Bombshell (23 page)

I decided to walk, despite the cold. Or maybe because of it. I was starting to feel I'd lost it, considering all the angst
ing I'd done ever since I had proposed this tête-à-tête two days before. It wasn't like me to obsess over every detail as I was doing, and just as inexplicably I found myself letting the worry go. As I walked the short distance to Jonathan's apartment, I even began to relish the fact that he lived so nearby. If nothing else, he'd make a great booty call….

Stop that,
I chided the demon voice that seemed to waft up from deep inside whenever I let down my guard. Or put it up, I thought, realizing it was probably a product of fear.

I saw the same fear in Jonathan's eyes when he greeted me at the outside door of the stately brownstone where he lived. It was as if he'd been waiting there for me, which seemed a bit odd. And the way he stood looking at me, I thought for a moment he might make up some excuse and quickly usher me out.

But he didn't. Instead, he took the shopping bag from my hand, then fumbled for his key when he realized he had let the inner door slam shut behind him.

“Jonathan,” I said, grabbing his hand before he could reach for the lock. He looked up at me, a bit startled, as if seeing me for the first time.

“Hello,” I said, leaning forward and brushing my mouth against his.

I felt some of the tension ease out of him, though it never left his eyes, I noticed when he finally pulled away to let us in.

 

It turned out, Jonathan's apartment was nothing to be embarrassed about. And it was located on the first floor, which at least somewhat explained why I had been greeted at the door rather than buzzed in. When we approached his apartment at the end of the hall, I noticed how small he looked
against the tall wood door. Some ceiling, I thought, gazing up at the pretty woodwork at least twenty feet above me.

Some apartment, I thought, when he finally pushed the door open and stepped aside so I could enter. A large living room greeted me, which I might have called cozy due to the wood furnishings and Oriental rug, except for the sense of expansive space, created mostly by those amazingly high ceilings. And the fireplace. An image of Jonathan and me making love before it rose up in my mind, then quickly died away as I glanced about the room. No, not here, I thought. It almost didn't look lived in.

Then I saw a wall of books to one side, fronted by an armchair and a small table where a book lay open, as if he had just left it there, and an abandoned coffee mug. Apparently he was living in this room, yet somehow it felt lonely.

“So this is it,” he said, startling me out of my thoughts. “See? You didn't miss much.”

I turned to him. “Well, I haven't seen anything yet. Why don't you give me the tour?”

We started with the kitchen, where I noticed a couple of steaks, which lay on a plate on the counter looking like he had marinated them already. There was also something in a pot on the stove that Jonathan declared was a wild mushroom risotto.

“I see you have hidden talents,” I said with a smile.

He blushed, then met my gaze. “I had to do something while I was waiting.”

My smile widened. I guess I wasn't the only one who had been filled with nervous energy. I took comfort in that as he led me through the living room and down a hallway where we passed a bathroom and another door that was shut and that we would have passed by had I not paused before it.

“Closet?” I asked, curious as to whether he had been
blessed with what usually came at a premium in Manhattan: storage. I had already seen the generous front closet where he had deposited my coat and could only assume the bedroom held another closet.

“No, no. That's a second bedroom.” And before the value of that real estate happenstance could sink in, he added, “A small one.” As if the prosperity suggested by a two-bedroom brownstone apartment embarrassed him. “Caroline and I had hoped to use it as a…a nursery.”

He looked away on that last word, and suddenly I understood what had hung so thickly between us since he had opened his home to me: the weight of his past and the pain of remembering what he had once hoped for his future. With someone else. Someone who I feared was still present, not only in these lovely rooms, but also in Jonathan's mind.

I struggled against the sorrow brought on by this realization, and got it under control by the time he looked at me again. “It's a study now,” he said, frowning at the closed door as if, despite the rechristening, he hadn't completely come to terms with its new function.

I noted also that he didn't even touch the knob, as if he felt no need to show me that particular space.

Before I could wonder at that, he led me away toward the door at the end of the hall, which I saw, once we stepped through it, was the bedroom.

