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politely.
    “Maybe they will have to catch the fish and it will take so long to catch it and cook it that we will be late to the opera.” She laughed and he smiled at the sound. He loved hearing her laugh.

    A wine steward with spiked dyed-blond hair poured them the wine she’d ordered. A South African Chardonnay.

    Delicious.

    It was a sign of his ease that he would drink alcohol in public. Something he would never have done in his previous life.

    That was how he was starting to think of it. A previous life. Another one entirely, not his, not any more.

    This was his life now. Walking down a shopping street full of people. A delicious meal in a beautiful restaurant.

    Later, the opera. His pleasure dimmed a little at the thought, but who knew? Maybe the new Drake—Manuel Rabat—might actually enjoy it. He knew he’d certainly enjoy his wife’s delight.

    A life of—of enjoyment.

    Unthinkable before.

    Quite possible now.

    The waiter slid appetizers in front of them. Fried baby octopus, oysters wrapped in prosciutto, hot clam dip.

    Some fish he didn’t recognize with a ginger and chili sauce. Fried focaccia bread triangles with brie mousse.

    “Oh God,” Grace moaned as she spread the mousse and popped a focaccia in her mouth. “This is delicious!” He would have smiled if his own mouth hadn’t been full.

    Grace looked around again once the appetizers were gone. “It’s so strange to have all this Christmas spirit in summer. A hot weather Christmas.” It was. Jazz renditions of Christmas carols played softly in the background. A huge Christmas tree made of lit glass cylinders glowed in a corner. Palm leaves studded with tiny lights were twined around the balustrade of the iron and glass staircase leading up to a loft.

    A fat Santa Claus waddled through the entrance, fake beard moving in the breeze generated by the ceiling fans.

    It was Christmas but unlike any Christmas he’d ever seen. Hot and sunny. Perfect beach weather.

    Australians were an informal people and most of the diners even in this expensive restaurant were in sundresses and Bermudas, with acres of suntanned skin showing.

    Grace touched his hand. “We’ll get used to it.”

    “Oh yes,” he said softly.

    Yes, they would. He hated the cold. He’d spent his entire childhood on the streets of Odessa. In winter, he’d desperately tried not to freeze to death, huddling in doorways and over grates. If he was never again cold in this lifetime, he’d be a happy man.

    And… well, he was. He was a happy man. The thought still stunned him.

    “We can make this a Christmas tradition,” he told Grace. “Christmas in Sydney. My Christmas gift to you.”

    “The opera,” she sighed and rolled her eyes at his expression. “Verdi, Puccini, Wagner.” Drake shrugged and drank another sip of wine to help make the thought go down.

    The piped-in music segued to a lovely saxophone rendering of Do You Hear What I Hear? One of the few carols he recognized. The soulful music, gentle and soft in the background, filled his head.

    Nearby, a flame ignited at a table as the waiter threw cognac over some kind of creamy dessert and lit it. A woman at the table with the flambé dessert threw her head back and laughed.

    Santa Claus was making the rounds of the tables shouting Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!

    The maître d’hôtel stepped away from his station frowning.

    Their waiter slid a steaming oval platter of seafood risotto in front of a diner at the table next to them. Drake risotto in front of a diner at the table next to them. Drake looked over with interest because he’d ordered it. Or rather, Grace had ordered it for him. It looked excellent and—

    Ice hit his stomach.

    His head lifted. He was suddenly alert.

    Music, food, wine instantly forgotten.

    What he was in his essence—an animal under constant threat—came instantly to the fore.

    He looked carefully around the restaurant, no longer happy, no longer relaxed. If he’d been