning on his elbows, forearms crossed against the table, he doesn't do her the disservice of pretense. She meant to catch his attention, he willingly caught the bait, and the appreciative gleam shows it well-received.
Genteel pretensions only go so far between two adults who both know the score. ]
Oh, I'm an altar boy. Couldn't you tell?
[ As evidenced by his saintly behavior thus far. ]
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[Ever the pragmatist Evelyn lifts and lowers one shoulder in half of a shrug, accepting the compliment in stride. New York is more hospitable and liberal-minded by nature, a welcoming environment for a traveling academic who sought scholarly succor in the comforting arms of a museum far from the madding crowd. The bureaucracy of English spheres, both political and school-minded, is something that has ground her to exhaustion and this new land is ripe for the taking.
Rafe leans in obligingly and Evelyn, encouraged by the obvious interest, mirrors his movement. With a smile like that, he's no altar boy. He's either well educated or religious - perhaps both. Like the Irish, Italians are just as Catholic and the innocent, dark-haired fellow across from her doesn't strike her as the sort of man to avidly go to confession.
Unconvinced that Rafael Alieri is a simple business owner with an extremely flirtatious demeanour and a penchant for dead languages, Evelyn smirks. His behaviour reminds her of the sort of arrogance she sees in the seedy districts back home, where shades move in the alleys and make deals, run races, build evening clubs. A working class industry passing itself off as the new elite.]
It's Saturday night, Rafe. [She lets his name roll over her tongue, tasting it.] Only naughty fellows stay out this late when they have a service in the morning.
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It's an amusing thought for all it remains a private one, the extra humor easily camouflaged between the earlier laugh and the arrival of their drinks. Not that he pays them any mind. He prefers his liquor sharper than this, stronger, and feels fizz best left to Schweppes and company.
As for sweetness... With Evelyn opposite him, hazel eyes sparkling with wry curiosity, he thinks he's set on that front. ]
See, but that's the point. Gotta keep confession lively. You can't have the good fathers embarrassing themselves dozing off behind the screen so I take it upon myself to make it interesting for them. [ A solemn nod. ] Just my humble way of giving back.
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Really.
[Evelyn, who is neither excessive religious nor the sort of person who would willingly confess to her flaws - even within the privacy of the confessional - has always found the notion of that theological secrecy to be a fascinating one. Words traded do not pass beyond the confines of the three walls, the curtain and screen, and in that way it is not altogether dissimilar from conversations held in dimly-lit booths and tables at the edges of a bar of questionable repute.
Chewing her lip, she smiles at him again and her gaze skips over the loosened tie, the rumpled collar of the working class man who starches for appearance, to impress.]
What sort of sins do you intend to confess tomorrow?
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It isn't a word that usually comes to mind much when he looks at a woman but then again he's got a feeling down deep in his bones that there's little of the usual that applies to Evelyn Carnahan. ]
Well, I'm a big believer in improvisation and besides. The night's still young. Plenty of time to get a respectable list squared away.
[ A blind man could feel the trail of eyes along his neck but Rafe isn't denied the view, though it leaves him craving something more concrete. The nails resting ever so delicate at the base of her glass, for an instance, or the rouged lips curling up in a smile the Devil himself would envy. The way Evelyn keeps looking, maybe she'll so oblige. The cocktail doesn't stay overlong, just long enough on Rafe's tongue to ensure that yes, the mix is right — striking the right balance between dry and sweet to be flavorful without overpowering — before going down the hatch, the empty glass returning to clink gently against Evelyn's. ]
Care to lend a hand?
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Rafe knocks back his drink easy enough, quick swallows before the empty glass gently taps hers on the table, a few sips left. She could prolong the inevitable for the sake of being a marvelous pain or she could just as easily agree to his terms, see where the night takes them both. She can't say that she isn't awfully curious.]
I'd like that.
[Comes the frank reply, knuckles grazing his as she draws her hand away, back to her lap. He is warm, intelligent, and clearly of good enough humour to jest without coming across as an absolute prick and Evelyn feels her suspicions settle like the liqueur at the bottom of her drink, all dark sweetness. The toe of her shoe brushes his ankle and the edges of her smile are sharp.]
Provided you show me a good time.
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[ Evelyn feints and daintily so, makes just the briefest contact allowed by polite society in front of prying eyes but Rafe can feel the electricity behind it, can practically see the sparks arcing between them. The way she smiles, he knows she can too. It flips a switch somewhere, a sudden rush of energy that flickers under his skin, bucking in the stall and demanding to be spent doing anything besides mincing around each other like show ponies. ]
As if I'd allow anything but. Got my city's reputation to think of, after all.
[ Rafe rises to his feet and peels off a couple bills for the table, then offers Evelyn his hand. No flourish or genteel dandying this time, just a last step to seal the invitation with the added bonus of feeling a bit of her skin pressed against his own.
With hopefully even more to come later. ]
Ready to blow?
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[Comes the wry response, because he hasn't exactly given her cause to draw her Beretta. The night is young.
Rafe is a smart man - like her he must be able to identify the pull, like two magnets placed in proximity, something fascinating and disastrous. Evelyn has always found herself drawn to danger and it seeps from him as though he has been doused in it, like a particularly strong cologne, or gasoline. She wants to explore it further, posthaste.
Watching him shell out easy money for his own place of business is amusing - a kindness to the servers, no doubt - Evelyn eyes the motion, the peculiar cadence of his movements. It almost has a rhythm to it, something so cultivated as to almost appear natural. Performance art in real time. He offers her his hand and she slips hers into his palm without hesitation, curious as to their roughness: fine, small abrasions from hard work or handguns, perhaps both. Barely-raised, thin lines of scar tissue. By comparison her fingers must seem so soft, sparser calluses from working with surveying equipment in the desert.
