I took a gulp of wine, angry and ashamed, and tried again. "If you're not a doctor, how can you help me?"
"Do you think I am playing at this?" His expression was grave.
"I don't know. How could I know?" The tears, never far from the surface now, pricked my eyes. I shoved them back mercilessly. "You seem rich enough to be able to play at anything."
"Not this," he said, his eyes narrowing. "Not with lives."
Not anymore.
That thought appeared abruptly in my head, as if it had been dropped there. Rattled, I looked away and tugged at my necklace, then took another-much more controlled-sip of my drink. I had a feeling that the bottle was ruinously expensive, full of subtleties and delicate bouquets that only the most refined palate could appreciate.
To me, it just tasted like white wine.
Another server materialized beside our table. "This evening's meal begins with a selection of twelve mezzethakia," he explained, setting a plate in front of each of us. "The first: smoked wild salmon with crème fraiche and coarse ground sea salt on a filigree of squid-ink toast."
The food looked exquisite, though it was small enough to finish in two bites.
"You ordered for me?" I asked as the server retreated back toward the kitchen, a little offended.
Again, that slow smile that melted my middle. "The menu is prix fixe," Mr. Thorne said.
I stared blankly.
He added, "It means you pay a great deal of money to eat whatever the chef cares to feed you." He lifted the salmon on toast in one piece, holding it as if he were saluting me. "Or, in this case, I pay a great deal of money."
He bit down, and I watched, mesmerized, at the movement of his teeth and lips. Another bite, and it was gone.
I blinked and looked down at my plate. There was something seriously wrong with me. No man could possibly be that fascinating. I picked up my own squid-ink toast, whatever that was. I took a hesitant bite.
Involuntarily I gasped, my gaze snapping up to meet Mr. Thorne's. The cream and salmon and salt melted together in my mouth, and the toast was the perfect level of crispness to balance the smooth melding of the other ingredients.
Mr. Thorne was watching me with half-lidded eyes. "Exactly," he said.
I ate it greedily-perhaps too greedily. It had been four days since my appetite had finally returned after discontinuing the alemtuzumab, and I couldn't have invented a better way to celebrate.
The rest of my protests died in my throat. Whatever reason he'd chosen to have our consultation at a restaurant, I was willing to go along for the ride, as long as that ride included more food like that.