Table for Two (17 page)

He turned off the lights, leaving Cassie to stare into the darkness. Tonight she had accomplished her goal; he was no longer blind to the truth. They weren't meant to be. She just hadn't expected it to hurt so much.

* * *

Drake was exhausted but he couldn't sleep. He was afraid that if he shut his eyes the nightmare that had haunted him since his teens would return. He opened the fridge and grabbed a drink and a bag of plantain chips and then turned on the TV to keep himself from thinking. Cassie had really scared him. He had never felt such a sense of helplessness since he'd seen the viciousness of disease take his parents away from him.

He angrily flipped through the channels, then tossed down the remote. He shouldn't have been such a coward. He should have stayed with Cassie until she fell asleep, comforted her. But seeing her look so weak and fragile ripped at his insides until he felt as if they were bleeding. God, how she must despise him.

It wasn't just her illness that disturbed him. It was his reaction to it—the desperate need to do something, be something that would end her suffering. Looking at Cassie reminded him of how his father must have felt watching his mother die. In his mind he could hear the echo of his father's pleas, smell the musky stale scent of death stealing life, see the peeling brown wallpaper of the bedroom, and watch his strong father bent over his mother's prone form in the small bed weeping like a child. Those thoughts had passed through his memory and all he could think of was escape.

Perhaps that was why she had tried to leave him. Perhaps somehow she had sensed his weakness. He shook his head. No. She didn't know enough about him to come to that conclusion. He stood and shut off the TV. He had to do something proactive or thoughts would devour him and eat away at his conscience. He looked at the list of suggestions the doctor had given him. He would be the man his father hadn't been. Slowly the demons disappeared until another question only Cassie could answer rose in his mind.

Chapter 8

Cassie opened her eyes and saw the sun peering through the closed blinds, spilling onto the carpet. Her nose twitched at the calming scent of peppermint tea. She stretched and saw a picture on the side table—Drake with a young man and woman. She wondered if they were his family since they all seemed to share the same smile. She'd probably never find out since today she would be leaving. She saw her handbag on the dresser and took out her contacts and put on her glasses, ready to face the inevitable.

Feeling chilly, Cassie grabbed Drake's maroon terry robe that hung behind the door. It was too big, falling past her hands and dragging on the floor, but infinitely comfortable and warm. It smelled like cinnamon, and crumbled recipes filled the pockets. She walked through the living room and saw Drake in jeans, stretched out in a garden lounger on the balcony, smoking. She opened the sliding glass door and the crisp morning air slapped her face.

"It's too cold to be half dressed," she said.

He glanced at her, then out at the city, which hummed with its morning activities. "I like it. You didn't sleep long."

"No, I usually don't." She hesitated. "You're annoyed," she said, nodding to his cigarette.

He studied her for a moment, stubbed out his cigarette, then said, "Let me get you some tea."

"Look, I—"

He held up his hand. "Tea first."

She followed him into the kitchen and halted. It was gorgeous. The walls were painted a bright yellow, bronze pots hung overhead, a marble-top island stood in the middle, and tall, pine-nut cabinets lined two walls. A bowl of exotic fruit sat on the large counter. To the side was a breakfast nook with a country table and chairs. He pulled out a seat, gently pushed her paralyzed frame into it, then prepared the tea.

"Could I have some toast as well?" she asked carefully, wondering how far she could push his hospitality.

"Sorry, but you're strictly on a liquid diet today. Doctor's orders." She pouted when he handed her the tea. A small rueful smile touched his mouth. "Don't worry, I've stocked my cupboards with broth and we have more Popsicles than anyone could hope for."

She paused, unsure she had heard him properly. "We?"

He pulled out a chair and sat in front of her, his eyebrows raised in wonder. "You didn't think I'd let you enjoy this liquid diet all by yourself, did you?"

She lowered her eyes, embarrassed that he felt the need to go through all this trouble. She took a quick sip of her tea. "You don't have to do that."

"I know." He reached for the carton of cigarettes that sat near the tin of tea bags. He took one out and began tapping it against his palm in an absent gesture.

"Aren't you going to smoke that?" Cassie asked after a while.

"No, the smell might make you feel queasy."

"It won't," she assured him, not wanting him to feel put out. "I feel fine."

He frowned down at the object as if it were offensive. "It's a stupid habit anyway."

"You only do it when you're annoyed."

"Hmm."

"And right now you're annoyed."

He tapped the cigarette against his palm and sighed in irritation. "Are you ready to talk?"

"About what?" She wasn't trying to be dense, but she wasn't sure which aspect he wanted to talk about. The fact that the possibility of them having a relationship was similar to a shark dancing or the fact that last night she had almost puked on him?

"Why you felt it necessary to crawl out of my apartment when you felt like death."

"I didn't feel like death," she muttered with resentment.

He continued to stare at her. His eyes intense but unreadable.

She tugged on the cuffs of his robe. She didn't know how to begin. She didn't want to begin. "I'm sure you think me rude, wearing your robe like this, but I was cold."

"Cassie, you're free to wear whatever you want, especially me, but that's not the point. Answer the question."

"It's so embarrassing," she hedged.

He waited, his tapping becoming more impatient.

She took a long swallow of her tea as if it were stiff bourbon, then placed it aside. "Timothy hated to see me sick," she explained in a rush. "He would call me a fat, disgusting slob and leave the house until I got well. He hated weakness, and sickness was a weakness. I didn't want you to see me that way."

Drake sat back and glanced around the kitchen and then returned to her face. "I hope you don't think you're flattering me by comparing me to him," he said in a bland tone.

