Jack savored his long awaited drink, as the waiter to took their dinner order. He was ready to call Weaver's bluff as the waiter turned to leave.
"You woke up one morning and realized I was the man of your dreams, did you? Sounds like I better talk to the kitchen staff at Bedford Hills. Someone's been lacing the food with Love Potion Number Nine."
Weaver smiled shaking her head. She placed her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands.
"Are you saying I'd have to be on drugs to want you, Jack? Doubting your prowess with women,"she said with exaggerated innocence,"or am I really that intimidating?"
McCoy gave her a look, his eyebrows arrogantly raised, dark eyes bright with amusement.
The waiter returned, removing two bowls of Manhattan clam chowder from his tray after replacing McCoy's long empty glass. Before leaving he refilled the nearly empty glass of champagne, Weaver taking the opportunity to order another bottle.
McCoy watched thoughtfully as Weaver turned her attention to the soup. She seemed instantly mesmerized. Jack pondered what the regime of institutional life must have been like for a woman such as Weaver, as she consumed the broth with what could only be described as delighted bliss.
She looked up her cheeks flushed as she realized he'd been studying her.
"I didn't mean to get so…caught up. I've been like this since I left the courthouse. Everything - the soup, wearing my own clothes, walking on the pier earlier - it's well… exhilarating."
"You never thought things would go as far as they went, did you Samantha? You never considered what would happen if you were convicted," he asked quietly.
She turned her attention back to the red liquid. " I survived it. That's all that matters."
As dessert followed dinner, the verbal sparing lessened. McCoy kept the focus of the conversation on Weaver. He learned that the proceeds resulting from the sale of her penthouse would enable Weaver to start rebuilding her life. She'd had her belongings put in storage and planned to start looking for a permanent place to live, once she decided on a course of action. In the meantime, her hotel room at the Midtown Hilton served as a temporary home for her clothing and personal effects.
The bantering would start when he broached her time being shuttled between Bedford Hills and Riker's Island or when she attempted to bring the conversation around to McCoy's personal life. An exchange of innuendo would bring the conversation back to neutral ground.
He knew it had been critical to prove to the jury Weaver was driven enough to commit murder to protect her position as CEO. Yet, the questions he had so cavalierly dismissed every time Connie had brought them up, began to nag at him: If she'd been a man, would Samantha Weaver's ruthless business practices have even been an issue? Would they have even been introduced in a murder trial?
McCoy chuckled as Weaver returned the empty champagne bottle to the bucket .
"I'd say you killed it - I'll rephrase," he said as hhe returned her smile.
"I've heard that a time or two," she countered.
"Are you ready for coffee?"
Weaver shook her head, as she dipped the last strawberry into the melted chocolate.
"That defeats the purpose of two bottles of champagne," she said biting into the fruit. "God, this is fantastic. I think I missed fresh fruit most of all. Here, Jack, you've got to have a bite."
McCoy started to decline, but Weaver swiftly reached across the table. She carefully filled his mouth with the fruit, rising to lean across the table, pressing her mouth to his. McCoy knew he should pull back, but he let his mouth linger on hers, as he had done on the pier. He heard himself sigh deeply as he returned the kiss, a hand moving to the back of her head. He gently ran his hand through the silky hair, taking in the scent of her perfume.
"Excuse me," a voice uncomfortably interjected. "Can I bring either of you anything else?"
McCoy looked at her inquiringly, as she picked up her pocketbook.
"Nothing for me. I'll be back soon," she said her hand causally squeezing his shoulder as she passed by.
Once in the ladies room, she checked the empty stalls, satisfied she was alone. Sitting at the vanity she reached for her cell phone in the small bag. She searched quickly through her messages, finding two from her attorney, another from her broker, and one marked Nathaniel. She laughed with relief as she read the word: Connected. The message was signed "D".
Quickly deleting the text message, Weaver took a moment to reapply her lipstick and perfume. Studying her face in the mirror, her triumphant grin gave way to a wave of laughter. She could hardly believe it. Early on, he'd had her worried, more than once. Especially, when he failed to drink the Viagra laced champagne she had waiting for him. But, based on fleeting of responses he unintentionally let her catch, it was likely he be just fine on his own.
She laughed again in anticipation.
Soon, Samantha Weaver would have that arrogant son of a bitch precisely where she wanted him.