“That’s it,” he said softly. Then louder, “Hot damn, that’s it.”
She looked at him, a reminiscent smile still softening her mouth.
“What’s it?”
“The idea. The gift. I’ll give them this.”
He gestured at the flowers around them. She looked around, then back at him, eyebrows raised in question.
“A garden, Leslie. I’ll give them a garden,” he explained, and her puzzlement started to fade. “I mean, they can choose what they want and everything, but there’s a man I know—I helped sell his old business so he could do what he really loved—landscaping. And I know he’d be happy to do it. He can help Paul and Bette figure out what they want, and then he’ll landscape it for them.” His enthusiasm dipped for an instant. “That’s something they’ll like, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I think that’s something they’ll like very much. That’s a great idea, Grady.”
The momentary dip smoothed before a renewed surge of certainty. “And they’ll remember it, like you said. And they’ll look at it for years and years and think about me giving it to them and they’ll smile. Hey, this gift giving can be pretty good stuff, can’t it?”
Her smile changed, and he stared at her mouth.
“It sure can."
Pleased with the scent of roses, pleased with the sunshine, pleased with the idea, pleased with himself and pleased with Leslie, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to take her in his arms and kiss her.
Chapter Two
Grady’s mouth shifted on hers, changing the angle of the kiss from that first, exuberant meeting, taking advantage of her stunned stillness to carry this beyond an impulse.
Move, Leslie. Move away
. Her mind’s order faded to a mumble under the roaring in her ears.
It felt so natural, instead, to match her movements to his. To meet his lips, to echo the exploration. To put her hands up to his neck when he slid his arms around her, to settle into his hold when he drew her nearer.
So natural. And nature was a powerful force. A force to be reckoned with, a force to fear.
Because there was also such a thing as a natural disaster.
She put her hands on broad shoulders and leveraged herself three inches away from temptation. Because Grady Roberts had all the makings of a disaster for her, natural or otherwise.
She’d heard the stories: Grady Roberts, the great ladies’ man; Grady Roberts, the smooth operator.
Partially straightening her arms gained her a modicum of space, but still within the circle of his arms.
Say something, Leslie. Say something
.
“A student with your aptitude should be able to skip several levels and graduate before you know it.”
His gaze still rested on her mouth, and she felt the impact of that look like a shiver under her skin. Then he raised his blue, blue eyes to hers and she had to fight to keep from shivering in earnest.
“I, uh, mean, uh, gift giving. In the Leslie Craig School of Gift Giving.” She laughed a little. It didn’t sound quite right, but the fact that she’d produced the sound at all steadied her enough to add, “If you get this enthusiastic about gift giving, you’ll be a real menace come Christmas, Grady.”
Another laugh, still a little forced, but a laugh nonetheless.
Grady’s eyes were less readable now, more like his usual expression.
And while she was absorbing the realization of how little his usual expression did show of what was going on inside him, Grady released her. He made almost a caress of it, sliding his hands lightly along her back and arms, until she took a step back.
He still said nothing.
Lord, she’d like to bolt. Make up some flimsy excuse and get out of here, away from him, away from all that . . . that nature.
But already she could feel her equilibrium returning. He’d taken her by surprise. That was all.
And cutting the evening short would give the kiss more significance than it truly deserved. Why get so worked up, anyway? It was a kiss, just a kiss. Making a big deal of it could create awkwardness, since they would surely run into each other through their mutual friends. She didn’t want that.
“So you ready for that dinner now? I know I am. Can’t have us starving right here in front of the Smithsonian and in full view of our national monuments. It wouldn’t seem right, now, would it?”
“No, it wouldn’t. Dinner is definitely in order,” he said slowly, and relief that he’d followed her light lead shot through her.
Or something shot through her.
“Well, c’mon, then.”
As they continued on toward his car and then back through the city to a tiny Italian restaurant up Connecticut Avenue, her spiel would have done a tour guide proud. She couldn’t remember a word of it later.
She was no fool. She knew the men who found her attractive were the ones who liked a sense of humor, a sharp wit, a good listener, an undemanding presence in their social lives. And there wasn’t one she didn’t remain on friendly terms with after she let them know that was all it ever would be.
Grady Roberts didn’t fit that mold. She knew from Tris and the others the kind of women he favored. She’d seen it herself with that redhead at Tris and Michael’s wedding. Her mirror told her she was attractive enough: decent figure, clear skin, regular features, shiny hair. Her face wouldn’t send small children crying for their mothers, but neither would it have strong men—especially outright handsome strong men like Grady—quaking in their boots.
