Authors: Barbara Delinsky
“You’re looking … well.”
“So are you.”
A hearty laugh burst through the firmness of his lips. “That’s a joke. I’ve never felt more grungy in my life. I had every intention of getting home to shower and shave before showing up here.” The twinkle that warmed his gray-eyes gaze spurred her on; it was Drew Charles’s own form of hypnosis at its most powerful tonight.
“I’m glad you came directly.”
He smiled more gently as he continued to mesmerize her. “So am I. But I’m afraid it means that dinner will have to wait a little longer.”
Dinner, she had not expected. This was to have been a business meeting, a preview of what she could expect the following day. Now, as her brows knit in bemusement, Drew’s own lowered in suspicion. “You mean to say that John did not mention that?” She shook her head no and that sent him quickly on. “You haven’t eaten, have you?” Again she shook her head. “Good. Let’s go.”
As she wondered whether she was actually getting used to this man’s spontaneity, she crossed the room to pick up her handbag and the room key, then passed through the door before Drew. In the instant came the realization that this was one of the very things that drew her to him. He was, in a most pleasant way, totally unpredictable. And, having grown up with a breed of politician who possessed a one-track mind, it was a refreshing change.
“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” he murmured, ushering her into the elevator, pressing the lobby button, then turning to face her.
Smiling, she shrugged. “You seem to be handling the conversation just fine on your own.” Her teasing note was well accepted.
Once again, though, he took her off-guard. “You don’t mind a walk, do you?”
“Hmm?” she mumbled, confused.
“If you don’t mind, we can walk to my place. It’s not far—a ten-, fifteen-minute walk at most. I do want to clean up some.”
“No, the walk is fine. It’s a lovely night.” Indeed it was, yet that fact did not help pacify the rumbling in her stomach at the thought of going to Drew’s place. Was it a line, one of the oldies but goodies? Would he make his move there?
Since that night in her house, the memory of his control, over both her and himself, had nagged at her. Even now she wasn’t quite sure what she wanted. His company was so very pleasing to her, as was the character that had slowly unfolded for her, that she was hesitant to spoil the foundation of their relationship with something she couldn’t quite handle yet. But could she ever handle it? Did she want to?
“Oh, Lord, here we go again!” he exclaimed, raising his eyes to the ceiling as Daran’s flashed toward him in puzzlement. “The war,” he explained in a conspiratorial whisper as the door of the elevator opened and he escorted her quickly, with the diligence of a man who does not want to be stopped by either someone he knows or someone he does not, into the lobby, then out to the street. It was only when they had put a block between themselves and the more populated hotel area that he stopped and turned her to face him, strong arms on her shoulders brooking no resistance.
“Listen, Daran,” he began, serious yet gentle. “I told you once before that I have no intention of hurting you. That is a promise.”
The amber eyes that looked up at him held a note of the cynicism he had sampled on other occasions. “Politicians are expert at making promises. Somehow, when it comes to keeping them, there is always a more important issue.”
“Not here. Not now.” The vehemence in his tone gave emphasis to words she did not dare refute. For several seconds he studied her pained expression, then turned, took her hand in the most innocent of gestures, and pulled her beside him to walk onward. “You know, I have this strange feeling that you will be the greatest test I may ever have to face. I keep telling myself that it is your mind I want … yet my hands keep itching to…” The sidelong glance he threw down at her said the rest. “Ach, forget it!” he murmured beneath his breath. At that very moment Daran knew that she would never be able to follow that particular order.
Drew’s apartment, it turned out, was more like a twenty-minute walk. Daran didn’t mind a bit. Not only did the added minutes further delay the intimacy that their destination, regardless of Drew’s pledge, had to suggest, but it gave her an opportunity to see one part of the city, at least, first-hand and close up. The senator proved to be a skilled tour guide, pointing out the specific embassies they passed, identifying other buildings that lined the blocks they walked, even explaining the overall scheme of the layout of the city.