Clever euphemism. He might get lucky.]
Very. [She stands, genteelly moving past pleasantries when she loops her arm in his, expecting to be escorted properly.] I'm interested in what your city has to offer.
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New York's got everything to offer, [ he corrects, no small amount of pride coloring his voice. His city. God, but he likes the sound of it. Can hardly wait until it's true in every sense of the word. ] The only question's how much time a body's got to take advantage of it all.
[ Once they step outside it takes no time at all for his car to be brought round, though the "valet" that exits the car is markedly broader than the other boys waiting by the door and in a pinstriped suit to boot. A quick word is had after he helps Evelyn into the passenger seat, rapid-fire Italian in quiet tones before Rafe claps the bruiser on the shoulder and crosses to the driver's side. The engine purrs to life and they pull away from the curb and into the night.
Drumming his fingers on the wheel, Rafe considers the substantial possibilities available to them, late hour notwithstanding. When in doubt he always falls back onto the cardinal sins for inspiration. Lust is certainly at the fore but is probably best tabled for now, which brings him to the old standby— ]
You peckish?
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Like a gentleman he bends his elbow, allowing her to adjust the contact however she prefers as he leads her outside. Handbag slung over her other arm she might hazard to say they paint a remarkable picture, dark-haired figures in collusion. He helps her into an automobile that, frankly, would leave her older brother salivating. Jonathan has always had an affinity for the industry and while Evelyn appreciates the convenience of them, she never learned to drive.
Apparently it isn't an issue for Rafe.]
Starving.
[The valet looked more like muscle, his figure retreating behind them, hulking and formidable. Perhaps not a body guard, but something similar. Americans are so odd.
Luxuriating on leather seats she eyes the delicious curl of his fingers around the steering wheel, the quirk of his mouth as he presses for more speed. There is something altogether mischievous in the smile she sends his way.]
You wouldn't happen to know any excellent local establishments that are open this late, would you?
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Then again maybe that smile is solely because of Rafe and oh... Hell, but that smile is going to get him into trouble. (He can hardly wait.) ]
Do I happen to know— [ He laughs, a dark and rich sound that matches the rest of him. ] Miss Evelyn, I know you're new to our sunny shores but one of the things you're gonna learn is that this city? Don't sleep.
[ The proof of that statement is all around them. Traffic is light but trickles steadily around them with Broadway gleaming in the distance, a hundred thousand bulbs crackling electric under the stars. Even with the late hour it's all alive and raring and ready to be taken for all that can be had.
Rafe debates their options, wonders if he may as well steer clear for Times Square where Horn & Hardart await with as many choices as a body with a nickel could think of but an automat? Not the first impression he's gunning for. Murray's would still be swinging but that place has been on the outs and for someone of Evelyn's expertise, the Gardens would seem even more hackneyed than it already was. These and more scroll through his head but the longer he takes, the longer to get there, the greater the odds he'll have to strong-arm a suitable place into staying open for them. Headwaiters always got a weird look on their face when threatened, all bug-eyed and gasping like a—
Now there's an idea. ]
How you feel about seafood? Darb or ice?
[ May be late where a restaurant's concerned, but the day's only just begun for the fishmongers and their best customers. ]
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It's really all she could ask for, when she never expected to spend her evening like this in the first place. Pleasant surprises all around.
She watches the lights of the city, thousands of them glittering so much brighter than those in London, as they stream past the automobile windows before winking out into darkness behind them.]
Copacetic.
[Turning away from the glass to look at him, elbow propped against the car door and fingernail lingering over a lip, Evelyn smiles again.]
I confess I'm actually rather curious about the cuisine here. I haven't had much exposure to it, yet.
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[ Boasting? Eh, maybe a little, but the claim holds water. A brisk walk from Park Row to Washington Street would see you well supped on anything from dumplings to baklawa and everything in between. Manhattan holds all corners of the world within its narrow shores— Or least all the corners that mattered most, none more than his own corner.
Which is where he takes them, turning north with the looming black of Central Park on their left and the breeze off the East river on their right. Rao owes him an extra favor after that mix-up at the tailor and a generous helping of greenbacks will make up the difference. With a concrete plan to act on, he relaxes. Leans back in the seat, arm propped against the door with a single lazy hand on the wheel.
Like as not, the driver studiously following a couple cars behind them is likewise relaxing now that Rafe is angling for home territory. The family isn't so large (yet) to warrant a bull's-eye on his back, or at least not a very large one. Still, it doesn't hurt nothing to be careful. ]
Already I told you. New York's got everything. It all depends on what you want and how bad you want it.
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Even neutral, he seems to entertain wry amusement in his expression, something which makes Rafe's company deliciously humourous. On anyone else it might look snide, even arrogant, but he gives it an approachability. Effortless. Easy.
She isn't, but he certainly makes her want to be.
The car slows and she leans toward the glass, catching trims and storefronts as they slide by before the negative space of crisp letters over a glowing window rolls into view. It is echoed by the sign lit up against the cornice. A corner establishment, bright red. Rao's.]
I should have known better than to wonder where an Italian might take me to dinner.
[They crawl to a stop and she glances at the side-mirror, watching quietly as another vehicle pulls up against the sidewalk not far behind them. The man from the club, who retrieved Rafe's automobile. An apparently diligent and dedicated employee. Or a bodyguard.
Evelyn doesn't see the need to wait for him to open her door, far too self-sufficient for formalities when she's out and about without an official escort. She slips into the brisk night air, reticule over her wrist, admiring the intimate venue. It's small, and frankly looks as though it is closing up for the evening.]
Are you certain it's still open?
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