"I'm not comparing you."

"Then why did you try to leave?"

"I just didn't want to disgust you. You already had a horrible night. I didn't want to make it worse."

He twirled the cigarette between his fingers. His voice grew husky. "Actually I had a very enjoyable evening."

She felt her face and body grow warm. How could he still look at her with such wanting in spite of what happened? "You know what I mean."

"Right." He put the cigarette back in the carton and pushed it away. "You mean if I had been sick you would have been disgusted at the sight of me."

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped, surprised he would come to such a conclusion. "I would have taken care of you."

He nodded, then put his hands together in a steeple. His eyes roamed over her face speculatively. "Okay, then explain why you would take care of me and I wouldn't take care of you."

"You're blowing this out of proportion. Don't worry about it."

His eyes flashed fire, but his voice remained cool. "Right. Excuse me." He grabbed his carton of cigarettes with such force that some shot of out the box and landed unnoticed on the floor. He headed for the balcony.

"All right, I apologize," she said quickly, when he grasped the sliding door handle. She could feel the anger that he kept carefully in check. "I misjudged you."

He stared out the window. "Yes, you did." He slanted her a glance. "You seem to do it very well on a continual basis."

"I don't do it on purpose." She took a step toward him, but her foot got caught in the hem and she tripped and grabbed the table to keep her balance.

"Sit down before you hurt yourself," he ordered.

"I won't hurt myself. I just forgot how long your robe is."

"Was Timothy's robe shorter?" he drawled.

"I never wore his robe."

He nodded and opened the door.

"Try to see it from my side. I know at first I wanted to, uh..."

"Get rid of me."

"No, free you. But after we—"

"Had sex."

She placed her hands on her hips. "I am perfectly capable of finishing my own sentences, thank you."

He closed the door. "You're welcome. Go on."

"After we had sex, I wanted to impress you and when I got sick it was because of me, not you, that I had to leave. I didn't want to taint the picture of who I was."

"So if I ever get sick instead of shattering the illusion you have of me I should leave."

Cassie threw up her hands, exasperated. "You're misunderstanding me on purpose."

"No, I'm not. You're leaving out one important element."

"What?"

"I care about you. God only knows why, but I do."

"That's impossible." Men had wanted her, needed her, but never cared about her. The man didn't know what he was saying.

"No, it's not impossible. And believe it or not you care about me too."

"I hardly know you. I don't know what you do for a living, where your family's from, or anything personal." She shoved her hands in the large pockets of the robe and held out a crumbled piece of paper. "I mean, what is all this about? I don't know anything about you."

Drake stared at the label of the cigarette carton. "Probably because you tried so hard not to show any interest before."

"Well, I'm asking now. What do you do for a living?"

He looked up and shrugged. "I own a few restaurants. Two here in DC. The Blue Mango and the Red Hut."

She silently groaned in dismay. Restaurants—food— extra calories. "Impressive." She searched her mind for another question. "What is your middle name?"

"I don't have one."

"I thought everyone had a middle name."

"What's yours?"

"Annette."

His brows furrowed. "Annette is what you use to catch a fish."

She marched over to him and poked him in the chest. "Are you making fun of my name,
Drake?"

He held up his hands. "I wouldn't think of it." He began to smile. "Hey, let's go play Ping-Pong. Wait, the table needs Annette."

She playfully swung at him.

He grabbed her hand; she trembled from his touch. "Relax, Cassie. I would never hurt you."

"I know."

A dark thought entered his mind. He narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip. "Did he ever hurt you?"

She emphatically shook her head. "No. Never."

He kissed her knuckles. "Lucky him," he murmured, beginning to suck on her pinkie.

"Drake!"

"Hmm?" He took her hand and led her to the couch. He sat down and pulled her onto his lap.

"This isn't going to work," Cassie said, trying to wiggle off his lap. "Do you know how much I weigh?"

He flashed a wicked grin. "Do you want me to guess?"

"No."

"I didn't think so," he murmured against her neck. "Please stop wiggling or I'll be forced to take you right here and now. I'm not sure you're ready for that."

She swallowed, feeling light-headed. She was sure it was from the lack of food, not from his words. No one could survive on peppermint tea. "You know you won't be able to hold me like this for long. Your legs will fall asleep. Perhaps you'll lose all muscle function."

"I don't care if they fall off." He kissed her behind one ear, then the other. "You're not going anywhere." He kissed her on the mouth, sucking on the lower lip.

"Drake?" she whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Could you do me a favor?"

"Anything," he breathed, ready to taste her lips again.

"Could you please let me have a slice of toast?"

He paused and shut his eyes as if in pain. "Cassie, you know I can't."

"Please." Her eyes begged him. For a moment, he felt himself weakening. He shook his head, steeling himself against her charms—her beautiful pleading butterscotch eyes and pouting raspberry mouth. "No, if you get sick again I wouldn't forgive myself."

She toyed with the curls at the base of his neck. "I'd forgive you."

He unwrapped her arms and held them in front of him. "You're a dangerous woman."

"Come on," she urged. "Just one piece of toast with butter and cinnamon and sugar sprinkled on top."

He shook his head sadly. "I can't."

She let her shoulders slump. "I don't think I like you very much anymore."

He lowered his eyes. "I'm sorry about that." He said the words so solemnly that she knew her joke had missed him again.

"Drake, I was just teasing."

He didn't look at her. "You can leave now if you want."

There was a moment of silence and then she said, "I don't."

His eyes met hers, filled with amusement. "That's what I figured."

"You big fibber!"