Desire: Love and Passion (5 page)

             
"The Prime Minister?" Willow asked. 

             
"Yes."

             
"Isn't that a little lopsided?"
s
he asked. 

             
"I drag Cassie with me." 

"Cassie?"

"Cassandra," James explained. "She is Larry's sister. She pretends not to mind. If you
’
re up to it, I would love you to play as my partner one of these days."

             
"I haven't played tennis in a long time. I'm afraid I wouldn
’
t be much of a partner."

             
"It's like riding a bike," James said.  "A few balls over the net and you
’
ll be fine.
  It’ll come back to you quickly, I’m sure.
"

             
"You won't like me when I play," she said in a conspiratorial whisper that only excited the butterflies in his stomach. "I don't play nice."

             
"Is that in all physical activities?"

             
"Oh, James," she said lowering her voice. She
’d
said it in such a manner
that
he felt warmth spread through
out
his lower body. He was grateful he was sitting down. She was
definitely
flirting with him.

             
"You are a tease."

             
"You started it," she countered.

             
His right hand covered her left. His fingers made gentle lazy circles over the skin. He found it interesting that sh
e always looked directly at him, but s
he was difficult to read. He could
n’t
tell if she was studying his scar or just looking at the man behind the scar. She was definitely not like any other woman he had ever dated. He knew what pity looked like. He knew resignation. He could not find any of those emotions in her eyes. She had a playful smile on her face
and he was thoroughly enjoying seeing it directed towards him
.

             
"What are you thinking about?"
h
e asked.

             
"You," she said without hesitation. "I will admit I did not expect you to be so normal, if that is the correct word. Yet, here you are, like any regular guy."

             
"I am a regular guy."

             
"You are anything but," she said removing her hand from his. 

             
Willow did not miss the slight tightening of the smile, the flash of anger which disappeared into disappointment, then resignation. It happened so quickly it was almost as if it w
ere
the lights playing on his features. It was her ability to
quickly
read people and situations that made her good at her job, and perhaps the same reason she was single at twenty eight.

             
What demons haunt you, James Alexander Monroe
, she thought.

             
"We should clear these dishes," he said looking aw
ay from her.
"I hope you have room for dessert."

             
Willow helped him clear the table. She loaded the dishwasher against all protest
s
from him. In another ten minutes the kitchen was clear of all evidence of dinner except for a pot of meat sauce that was cooling on the stove to be later jarred and refrigerated.

             
She roamed the living room area after he disappeared down the hallway. There were pictures of his family o
n
the wall above th
e fireplace and on the mantle.
There were also pictures of his old army unit, but the only picture she found of him was as a child. The picture was of a pretty blond girl, a dark haired older boy, she assumed was his brother, and a dark haired James staring straight at the camera. Even then he had captivating eyes that seemed to look right through you.

             
He cleared his throat as he entered the room. Willow turned to look at him.

             
"You are noticeably absent from this collection," she said.

             
"I see myself in the mirror every morning," he replied.

             
"What about before the war?"

             
"That was a different life."

             
"I didn't know you had a sister." She pointed to the picture with the three children.

             
"I didn't. That is Stacey Wagman," he replied.

             
Willow knew of Stacey Wagman. She was the fiancée he had ditched to go to war. She was the woman he was supposed to marry after the fiasco in Miami.

             
"You
’v
e known her for a long time."

             
"You never really know a person," he said with a note of sadness in his voice. "But we were friends for a long time."

             
"Do you keep in touch?"

             
"Yes." 

             
"Is this Larry's father?" She pointed to a picture of an older gentleman dressed in military uniform.

             
"Yes. He was my commanding officer."

             
"You knew Larry and Cassandra before going to war?"

"No. I hired them when I got back."

"Oh."

             
"I'll get dessert and
then
we can talk more about you and less about me."

He started towards
the kitchen and she followed.
The fresh scent of coffee percolating teased her nose. He must have done that while she was busy
perusing
the photos.

             
"My life is not as colorful," she said. 

             
"I beg to differ."