The bed was made up untidily in a plain blue spread, and one wall was lined with rows of books that were clearly constantly in use, judging by how they leaned haphazardly all over one another. A desk sat in one corner, which made me question how much of a study that other room really was, especially since this desk was clearly a working one, covered by a computer and piles of books and papers.

Still, I felt a momentary pleasure at the sight. This room, at least, was fully and completely inhabited by Jonathan, right down to the portable valet where some of those hopelessly outdated yet utterly Dr. Somerfield trousers were hung.

I smiled, finally feeling at home, and stepped into his arms. My hips came into contact with his and I felt his body come to life, which, of course, only boosted my spirits further. “Mmm-hmm,” I murmured, placing my cheek against his delightfully rougher one, my lips against his ear, cradling his now-f erection in the apex of my thighs. “You sure do have a lovely…home.”

 

Dinner got off to a late start, as Jonathan and I made a few more wrinkles in that bedspread before the call of hunger pulled us from post-lovemaking languor and we headed for the kitchen.

We cooked side by side, with me adding a marinade Mrs. DiFranco had taught me to the French string beans Jonathan had purchased, while he grilled on the kind of high-tech stovetop grill that could only have been a leftover from his married life. How else did a bachelor wind up with such sophisticated cookware? But the reminder of his previous life was overridden by the new intimacy I felt as we stood in that small slice of a kitchen, cooking side by side, almost as if we were man and wife ourselves.

Our meal was even more intimate, with me draped in one of Jonathan's soft button-downs and my lacey briefs while seated across from him at a table awash in candlelight.

By the time we nestled together on the couch to eat dessert, my legs thrown over Jonathan's as he sat at one end and I reclined against the other, I was safely back in my comfort
zone again, especially when I saw the way his eyes closed to savor his first bite of my cake from the plate we shared.

“Mmmm, Grace,” he said opening his eyes and turning to look at me. “Is there nothing you can't do?”

I thought about this for a moment. “I'm not much of a chess player,” I said, my gaze moving over to the pretty chess table set up in one corner of the room.

“We can remedy that.” His eyes lit up as if the prospect of offering to teach me gave him joy. “Here, taste this,” he said, holding out a forkful of the cake.

I leaned forward, holding his gaze as my mouth closed over the bite of chocolate. “Mmmm.” I leaned back again to savor the rich taste. “I am good, aren't I?” I said with a wink.

“Where did you learn how to make this?” he asked, helping himself to another bite and then dishing up another for me.

“My mom,” I replied, accepting the bite from his fork. “I used to make this cake with her when I was a little girl. Usually on Christmas Eve.”

He frowned down at the cake as if the mention of the upcoming holiday disturbed him. I felt the temperature change—ever so slightly—in the room. Trying to purge the sudden awkwardness, I plunged forward, bringing up the subject that had lingered in the back of my mind since my lonely Thanksgiving.

“Of course, we won't be baking together this year, with her and my dad celebrating in Paris.”

He glanced over at me. “Are you spending the holiday alone, then?”

“No, no,” I answered quickly, not wanting him to think I was a friendless loner. “I'll be spending Christmas Day with the DiFrancos—you know, my friend Angie's family?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, as if my having these plans filled him with some sort of relief. “So it will be a seafood dinner, then?”

“Well, that's on Christmas Eve.” I was glad he was so focused on his cake that he couldn't see the question in my eyes. Because I hadn't made plans to go to the DiFrancos for that part of the holiday—Angie and Justin were celebrating a romantic Christmas Eve together at their apartment. I understood. Christmas Eve had always held a bit of romance for me, too, perhaps because it was so close to my parents' wedding anniversary. Yet somehow I never seemed to have a man in my life come Christmastimes. So after this brief but utterly romantic few weeks with Jonathan, I hoped that this year I would.

“You?” I said, venturing forth on that limb as carefully as possible. “Any plans for the holiday?”