When an elegant brown-marbled apartment building loomed before them and he drew her past its starched security guard, Daran knew that they had reached his home. Six floors later, a broad expanse of living area opened itself to her close inspection as Drew excused himself to shower and change. The condominium—he had indicated his ownership on the way up—was exquisitely decorated, simple yet finely appointed, much of the decorative effect achieved by a collection of souvenirs—sculpture, artwork, even furniture—from foreign lands. Later Drew was to explain where he had bought each, elaborating with great color on the nature and experience of each trip. Daran had traveled her share, yet in no way could her own experiences rival his for sheer intensity of purpose, if nothing else. The pleasure he felt on the road, at seeing new places, confronting different civilizations, was obvious. Daran could do nothing but admire it.
“Ah, you’ve made yourself at home, I see.” Several long strides brought Daran from the hallway to the sofa on which she sat, deeply engrossed in a photo album whose gold-embossed title,
CHINA
, had simply been too much of a temptation. “That was from my trip three years ago. There have been regular Congressional delegations to Peking since diplomatic relations were resumed. I was fortunate to be included with one of those earlier groups.”
“Who took these photographs?” Even to her untrained eye, they were technically perfect, totally aside from the subject matter. Had there been an official photographer along on the trip, making this album but one more of the perquisites of Drew’s position?
“I did.” As though to skim over that bit of enlightenment, he suddenly leaned forward from his perch on the arm of the sofa, his own arms straddling her body as he pointed out one thing or another, small points but significant and very interesting—had she only been able to concentrate. His pose ruled out that possibility. Too aware was she of the hair-roughened texture of the forearms that sided hers, the warmth that spread from his chest to her back, his clean and fresh scent, and his breath against her hair. This first challenge of the evening was in keeping her eyes on the prints rather on the strong hands that hovered beside and over them. The second was in fighting the urge to lean just that slight bit back against his strength. When he finally paused in his discourse, she made the mistake of looking up at his face. His sandy hair was darker than usual beneath the lingering dampness of his shower; he was fresh shaven and breathtaking.
“Am I boring you?” he asked slyly, returning the eyeful with one of his own, the hint of mischief darting about the edges of his mouth.
A soft flush crept up her cheeks as she realized she had been staring. “Of course not. It’s fascinating.” Tearing her eyes from the true crux of her fascination, she turned the next page. Mercifully Drew did not force the issue, though neither did he move farther from her. Well aware of her state as well as of his own, he continued his narrative.
The next half hour was spent in much this way. Having never been to China, nor seen an inside view such as this album offered, Daran was entranced. Drew, too, relived the trip with her; his enthusiasm was contagious. When the leather binding closed at last, he straightened. The note of hesitancy in his voice when he finally spoke brought her head around quickly.
“Look, Daran, I wonder…” A side glance at his watch gave him a moment’s respite. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way. I assure you, my intentions are honorable.” Both his hands lifted, open-palmed, indicative that he hid nothing. “Would you mind terribly if we had some supper here? I mean, there are any number of fine restaurants we could go to—and I feel guilty not showing you the town on your first night here—but, well, the days are so hectic that I do prefer a nice, quiet evening. How about it?” His eyes melted into her as he cocked his head in a boyish way. “I’m not bad in the kitchen. With your help, we could manage to put something together.”
“That sounds great!” she heard herself say, accompanied, no less, by a smile which matched his in its even whiteness. Not for a minute did she stop to recall her hesitancy in coming to this, his home, in the first place. Rather, she had just spent a most pleasant few minutes here and wished for nothing more than that it continue. Though the clock neared ten, she was not tired.
“Are you sure you don’t mind not going out?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” The soft smile persisted as he looked at her; she was under his spell once more. Despite his good intentions, he was as helplessly drawn to the lips that stood, barely parted, in silent invitation. His kiss was soft and gentle, sweet and soulful. Daran could have totally succumbed to its power had not Drew himself pulled back. An oath fell against the dark waves at the crown of her head, where his lips took refuge.
