Free Impersonal Attractions by Sarah Shankman Page A

lost it, dissolving into laughter just as the beaming waiter arrived with their oysters.
    “Gosh, we have so much in common,” Sean teased. He picked up a wedge of lemon and an oyster shell. “Help yourself,” he invited.
    Sam looked at the beautiful, frosty platter before them, the shells snuggled into a bed of ice. Could anyone ever eat an oyster in the presence of the opposite sex without thinking of that incredible, edible, slurpy, sexy scene in the movie Tom Jones ?
    She lifted her fork and raised her eyes to see Sean, across the table, grinning at her as one of the salty, coppery morsels slid down his throat. She knew that he knew what she was thinking. Well, her mind certainly wasn’t going to be seduced that easily. All business, she lifted an oyster, hooked it out smartly, plopped it in her mouth, and chewed.
    “Excellent,” she said.
    His mouth still held a grin. She hadn’t fooled him for a second.
    “So the mysterious Ms. Storey approves?”
    “Indeed. But what’s so mysterious?”
    “You are. I’ve asked hundreds of questions about you and no one seems to know very much.”
    Sam didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.
    “What do you mean hundreds of questions?”
    “I’ve asked around. ‘Who is this beautiful woman? Where did she come from? Does she have a boyfriend? Where did she learn to be such a pro? Does she like cops?’”
    “Her name is Samantha NMI ex-Mathews Storey. From Los Angeles. No. In law school and on the job. Not unequivocally; each one has to stand on his or her own merits. I’m surprised you didn’t run me through the computer,” she continued.
    “I did,” he said. “It didn’t tell me what I wanted to know. Now, what would you like for dinner?”
    Sam didn’t know what struck her. This man was titillating in ways she wasn’t used to. And he made her feel feisty.
    “More oysters, please.”
    He raised an eyebrow. His eyes read and registered her challenge.
    “Then more oysters it will be.”
    He signaled to the waiter, ordered two dozen more, which they polished off without much conversation but with a large number of sideways glances. Then another two dozen before Sam cried uncle.
    “I give,” she said, putting down her fork. “You’re a better man than I.”
    “I should certainly hope so. Because I wouldn’t want to ask you to go for a bit of dancing otherwise.”
    “Oh, I…”
    “Couldn’t? Why?”
    Why indeed? Why should she deny herself this pleasure? She loved to dance. And it was so seldom she got the chance. Was she hesitating because she thought she was supposed to?
    Sean watched her face carefully, as if he could see the conversation in her mind printed across her forehead.
    “Good,” he said, dropping cash on the table and taking her hand and leading her out of the restaurant. “We can walk from here. It’s just up the street.”
    For someone who hadn’t been in town long, he knew its secret places well. Unerringly, he led her to the small, grubby Italian bar with a few tables and a hardwood floor where the late-night cognoscenti went for a nightcap and a little tripping of the light fantastic.
    He ordered a Martell cognac for himself and a Perrier with lime for Sam without even asking her. It was early.
    Only the barman and two other couples were in the place. Sean got quarters from the bar and loaded up the jukebox.
    He chose lots of Stones, some hot Ray Charles, Aretha, old stuff, all with a steady beat. He draped their jackets, bags, cases across a chair and bowed formally to her as “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” boomed through the room.
    “May I have this dance?”
    And then he swung her out and exploded into the most loose-hipped, long-legged, get-down dancing she’d ever seen. Whirl, twirl, twist, kick, clap, turn, bump. Again and again and again, in never ending variations of rhythm and motion that kept her twirling on her toes, shaking her behind, laughing with delight. Was this New York style, Staten Island,