I saw him chew thoughtfully, then offer the remainder of the cake to me before he answered. When I shook my head, he took the last bite himself, then placed the empty plate on the coffee table. “Well, my parents are in Connecticut, as you know, so I'll head up there for the day. My brother is usually there with his wife and their two little girls.” His gaze turned pensive again.

“So no big Christmas Eve dinner for you either?” I said, feeling intensely the romantic wish that lay beneath my question.

He looked at me as if he sensed the direction my thoughts had taken. I saw his gaze darken with emotion and wondered at that, but the wondering got too much and before I knew what I was doing, I was putting my wish into words.

“Maybe we could spend it together….”

He reached for his coffee, only to stare down into the mug as if seeking an escape route in the bottom of that cup. My
guard went up immediately, and just as I was about to rescind my proposal with some suddenly-remembered-invitation to help me save face, Jonathan looked up at me again, his gaze pensive as he said, “Maybe…” Then, as if he longed to shut the door on the subject altogether, he placed the mug back down on the table and stood. “So what do you say to a little Chess 101?”

 

It had been a mistake, I realized, to take that hopeful little step forward, for it had sent Jonathan retreating behind his wall of intellect. Gone was that searching intimacy I had earlier seen in his eyes. It was replaced by that scholarly-yet-once-removed air I had noted about him at our first few meetings, as he guided me through the steps of a game I no longer wanted to play.

“You sure you want to do that?” he said midgame, when I moved my knight over to the side of the board. “You left your pawn unprotected.”

My pawn wasn't the only thing I had left unprotected.

“Why? Are you going to let me take it back?” I asked, thinking more of my little invitation that had apparently ruined everything.

Not that Jonathan noticed, looking at me as if I were a student in need of enlightenment, rather than a lover looking for more than her next maneuver. “Well, if you don't, I'll have your king in three moves. The game will be over.”

More than the chess game was starting to feel over, that was for sure. The thought made me feel sad, and a bit angry. So I'd asked him out for Christmas Eve—why the hell had the thought of sharing that sacred romantic night with me scared him off?

“I'm sorry,” I said finally, wearily moving my knight back into place. “I don't think I'm ever going to get this.”

He looked at me. “Not everyone gets it at first. It takes some practice,” he said.

Practice I had had enough of, at least in terms of relationships. I was so tired, suddenly, of having to learn how to be with another person.

As if he sensed my withdrawal, if not the source of it, Jonathan said, “Maybe we should wrap this up for the night. Get some sleep.”

But sleep did not come for me after Jonathan had turned off the lights and kissed me—a bit too chastely—and rolled over to the other side of the bed. There was no spooning tonight, not even a late-night cuddle, and the gap that lay between us on the bed felt so wide I thought it might swallow me up. It seemed like hours before I heard Jonathan's breath move into the deep, even rhythm of sleep, and when it did, I felt that demon take me over again. Suddenly, before I even knew what I was doing, I was sliding quietly from the bed and creeping silently down the hall.

I knew it was wrong to pry, but a woman has to understand what she's up against if she hopes to gain an edge on the competition. And I sensed what stood between me and Jonathan somehow lay beyond that study door. I told myself I was only conducting a little market research. Because if I wanted this man—and I knew that I did—I needed to understand him, didn't I?

Pulling Jonathan's shirt around me against the shiver of cold I felt, I reached for the knob—and cringed at the loud click it made as I turned it to the right. When at first the door didn't budge, I feared it was locked, until finally it gave way and I stepped quickly into the gloomy interior before I could change my mind.

I could barely make out a thing, except that it did seem, as Jonathan had suggested, like a smallish space. And before I could stumble over what appeared to be boxes strewn on the floor, I slid my hand along the wall, made contact with the light switch, and flicked it on.

The room did appear to be some kind of a study, with a bit of storage thrown in. Beyond the few boxes at my feet stood a bookshelf holding yet more books and an antique desk strewn with papers, as if someone had only just been seated there, working. But when I stepped closer, I saw that everything was coated in a fine layer of dust, including the framed photos perched along the edge of the desk.