Getting Some Of Her Own (2 page)

At ten minutes before the appointed time, she stopped pacing the floor, remembered to dab perfume behind her ears, to lower the living room lights, put some soft music on the CD player and take ice cubes out of the refrigerator. What else had she forgotten? Too late for that. The door bell rang, and as if she'd been soldered to the floor, she couldn't move her feet. The bell rang again, this time with greater urgency, or at least so it seemed to her, and chills plowed through her body. Could she go through with it? What if he didn't fall for it?

The bell rang again, and to her it sounded like a warning. Maybe he would leave. She shook herself out of her trance, rushed to the door and opened it.

“Hi.”

His eyebrows shot up, and she knew that the apparent primness of her dress had registered with him. “Hi. I thought for a while there that you had changed your mind and hadn't bothered to tell me.”

She forced a smile. Forced it because the man's commanding presence unnerved her; not because she lacked confidence, but because she disdained trickery, was about to engage in it, and his bearing said he wouldn't tolerate it.

“I was raised better than that,” she told him. “Come on in.”

When he handed her a large bouquet of yellow roses and a bottle of Moët and Chandon champagne, it was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Thank you, Lucas,” she said, trying out his first name. “Yellow roses are my favorite flower, and I love champagne. We'll have it for dessert.”

“I'm afraid it isn't chilled.”

She smiled to put him at ease, but if truth be told, he seemed at home. It was she who needed bolstering. “By the time we get around to dessert, it will be good and cold,” she assured him. “Have a seat.” She led him to the living room, then went into the kitchen to refrigerate the champagne. When she returned, he stood where she'd left him.

His words were the only evidence that he'd watched her walk away from him, but those words were revealing indeed. “I hope you don't mind my telling you that your dress had me fooled. I thought you'd shrouded yourself for protection.”

Protection, eh? She sat on the sofa and motioned for him to sit in the chair opposite her. And in spite of her effort to appear dignified, laughter took possession of her until she bordered on hysterics. After trying unsuccessfully to pry from her the reason for her amusement, Lucas went into the kitchen, got a glass of water and brought it to her.

“Drink this.” She took a few swallows, and he repeated the question. “Now, what was so funny?”

That was the opening line she needed. “I guess it was the idea that I needed to protect myself from you. To tell you the truth, the suggestion seemed ludicrous.”

His face darkened into a frown. “So I'm harmless? I'd like to know your other thoughts about me.”

She ignored the remark. “I seem to have forgotten my manners. What would you like to drink?”

She knew she hadn't fooled him when a half smile eased across his face. “Usually bourbon and water, but—”

“Bourbon and water it will be.”

They had already begun to fence with each other, and she didn't think that was the route to her goal. She'd have to change the mood. Susan put a dish of hot canapés on a tray along with the drinks—bourbon for Lucas and white wine for her—and went back to him.

“I hope you like these. In fact, I'm hoping you will like everything I cooked for you and that you're hungry.”

He smiled again, and she was beginning to get the feeling that she would never get used to it, that his smile would always unsettle her. Maybe it wasn't his smile, but her guilt that caused her discomfort. She almost wished she hadn't started the charade.

“As long as you don't give me chitterlings and chicken livers, we'll get along,” he said. “A good home-cooked meal isn't something I get every day.” He tasted the miniature quiche. “If this is a sample of your culinary talent, I can hardly wait for the meal.”

He leaned back in the chair, sipped the bourbon (she had bought the best, and she sensed he was aware of that and appreciated it), and focused his gaze on her until it seemed to burn her skin. “Why did you invite me to dinner?”

The question came as a surprise, for she hadn't anticipated it and had no ready answer. She did her best to give him a reasonable explanation. “In the two weeks that I've been back in Woodmore, I've met six people, four women, my married lawyer and you. I was—I didn't feel like spending this kind of evening with any of the other five, and I suspected you'd be a good conversationalist and that you would enjoy a well presented, gourmet meal.” She ignored his slightly dropped jaw. “Am I right?”

“You certainly are candid. Where did you live before you came here, and what did you do?”

“I lived in New York City, where I was principal interior decorator for Yates and Crown.”

He sat forward. “So that's why your name is so familiar! I know that firm of architects well. Are you married?”

“No. If I was, I wouldn't cheat on my husband.”

After staring at her for a minute, a grin floated over his face. “You would call what we're doing here this evening
cheating
?”

She wanted to kick herself for that slip. “Well, you know what I mean.”

“I assume your relatives live in the Big Apple, too.” He savored another sip of bourbon.

“No. My father died some years ago, and not long after my brother married a Swedish woman. He lives in Stockholm with her and their two children. My mother joined the Peace Corps about five years ago and, ever since, she's been saving Africa.”

Concern etched the contours of his face, mirroring his compassion for her. “That's too bad. Do you ever see her?”

“I've visited her twice, once in Nigeria and once in The Gambia. Right now, she's in Sierra Leone.”

“I see. Maybe she needs to help others. By the way, why would the chief interior decorator for Yates and Crown architects leave New York and settle in a small town like this one?”

“Because I don't have a life there. Usually, my workdays begin at eight-thirty in the morning and end at midnight. Most Yates clients are wealthy, and when they hire you, they think they own you. If Miss Importance gets an idea at midnight, she thinks she has the right to call me and discuss it right then. I've proved that I can handle the job. Now, I want to smell the flowers sometimes. My aunt's will is what made me consider moving back here.”

