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Everyone at this table knows Rafe doesn't let anyone touch him. Ever. I don't know his history, but Laszlo has mentioned it once or twice. Now Daphne has her palm flat on his forearm, and he doesn't shake her off. He doesn't move at all, especially when her fingers twitch and move in what’s suspiciously like a caressing motion. He just sits there with his eyes on her hand, jaw twitching, and I have to lean in to figure out whether he's breathing.

"You're so solid," Daphne tells him, delighted, patting his arm like she's testing a melon. "Isn't he solid? Manon, feel his arm."

"No, thank you."

"There's something else you could feel under the table," Laszlo whispers in my ear, and I nearly choke on my wine.

Daphne isn't listening to anyone. She's got both hands wrapped around Rafe's arm now, squeezing along it. "Is all of you this big?" she asks, her voice slurred. Then she points at him, wide-eyed. "Don't. Don't answer that." She drops her head onto his shoulder, thoroughly pleased with herself. "I'm not even sorry."

Rafe sits perfectly still and lets her use him as a wall, or the back of a sofa.

Tomek is in heaven. "Next time," he says, mouth full, "I cook for you. Trad Polish. Bigos. It’s a hunter's stew, you cook it for four days." He points his fork at Rafe. "Rafe loves it. He always steals an extra portion."

Rafe grumbles something incoherent to the table.

Under the table, Laszlo's hand slides onto my thigh, and he's exploring slowly, higher, while he asks Tomek about the traffic on the way over. I take a mouthful of wine, trying not to moan when his index finger brushes over my sex. I feel small beads of sweat tingling on my brow. Yes, I'm turned on and wet for him. We didn't have sex last night because I was working, and he was busy all morning.

"You're going to make me spill this," I say quietly.

"No one will care." His voice doesn't change at all.

“No one. Are you sure?” I tease. He knows what I mean.

"Tell them you need something upstairs. Two minutes. I'll follow."

"We have guests."

He looks around the table. Daphne now is more or less wearing Rafe like a coat, while Tomek is waxing lyrical about his favorite stew to Rafe, who pretends to listen but is off in his own happy world. "We have a woman trying to climb inside my enforcer and my youngest man yapping about food," he says against my ear. "Nobody at this table is going to notice we're gone. Rafe wouldn't notice a raging fire right now, except the one going on inside him, I’m sure."

I suppress a chuckle, covering it with my napkin, and his hand slides under the hem of my panties. I press my knees together, locking his fingers on my wet pussy.

"After dessert," I manage.

"Ahh, ma macabre, you wound me." He doesn't move his hand.

Ten minutes later he finally does, when I remind him about the cake. Dessert is the one thing he wouldn't let me near for this dinner. He gets up, taps Rafe on the shoulder, and the man is out of his chair before I can blink, desperate for a reason to escape the warm but unfamiliar weight of Daphne against his side. "Kitchen," Laszlo says. "Come help me with something."

"It's makowiec," Tomek tells me, glowing, as the two of them go through the door. "Poppy seed cake. It's his father's recipe. He only makes it for special occasions." He considers this. "He's never made it for me."

Daphne has slid into Rafe's abandoned chair and is resting her cheek on the table. "I feel amazing," she informs the salt. "I feel like crying. This is the best night I've had all year." She turns her head without lifting it. "Your husband is loaded and he can cook. Where do I get one?"

"You don't need one. Trust me on this. Drink some water."

"I want one. I've been on my own too long, Manon. It's tragic." She sighs into the tablecloth.

"And that one next to me was so warm. His arms were so nice. Did you feel his arms?"

"At the club you wanted him dead," I remind her.

"That was different," she says, with total conviction, to the salt.

Shaking my head, I go to the kitchen for ice, since there's none on the table.

Laszlo and Rafe are still in there with the cake. The door's open a few inches and I've got my hand on it to push through when I hear Laszlo's clipped voice, nothing like how he's talked all night, and the tone stops me in my tracks.

"It needs longer than that," he's saying. "Poppy seed goes bitter if you rush it. My father would have taken the tray off you."

I hear the water running, then Rafe says, "The brother. You still want it all gone, or are we keeping it?"