Key Of Knowledge (14 page)

There were flowers and candles, not only on the table but on the antique server, on the long, carved buffet. The room smelled of both of them, and music—something soft with weeping violins—drifted through the air.

A low fire burned in a black marble hearth, more candles, more flowers on the mantelpiece above it. A wide scalloped mirror reflected off it, creating a strong sense of intimacy.

“Some table,” she said at length.

“I wanted to be alone with you. Don't spoil it,” he said, and covered her hand with his before she could move it out of reach. “It's just dinner, Stretch.”

“Nothing's
just
in a place like this.”

He turned her hand over, ran his finger down the center of her palm while he watched her face. “Then let me try my hand at romancing you. Just for one evening. I could
start by telling you that just looking at you right now almost stops my heart.”

Hers did a quick bounce, and then went
thud
. “You're pretty good at it, for a beginner.”

“Sit tight. I'll get better.”

She didn't tug her hand away. It seemed wrong, a small, mean gesture when he'd gone to such trouble to give her something special. “It's not going to mean anything, Jordan. We're in different places than we were.”

“Seems to me we're both right here. Why don't we relax and enjoy it?” He nodded to the waiter stationed discreetly just outside the room. “You said you were hungry.”

She took the offered menu. “You've got that one right.”

IT would, Dana discovered, take considerable effort and a great deal of determination not to relax and enjoy. And it would be mean-spirited. He might have cornered her into the date, but he'd gone out of his way to make it a memorable, even magical one.

Then there was the fact that, by his own terms, he was romancing her. That was something new. As long as they'd been together, as much as they'd meant to each other, old-fashioned romance had never been particularly a part of their relationship.

Oh, he'd certainly been capable of sweetness, if he was in the mood. And surprise. But no one, not even the most sympathetic, would ever have called the Jordan Hawke she remembered smooth or traditionally romantic.

Then again, she'd liked his edges. They'd attracted her and they'd aroused her.

Still, she wasn't about to complain about being courted for one evening by a charming, entertaining man who seemed intent on providing her with a dream date.

“Tell me what you want for the bookstore.”

She took another bite of truly incredible sea bass. “How much time do you have?”

“All you need.”

“Well, first I want it to be accessible. The kind of place people feel free to stroll into, just browse around, maybe settle in for a while and read. But at the same time, I don't want them to treat it like their private library. What I want to establish is the neighborhood bookstore, where customer service is the priority, where people like to gather.”

“I wonder why no one ever tried that in the heart of the Valley before.”

“I'm trying not to think about that,” she admitted. “If no one did, there might be a good reason.”

“They weren't you,” he said simply. “What else are you after? Are you shooting for general stock, or are you going to specialize?”

“General. I want a lot of variety, but I worked in the library long enough to know what people in this area lean toward. So certain sections—romance, mystery, local interest—will outweigh some of the more esoteric titles. I want to coordinate with the local schools, know what teachers are assigning, and see if I can get at least one book club formed within the first six months.”

She picked up her wine. “And that's just for starters. Mal and Zoe and I will be working together, and ideally we'll overlap our customer base. You know, somebody comes in for a book and thinks, Wow, look at that terrific blown-glass vase. It's just perfect for my sister's birthday. Or someone's going up to Zoe's for a haircut and picks up a paperback to read while she's getting done.”

“Or they come in to look at paintings and decide they could really use a manicure.”

She toasted him, sipped. “That's the plan.”

“It's a good one. The three of you look good together. You fit together, complement each other. You've all got different styles, but they mesh nicely.”

“Funny, I was thinking almost exactly that just the other day. It's like if anyone had suggested I'd be going into business—putting basically every penny I have on the line—with two women I've known only about a month, I'd have laughed my butt off. But here I am. And it's right. That's one thing I'm absolutely sure of.”

“As far as the bookstore goes, I'd bet on you any day of the week.”

“Save your money. I may have to borrow some before it's done. But following along, tell me what you would look for in a good neighborhood bookstore. From a writer's perspective.”

Like Dana, he sat back, a signal to the waiter to clear. “You called me a writer without any derogatory adjectives.”

“Don't get cocky. I'm just maintaining the mood of the evening.”

“Then let's order dessert and coffee, and I'll tell you.”

BY the time they were done, she was wishing she'd brought a notebook. He was good, she had to give him that. He touched on aspects she hadn't thought of, expanded on others that she had.

When they spoke of books themselves, she realized how much she'd missed that perk. Having someone who shared her absolute devotion to stories. To devouring and dissecting them, to savoring and wallowing in them.

“It's a nice night,” he said as he helped her to her feet. “Why don't we walk around the grounds before we drive back?”

“Is that your way of saying that I ate so much I need to walk it off?”

“No. It's my way of stretching out the time I have alone with you.”

“You really have gotten better at this,” she replied as he led her from the room.

Her coat reappeared nearly as quickly as it had been whisked away. And, she noted, Jordan didn't miss a beat when the maître d' presented one of his books and asked to have it signed.

He did that well, too, she thought. He kept it light, friendly, added some casual chatter and his thanks for the evening.

“How does it feel?” she asked when they'd stepped outside. “When someone asks you to sign a book?”

“A hell of a lot better than it does if they don't give a damn.”

“No, seriously. Don't brush the question off. What's it like?”

“Satisfying.” Absently, he smoothed down the collar of her coat. “Flattering. Surprising. Unless they've got a crazed look in their eye and an unpublished manuscript under their arm.”

“Does that happen?”

“Often enough. But mostly it just feels good. Hey, here's somebody who's read my stuff, or is about to. And they think it'd be cool if I signed it.” He shrugged. “What's not good about that?”