“You'll find plenty to do here, because there isn't a top decorator in this area. What does your mother think of your plans?”

“Oh, she lives in a different world. For her, living quarters are a matter of providing tin rather than mud structures for poor women, so that their houses won't be washed away in the rainy season. By the way, where's your family?”

He appeared to withdraw, and she wished she hadn't asked him. “You're not married, are you?” He'd have to be deaf, stupid or both to have missed the anxiety in her voice. She might be conniving, but she would not knowingly sleep with a married man, not even if that were the only means of realizing her body's potential.

If he noticed her concern, he didn't make it obvious. “If I was, I wouldn't be here. I also don't cheat.” He grinned at that, but a somberness quickly settled over him like fog over a mountain lake. “My mother lives on the outskirts of Woodmore, and I see her from time to time, although I make certain that she doesn't want for anything.”

She put her glass on the end table beside the sofa and sat forward. “Don't you like your mother?”

“I like her. The problem is that I resent her for not letting me get to know my father.”

“But you're an adult. Couldn't you have contacted him?”

He leaned back in the big overstuffed leather chair and draped his right knee over his left one, comfortable with himself and his surroundings. “Of course I could have, but he's the father, not I, and if he makes no effort to have me as a part of his life, fine with me. I'm not going to beg him, and I don't lose any sleep over it, either.”

Without thinking, she reached across the coffee table and patted his hand. “I'm so sorry. My father was everything to me.” The raw need that she saw in his eyes startled her, and she jumped up. “I'd better serve dinner. It takes a long time to go through seven courses.”

Lucas savored the first course,
quenelles
of scallops with Dugléré sauce, without saying a word. After swallowing the last morsel, he put his fork on his plate and looked straight at her. “If the rest of the meal is up to this standard, it may take the sheriff to get me out of here.”

Susan thanked God for her brown skin; if she had been lighter, the hot blood in her face would have betrayed her. “I'm glad you enjoyed it,” she said in barely a whisper.

“That is an understatement.” His deep, velvet baritone gave his words a seductiveness that she assumed he didn't intend to convey.

She was no expert at the seduction of a man, and she hoped the food and wine would do their job. After the courses of sherry-garnished cream of wild mushroom soup; peach sorbet; filet mignon, lemon-roast waxy potatoes and asparagus that followed, he rested one elbow on the table, fingered his chin and gazed at her. “If you tell me you feed every stranger you entertain this way, I won't believe you.”

If he could play hardball, so could she. “Did I tell you that? When I do something, no matter what it is, I do it properly. And you can write that down.” She didn't look at him, but busied herself clearing the table. When she returned with their next course, she noticed a difference in his demeanor.

“That was impolite,” he told her, “and I regret saying it. You didn't have to go to so much trouble, but you did, and I'm enjoying the fruits of it.” Charm radiated from him, and she told herself to beware. She meant to be the seducer, not the seduced, whose reward for the evening was a kiss on the cheek and an invitation to dine with him in a first-class restaurant. She served an assortment of French and English cheeses, French bread and a smooth red wine. When she stood to clear the table, he said, “I can do this,” and gathered the dishes and headed for the kitchen.

This is working too well. I hope I'm not headed for a let down.
When she took the brandy Alexander pie out of the refrigerator and put it on a plate, he whistled sharply. “I guess this is where I open the champagne,” he said as he opened the refrigerator door, got the cup towel that hung on the oven door, wrapped it around the champagne bottle and eased the stopper out without making a sound.

“I see you've opened a lot of those,” she said. “The champagne flutes are up there.” She pointed to a cabinet door, and when he reached for the glasses, his hand managed to brush her shoulder. “Let's have this in the living room,” she said, calculating that she would have to sit beside him on the sofa. She put the pie on the coffee table, and as soon as he was seated, she said, “How foolish of me. I have to get plates and some forks,” rose and walked back to the kitchen, giving him an eye-f of her back action. Music. That would help get his mind on sex. She sat down beside him, picked up the remote control and within seconds, the haunting music of “Paradise” filled the room. She cut the pie, served it and waited while he poured the champagne.

“Thanks for the most intriguing evening and the most delicious meal I've ever eaten,” he said, raising his glass. “The first course alone would have kept me happy for days.”

“But you haven't tasted the dessert.”

“Any dessert I get will be an anticlimax.”

Her nerves seemed to rearrange themselves throughout her body. She didn't know what he meant, and she feared the answer if she asked him. He tasted the pie. “This pie is out of sight, and I'm convinced now that you meant to seduce me to putty.”

“Wh-why would I do that?”

“Beats me.” He took a long sip of champagne. “Probably for the same reason you're wearing this go-there-come-here dress. I don't know whether to make a pass at you or recite the Twenty-third Psalm.”

When she replied, “I'm sure you can figure it out,” he put his glass on the table, stood and extended his hand. “Dance with me. I've always loved this song,” he said of Percy Faith's recording of “Diane.”

Susan didn't need to be coaxed, but she had begun to like the man, and she wondered if she would someday regret what she was increasingly certain would happen between them. She wanted it, didn't she? Hadn't she planned it meticulously? She considered backing out, but his arm eased around her, strong and masculine, and pulled her to within inches of his body. And they danced. Danced until that song and then another one ended. Danced as if they had always danced. She didn't know when she rested her head on his shoulder and his other arm went around her, snug and comfortable as if it had a right to her body.