             
He removed chocolate mousse cake from the refrigerator.

             
"What
did Larry tell you about me?" s
he asked.

             
"I haven't spoken to Larry. I usually make my own decision
regarding
my dates," James said though he knew Larry had done preliminary checks on the new property owner. "Larry is for the hard stuff. Are you a Russian Spy?"

             
"No."

             
"How about an Iranian Spy?"

             
"No."

"A spy of any sorts?"

"No."

             
"Do you have plans to overthrow or disrupt the government?"

             
"That depends on what you mean by disrupt," she gave him a sly smile. "If you not attending your duties as you should is disruptive, then
I suppose
I'm guilty as charged."

             
"I would classify that as a much needed distraction," James replied.

             
"Well, then the answer is no, I have no intention of overthrowing or disrupting the government."

             
As h
e moved towards the cabin
ets and removed dessert plates, h
e was only a few feet from her. He placed the plates on the counter top then turned to look at her.

             
"Then, all that's left to discover is the really interesting stuff. And, I prefer to find
out
those things myself," he said and moved towards her. He took her hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it.   

             
"There is nothing interesting to report," she said.

             
"Okay, tell me about your photography
then
."

He removed coffee cups from another cupboard. 

             
"I point
the camera
and press a button," she explained.

             
"You are saying that in the hope that I missed that CKQ poster you had over the fireplace of your home. It had three signatures and on the bottom WB Marketing."

             
She gave him a sharp look. The poster he referred to was an original blown up poster of her first printed ad for CKQ Clothing Company, one of the largest top of the line designers in the world. The advertisement
had been a smashing
success. It plucked her company from relative obscurity
and propelled it in
to a media powerhouse in the fashion and design industry. 

             
"I only left you for a second," she said.

             
"Willow Barnes Marketing," James said. 

             
"Okay," she confessed. "I
started
a marketing company straight out of college. I
’
m not a marketer.
I’
m more of an image consultant. I did some marketing courses in college but my degree is in photography and graphic design."

             
"Is that image as in what you want to port
ray or as in print selection?" h
e asked.  "I
’
m not hip with these new age job descriptions."

             
"It is not new age. The job is a little bit of both. Sometime
s
you luck into a photo.
That’
s what happened with that particular photograph."

             
"What do you mean?"

             
"I saw the fellow just outside Arsenal Stadium. He was just bouncing a ball and I started snapping away. The photo you saw was frame thirty three. To capture that precise shot at that precise moment was sheer luck."

             
"He wasn't a professional model?" James asked.

             
"Not at the time."

             
"That is infinitely more interesting than politics," he said. "Cream and sugar?"

             
"Yes, please."

             
They took their coffee and cake went
back
to the outdoor living area. This time they settled in
to
a comfortable rocker. The lights were low and the patio heater provided a warm cozy atmosphere.

             
"So you
’
re a soccer fan
then
," he said.

             
"Heavens, no," she said. "My date was a huge Arsenal fan. If I like any team
it would be Manchester United.
I just thought I would get great pictures for my collection
, that’s all
."

             
"What happened to that date?" James asked.

             
"Let's just say I do
n’
t know what the inside of Arsenal Stadium looks like. The only great thing that came from that day was that photograph and of course what came after."

             
"Wow, now I feel intimidated."

             
"You have nothing to worry about. I'm your neighbor. We have to play nice.
That’
s the reason I said yes to your invite." Even as she said it, she
knew it was not entirely true and she suspected that he knew it, too.

             
"I thought you came for my cooking skills."

             
"When you invited me for dinner I didn
’
t
really
expect you to cook. 
I thought you’d have a cook here to prepare us dinner.
So perhaps it was the charm, the good looks, the hero factor or all the above."

             
"The good looks?"
h
e asked, a note of skepticism creeping in
to
his voice.

             
"Come on, you know you are a handsome fellow. And this," she turned and traced the l
ine of the scar with her finger, “this
just adds allure."

             
He flinched under her touch though he did not move away from it. People avoided his scar. Most women he dated pretended it wasn
’
t there.