Peter had asked the impossible. Jann tried to relax against the green velvet covers of the plush upholstered chair. It was a stupid sort of fabric for Hawaii, a cold weather sort of fabric, a Boston sort of fabric. Perhaps that's why Peter had chosen this particular restaurant. It was supposed to be one of the best, but she had never liked it, had never felt comfortable with its air of old money and old manners. And it was not the sort of place for a confrontation. Perhaps that was why Peter had chosen it. "He's late," Jann said, for the second time, peering into the topaz eye of the silver dragon writhing around her wrist. In the restaurant's subdued lighting, she could barely make out the numbers on the eye's spherical surface. "We're early," Mitch replied, glancing at his own watch. She leaned forward. "We'll give him five more minutes then I'm leaving." "Oh, no you're not," Mitch protested. "I've been asking you out to dinner for months and we're finally doing it." "This isn't a date, Mitch." "Maybe not, but it's the closest I've had so far.