“That's not very temperamental of you.”

“I'm not a temperamental guy.”

She snorted. “You always used to be.”

“You used to be argumentative and pigheaded.” He smiled broadly when she scowled at him. “See how we've changed?”

“I'm just going to let that go, because I've had a really good time.” She breathed deep as they wandered a bricked path, and looked up at the thick slice of waxing moon. “Into week two,” she murmured.

“You're doing fine, Stretch.”

She shook her head. “I don't feel like I'm getting to the meat of it. Not yet. The days are going by really fast. I'm not panicked or anything,” she added quickly, “but I've got
serious concerns. So much is depending on me. People I care about. I'm afraid I'll let them down. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes. You're not alone in this. The brunt may be on you, but you're not carrying all the weight.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, drew her toward him a little, until her body rested against his. “I want to help you, Dana.”

She fit well with him. She always had. And her realization of that made little warning bells sound in some dim part of her brain. “We already know you're connected, somehow or other.”

“I want more.” He bent his head to brush his lips over her shoulder. “And I want you.”

“I've got enough to worry about right now.”

“Whether it worries you or not isn't going to change a thing.” He turned her to face him. “I'm still going to want you. You're still going to know it.” His lips curved as he ran his hands up and down her arms. “I've always liked that look.”

“What look?”

“That mildly irritated look you get when somebody gives you a problem to work out. The one that puts this little crease right here.” He touched his lips to her forehead, just between her eyebrows.

“I thought we were taking a walk.”

“We did. Now I'd say this evening calls for one more thing.”

He loved the way her lips curled just as much as he loved the flicker of surprise over her face when instead of kissing her, he slid her into a slow, swaying dance.

“Pretty clever,” she murmured, but she was moved.

“I always liked dancing with you. The way everything lines up. The way I can smell your hair, your skin. The way, if I get close enough, look close enough, I can see myself in your eyes. Your eyes always did me in. I never told you that, did I?”

“No.” She felt herself tremble, and the warning bells were lost under the thunder of her own heart.

“They did. Still do. Sometimes, when we managed to spend the night together, I'd wake up early to watch you sleep. Just so I could see you open your eyes.”

“It's not fair.” Her voice shook. “It's not fair to tell me something like that now.”

“I know. I should've told you then. But now's all I've got.”

He touched his lips to hers, rubbed softly. Nipped gently. He felt her body slide toward surrender, and fought the urge to plunder.

He went slowly, for both of them, savoring what they'd once devoured, lingering where once they'd rushed. In the starlight, with her arms lifting to come around him, he wouldn't allow himself to demand. Instead, he seduced.

He was still circling her in a dance. Or was it just that her head was spinning? His lips were warm, and patient, all the more arousing with the hints of heat and urgency she sensed strapped down inside him.

She sighed, drew him closer. And let him take her deeper.

Soft, slow, moist. The chill of the air against her heated skin, the scent of the night, the whisper of her name through lips moving, moving over her own.

If all the years between had formed a gulf between them, this one kiss in a deserted autumn garden began to forge the bridge.

It was he who drew back, then shook her to the core by grasping both of her hands, bringing them to his lips. “Give me a chance, Dana.”

“You don't know what you're asking. No, you don't,” she said before he could speak. “And I don't know the answer yet. If you want one that matters, you're going to have to give me time to figure it out.”

“Okay.” He kept her hands in his, but stepped back. “I'll
wait. But I meant what I said before, about helping you. It hasn't anything to do with this.”

“I have to think about that, too.”

“All right.”

But there was one thing she knew, Dana realized as they walked back for his car. She wasn't still in love with him. They were, as he'd said, different people now. And what she felt for him now made the love she'd had for the boy seem as pale and thin as morning mist.

JORDAN let himself into the house, switched off the porch light. It had been a very long time, he reflected, since anyone had left a light on for him.

His choice, of course. That was what everything came down to. He'd chosen to leave the Valley, to leave Dana, and his friends and all that was familiar.

It had been the right choice; he would stand by that. But he could see now that his method of making it had been the flaw. The flaw that had left a crack in what had been. Just how did a man go about building something new on a faulty foundation?

He started toward the steps, then stopped as Flynn came down them.

“Waiting up for me, Dad? Did I miss curfew?”

“I see your night on the town put you in a cheery mood. Why don't we step back into my office?”

Without waiting for assent, Flynn strolled back to the kitchen. He took a look around. Okay, it was a hideous room, even he could see that. The ancient copper-tone appliances, the ugly cabinets and linoleum that possibly had looked fresh and jazzy in his grandfather's generation.

But he still couldn't visualize how it could, or would, look when Malory got done with it. No more than he could understand why the prospect of ripping it apart and putting it back together made her so happy.

“The guys are coming in Monday to bomb this place.”

“Not a moment too soon,” Jordan commented.

“I was going to get around to it, sooner or later. It wasn't like I was using it. But since Malory, stuff actually gets cooked in here.” He bumped the stove with his foot. “She has a deep and violent hatred for this appliance. It's kind of scary.”

“You brought me back here to talk about Malory's obsession with kitchen appliances?”

“No. I wanted cookies. Malory has this rule against eating them in bed. This is something else I can't figure,” he continued as he got a bag of Chips Ahoy out of the cupboard. “But I'm an easygoing guy. You want milk?”

“No.”

His friend was wearing gray sweats and a T-shirt that might have been new during his sophomore year of college. His feet were bare, his expression easy.

Looks, Jordan knew, could be very deceiving.

“And you're not easygoing, Hennessy. You pretend to be easygoing so you can get your own way.”