“Damn it, Daran. Why do you do that? How do you expect me to stay away from you when you look at me like that?” His arms had encircled her back, drawing her head against his chest. The loud thunder against her ear was his heartbeat, as erratic as hers at that moment. Shame filled her as she knew he was right. It had, after all, been
her
desire that he not make love to her. To be a tease was unfair.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was doing anything…” It was, indeed, the truth, though whether he would believe her was doubtful. Yet there was no way that she could confess the hold he had over her. The only comfort the situation afforded was in the knowledge that she did herself wield a certain power, to which his ragged breathing now attested.
For a long moment of would-be punishment, his arms tightened around her, squeezing mercilessly. Then, with a groan, he released her. “Well, don’t let it happen again.” Another order she would be unable to obey, she mused with resignation. Then, abruptly, her hand was clasped and she was drawn from her seat. “Let’s get a move on. I’m hungry.” There was no double meaning intended in his declaration. That the man was famished became evident twenty minutes later, when the two sat down to an informal dinner of steak, salad, and Chablis.
“I enjoyed meeting your father,” she began, relaxing back to watch her companion refill their glasses with wine. “Have you seen him since?”
“No. I haven’t been home since. But that will be rectified soon.”
“Oh?” Was he trying to tell her something?
“The summer season is an active one in the state. There are country fairs, crafts shows, outdoor everything from one town to the next. Stan has filled two weekends a month for me.” The speculative gaze he showered on her gave her but a moment’s warning of the impending invitation. “Perhaps you’d like to see some of it with me?”
There was no denying her excitement at the prospect. “I’ve never spent the summer in Connecticut. I’d love to see those things you’ve mentioned.”
“You may have second thoughts once you discover the pace with which we have to race from one to another.” A tawny eyebrow arched in fair warning.
“I can keep up. I’ve had plenty of practice.” The words had slipped out without her realizing their implication. The mistake was made; she steeled herself for the inevitable follow-up.
“And where did you get that practice?” The sharpness of the gray-eyed gaze belied the gentleness of his tone.
“Oh, at home, when I was growing up.” Her attempt at minimizing the slip was thwarted instantly.
“Was your family involved with politics?”
“Only indirectly. But surely you know that. Didn’t you check up on me before you drafted me?”
To her deep surprise, he shook his head. “There was no FBI rundown on you, Daran.” His sarcasm hung in the air, then faded, fallen victim to his curiosity. “I’ve never come across a Patterson from the Midwest. But then—” he corrected himself quickly “—you told me that your father had died. Was it your stepfather who was involved?”
The last thing Daran wanted was for him to learn more about her than he knew at that moment. It took every bit of wiliness for her to detour the discussion with some minor semblance of nonchalance. “Yes, it was. In many ways he reminds me of your father. He must be lonesome, living alone by the lake out there, even though it is so very beautiful. Does he get out much?”
The even stare that pierced her with its sharp gray shaft left no doubt that he saw through her ploy. Why he let it pass, she was not sure. On that score, she would ask no questions.
“He has many friends. And, yes, he does see them from time to time. But he chooses to live alone and he seems relatively … satisfied.”
It seemed a strange word—satisfied—to describe the situation. Happy, perhaps. Peaceful, perhaps. Content, perhaps. But satisfied? “When did your mother die?”
A frown brought Drew’s brows together as he looked down at the empty plate before him. “She’s been gone a long time now—fourteen, fifteen years, at least.”
“Were you close?”
“Yes … and no.” Daran held her breath, waiting for him to elaborate. After what seemed an interminable silence, he did. “She and I were very much alike. It was just the two of us as I grew up. My father was simply never there.” The hardening of his voice spoke of his lasting resentment. “But, with a man as forceful as my father, it was inevitable, despite all of my mother’s protests, that I should become involved. She died before it actually came to be, but the anticipation, the grooming for a political career, the endless times I had to tag along after my father—that got to her. I was torn—that got to her too.”
“How did she die?” Thoroughly involved in the psychological drama being sketchily recreated for her, Daran’s question was a spontaneous one. The answer came so quietly, with its blend of guilt and sorrow, that she had to strain to hear it.