Lights dotted the buildings erected side by side in typical New England fashion. Each had its own character architecture, but they were all connected. The pavement was like cobblestones only larger grayish bricks. A gigantic black anchor stood as a decoration in the middle of one walkway, and three little children sat on it while their mom took their pictures.

Tourists and locals, I guessed, hustled and bustled into the shops and restaurants. The neat thing was, it all bordered the water where boats rode the light chop while tethered to the dock and the scent of salty air mixed with various aromas of cooking food. Music floated on the night’s breeze from several of the restaurants and bars while a strong aroma of fish came from the seafood market at the end of the wharf.

“This is a great place, Jagger.”

He walked next to me, doing that hand thing on my lower spine again. A girl could get used to something like that, but a guy like Jagger wasn’t about to become predictable.

“Turn here,” he said when we faced an old white wooden building.

The Black Pearl. Suddenly I felt underdressed. Then again, Jagger had on jeans and a button-down white-and-black-striped shirt. We probably made a decent looking couple-however, I was smart enough to know that term was a long shot.

I paused to look at the menu posted near the door. Hm. Pricey. Good, let him pay big bucks for assuming I’d come to dinner with him. When I started to turn toward the door, he took my arm.

“Over here.”

He led me to the area of tables outside and behind a corral-type fence. WATERSIDE PATIO AND RAW BAR the sign said.

Oh how very Jagger-like.

And here I was worried about my outfit. We sat near the water, which actually was a neat area. Right next to me a sailboat rose up and down in a slight rhythm while moored to the dock, and as dusk approached, little tiny white lights magically flipped on around us.

The waitress came over for drink orders. Jagger got his usual beer and, after giving me the once-over, ordered me a glass of Kendall Jackson chardonnay-without asking. I was about to yell “Hey!” but realized that’s exactly what I wanted and feared if I said anything, I’d end up choking down a martini out of Jagger-spite. Usually I would have joined him for the beer, but this case, this location, this dinner “companion,” had me craving wine.

Newport chic.

Soon our drinks arrived. Without a toast-naturally-I took a sip and leaned back in my chair damn angry that he knew I really didn’t want a beer.

“I’m starved. What do you want, Sherlock?”

“Oh.” I was nearly in a relaxed state of Nirvana but sat forward and looked at the menu. “Clam chowder,” came out first. I figured I’d try it in every restaurant in Newport until I was sick of it. I’d never had better, creamier New England clam chowder than in this town.

“What else?” he asked.

“That seems enough.” I took another sip of wine and watched him scowl at me.

“You do oysters?”

Do oysters? Even that sounded sensual coming from him. “I’ve actually never eaten one. They aren’t cooked are they?”

Jagger chuckled as the waitress came over then ordered a dozen native oysters (which I noted cost more than I’d spent on lunch for Goldie, Ian and myself), my clam chowder and two steamed lobsters.

When the waitress left, he looked at me with those Jagger-eyes. “Don’t tell me you don’t like lobster.”

“Okay. I won’t tell you.” I took a long, big sip. Somehow it gave me more stamina to deal with this guy whose knee occasionally touched mine beneath the table.

Yikes.

“You’ve never had one, have you?” He drank his beer from the bottle, just the way I liked it.

“Actually I have. I love lobster.” I leaned back and smiled. “Nick used to take me to Madeline’s for lobster.”

Jagger remained silent.

Ha! Nick Caruso was Jagger’s nemesis and did occasional freelance work for Fabio. Nick was as handsome as Jagger was hot and as sophisticated as Jagger was…yum.

However, they had a past, not a very jovial one, and really didn’t seem to like each other. Hence the attempt at lobster memories with Nick-whom I’d dated so briefly that I’m sure he would refer to me as “Pauline who?” if anyone mentioned my name.

Jagger drank the rest of his beer, flagged the waitress and ordered another round. I wanted to shout that I was fine, but actually thought I might need two glasses of chardonnay to get through this dinner without embarrassing myself, or antagonizing Jagger-the latter of which was way less of a possibility.

“How’s the case going?”

I looked up to see him staring, with genuine interest in his eyes. Least that’s how I chose to view it.

“Oh, well, good.”

“What’s good about it?”

“You’re not going to let up until I give you all the details. Right?” My glass was successfully empty and my tongue getting looser.

He glared at me.

My insides, warmed by the wine, shivered. So I told him everything about my case including Lydia, Dr. Cook, Ian’s filing system, and the BDD trio, leaving out Dr. Forsyth because, well, I wanted at least one thing kept from Jagger and why not a gorgeous guy?

Especially one who’d asked me out!

Besides, it wouldn’t surprise me if Jagger already knew about Neal.

“So who is Lydia’s aunt?” he asked as the waitress set this tray of jiggling oysters between us.

For several seconds I could only stare until they settled down. “I’m not avoiding your question, but if you think I’m putting one of those jelly thingies into my mouth, you are nuts.”

“You’ll try one.”

The words almost had me grabbing a stupid oyster and sucking it down as the guy at the next table was doing. He actually looked as if he was enjoying it. But on principle I waved my hands at Jagger. “Nope. My clam chowder will fill me up, and I won’t be able to see if Newport lobsters are better than the ones at Madeline’s.”

Had Jagger just flinched?

Or, more than likely, was I imagining things? Okay, more like wishing about things like he’d flinch out of insane jealousy that I’d dated Nick. It was more likely that the wine was playing horrible tricks on my mind and making me insane.

Before I could take another crazy sip, Jagger leaned forward. He held his hand out toward me and in it was one of the smaller oyster shells with the little meat glistening in the light and a dollop of cocktail sauce decorating the top.

I looked at Jagger.

He sat silent.

My mouth opened-on its own, I swear!

And before I knew it the slick oyster was inside my mouth.

My hands flew to my face, but suddenly Jagger’s were holding them in both of his. “Chew.”

Now “chew” is not exactly in the top ten sensual words of any vocabulary in any language that I know of, but damn if it didn’t sound so hot coming from this guy that I quickly started to chew (merely to get it out of my mouth). Then my jaw slowed. The salty flavor permeated my tongue, which soon recognized the spicy sauce. I savored the taste. My tongue ran across my lips to get every morsel. I actually and without any effort or logical memory-sighed.

And I thought the wine nearly had me in Nirvana again.

“Well?” he asked as he took his napkin and with the very tip wiped oh so gently across my lips.

Even a freaking Jagger-napkin wiping had me nearly undone.

I swallowed nothing and smiled. “Good. It was good.”

When he gave me his “cat that ate the canary” look I wanted to smack him, but-and this had to be the aphrodisiac effects of the damn mollusk-when his look turned into a grin, I wanted to kiss him.

I was in trouble now.

Wine. Oysters. Moonlit night. And, Jagger.

If I made it through this meal (without ripping his clothes off) I should be awarded some kind of prize for stamina and self-control.

My first choice in prizes said, “Another?”