The Professor was oblivious to her reaction because he was too busy thinking about the strange familiarity of her fingertips, and wondering why Paulina’s fingers never felt familiar. He removed his jacket from the hanger that hung behind his seat and quickly put it on. Then with a smile and a nod, they exited the car.

Harbour Sixty Steakhouse was a landmark in Toronto, a famous and very expensive restaurant popular with ceos, politicians, and various other impressive personages. Professor Emerson ate there because their steak was superior to any other he had tried, and he was impatient with mediocrity.

So it never occurred to him to take Miss Mitchell anywhere else.

Antonio, the maître d’, greeted him warmly with a firm handshake and a torrent of Italian.

The Professor responded equally warmly, also in Italian.

“And who is the beauty?” Antonio kissed the back of Julia’s hands while he chattered away to her in very descriptive Italian about her eyes, her hair, and her skin.

Julia flushed and thanked him, shyly but determinedly answering him in his own language.

Miss Mitchell had a lovely voice, it was true, but Miss Mitchell speaking Italian was something celestial. Her ruby mouth opening and closing, the delicate way she almost sang the words, her tongue peeking out to wet her lips from time to time…Professor Emerson had to remind himself to close his mouth after it had dropped open.

Antonio was so surprised and pleased at her response that he kissed her cheeks not just once but twice and quickly led them to the back of the restaurant where he provided them with his best and most romantic table for two. The Professor hovered over his chair reluctantly as he realized what Antonio was doing. He’d sat at that table before, not long ago, but with someone else. This was a mistake and one he needed to correct, but just as he cleared his throat to offer a clarification, Antonio asked Julia if she would accept a bottle of a very special vintage from his family’s vineyard in Tuscany.

Julia thanked him profusely, but explained that Il Professore might have other preferences. He sat down quickly, and not wanting to offend, said that he would be delighted with whatever Antonio offered. Antonio beamed and quickly withdrew.

“Since we’re in public, I think it would it be best if you didn’t refer to me as Professor Emerson.”

Julia smiled brightly and nodded.

“So just address me as Mr. Emerson.”

Mr. Emerson was too busy looking at the menu to see the way that Julia’s eyes widened before her gaze fell.

“You have a Tuscan accent,” he remarked absently, still not looking at her.

“Yes.”

“How did you come by that?”

“I spent my junior year in Florence.”

“Your Italian is fairly advanced for only a junior year abroad.”

“I began studying it in high school.”

He looked across the small and intimate table and saw that she actively avoided his eyes. She was studying the menu as if it were an exam, worrying her lovely lower lip between her teeth.

“You are invited, Miss Mitchell.”

Her eyes darted to his with a questioning look.

“You are my guest. Order whatever you like, but please order some meat.” He felt the need to add that qualification since the express purpose of their dinner was to provide her with something more fortifying than couscous.

“I don’t know what to choose.”

“I could order for you, if you prefer.”

She nodded and closed her menu, still worrying her lip back and forth.

Antonio returned just then and proudly displayed a bottle of Chianti with a handwritten label. Julia smiled as he opened the bottle and poured a little into her glass.

Mr. Emerson watched, almost breathless, as she swirled the wine in her glass expertly, then lifted it so that she could examine it more closely in the candlelight. She brought the glass to her nose, closed her eyes, and sniffed.

Then she placed the glass to her plump lips and tasted the wine, holding it in her mouth for a while before swallowing. She opened her eyes, smiled even more widely, and thanked Antonio for his precious gift.

Antonio beamed, complimented Mr. Emerson on his choice of dining companion a little too enthusiastically, and filled both of their glasses with his favorite wine.

Meanwhile, Mr. Emerson had been adjusting himself under the table because the sight of Miss Mitchell tasting wine was the most erotic thing he’d ever witnessed. She was not merely attractive; she was beautiful, like an angel or a muse. And she wasn’t merely beautiful; she was sensual and hypnotic, but also innocent. Her pretty eyes reflected a depth of feeling and radiant purity that he had never noticed before.

He had to drag his eyes away from her as he adjusted himself once more for good measure, suddenly feeling dirty and more than a little ashamed of the reaction she was eliciting from him. A reaction that he would need to attend to later that evening. When he was alone. And surrounded by the scent of vanilla.

He ordered their meals, making sure that he requested the largest possible portions of filet mignon. When Miss Mitchel protested, he dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand, remarking that she would be able to take her leftovers home with her. If Mr. Emerson had his way, this meal would feed her for a couple of days.

He wondered what she would eat after her leftovers were exhausted but refused to allow himself to dwell on the problem. This was a one-time event, and only because he’d shouted at her and shamed her. After this, things between them would be strictly professional. And she would be left to face future calamities alone.

For her part, Julia was happy to be with him. She wanted to be able to talk to him, to really talk to him, to ask him about his family and the funeral. She wanted to comfort him over the loss of his mother. She wanted to tell him secrets and have him whisper secrets to her in return. But with his eyes determinedly but somewhat distantly fixed on her, she knew she could not have what she wanted. So she smiled and fidgeted with the silverware, hoping that he wouldn’t find her nervousness and its desperate outlets annoying.

“Why did you start studying Italian in high school?”

Julia gasped. Her eyes grew wide, and her beautiful red mouth hung open.

Mr. Emerson’s eyebrows furrowed at her reaction. It was completely out of proportion to his question; he hadn’t asked her for her bra size. His eyes dropped involuntarily to the swell of her breasts and returned to her eyes. He reddened as a number and a cup size miraculously entered his head.

“Um, I became interested in Italian literature. In Dante and Beatrice.”

She folded and refolded the linen napkin in her lap, a few loose curls hanging forward around her oval-shaped face.

He thought of the painting in her apartment and her extraordinary resemblance to Beatrice. Once again, the thought twisted in his mind tauntingly, and once again he pushed it aside.

“Those are remarkable interests for a young girl,” he prompted, allowing himself to memorize her beauty.

“I had…a friend who introduced me to them.” She sounded pained and more than a little sad.

He realized he was treading very closely to an old wound, and so he quickly retraced his steps, trying to find more comfortable ground to venture upon.

“Antonio is very taken with you.”

Julia looked up and smiled prettily. “He’s very kind.”

“You blossom under kindness, don’t you? Like a rose.” The words escaped his lips before he had time to consider them, and by the time they were pronounced and Julia had looked at him with no little warmth, it was far too late to retract them.

That did it. Professor Emerson began focusing his attention on his glass of wine; his features clouded, and his demeanor grew very cold. Julia observed the change, but accepted it and made no further attempt at conversation.