Besides, Grady related to women like a shooting star— brief, intense and no residuals once it had burned itself out.
No thank you.
So she ate with him and she talked with him and she laughed with him. But she insisted on paying for her dinner, so there’d be no mistaking this for anything resembling a date.
And when he pulled up in front of her building, she gave his shoulder a quick pat and threw a wave over her shoulder as she went inside, so there’d be no mistaking them for anything other than friends.
* * * *
And he let her.
Twenty hours later he stared out his hotel room window at the embassy across the street flying some blue-and-white flag he didn’t recognize, and he shook his head. What had gotten into him?
First, he rushed the first kiss. Then he’d stumbled through the evening like a sleepwalker, letting her rule the conversation with amusing anecdotes of her family’s history without once approaching anything close to personal. All right, he hadn’t expected a kiss quite that . . . quite that much of a kiss.
But today, while sailing the Chesapeake with a business prospect, he’d gotten a better perspective.
He could—he would—get things back on track. Because he did want to get to know her better.
He dialed her home number.
A machine with Leslie’s voice, the bit of drawl warming up the succinct message about the number he’d reached and the way to leave a message, answered.
“Leslie, it’s Grady. I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight, but since you’re not there I’ll give you a call later, or you can give me a call at my hotel.” He left the number and time, then hung up with a strange reluctance.
Restless, he walked toward Dupont Circle. The soft spring evening had brought people out, couples slipping past him two by two. In every conceivable combination of humanity they sat on front steps, lolled on park benches, perched on the sides of cars, laughed in front of ice-cream shops, shared a bicycle.
Room service and a channel-hopping binge that finally located Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant whiled away the night. Twice more he reached Leslie’s machine.
She wasn’t available at her office when he called late the next morning during a break from his appointments.
With fifteen minutes until his five-thirty flight, he tried one last time from the airport. She was in a meeting, did he want to leave a message? No, no message.
* * * *
“And if we can get the coverage I’m hoping for in The Post—”
Interrupted by her own office telephone, Leslie made an apologetic face at her two visitors and answered.
“Public Relations, Leslie Craig.”
“Hi, Leslie, it’s Grady.”
He’d caught her by surprise. The message on her machine that Sunday night she’d understood. He’d been in town, didn’t know many people, probably wasn’t accustomed to an evening without a date to fill it. And the message at work the next day had been a polite follow-up. But that had been a week ago, and she certainly hadn’t expected to hear from him now.
She’d let the silence drag on too long.
“Grady Roberts,” he prompted, without sounding the least put out.
She smiled. “I know. How are you?”
“I’m fine. And I’m coming right along with that project we talked about.”
“Project? Oh, the present?”
“Yeah. I contacted that landscaper I mentioned and he went by the place yesterday, right after they closed on the house. He said it’s got a lot of potential. Now he’s drawing up a few general ideas for them, rough sketches, so I’ll have something to put a ribbon on when they have their moving-in party in a couple weeks. Then he’ll work with Paul and Bette so it’s just what they want.”
“That sounds terrific. I don’t think you could have come up with a better present.”
“Thanks to you.”
“It was your idea, Grady.”
Tris Donlin Dickinson’s head came up from where she was reading the news release Leslie had been going over with her and an architectural consultant to the historic preservation foundation they both worked for. Leslie met her questioning look with a faint shrug.
“My idea that I wouldn’t have had if you hadn’t insisted I actually give it some thought.”
“True.”
He laughed, and she smiled at the sound.
“Well, I hoped I could thank you—”
“You already did and you just have again.”
“—properly. This weekend. I’m coming in to D.C. and I hope we can get together. Dinner, and I hear there’s a great place to dance in Georgetown by the river, and—”
“I’m sorry, but I have a visitor coming in and I’ll be tied up all weekend.”
A short silence, before his cheerful response. “Ah, well. Guess I’ll have to wait to make my proper thank-you, then.”
“Truly, Grady, there’s no need—”
“Depends on whose need you’re talking about.” His voice had dropped half a tone. “Talk to you later.”
“I don’t—”
“Bye.”
She held the phone through the click and the dial tone. She considered faking a more normal conclusion to the conversation, then decided against it.
Hanging up, she turned to Tris and Dick Welsh. “Now as I was saying, the coverage I’m hoping for . . .”
Tris’s eyebrows had nearly disappeared under the blond hair across her forehead, but she cooperated in the return to business. Temporarily.
Twenty minutes later, the discussion had ended with a few revisions to the release and contingencies for the campaign they hoped would draw attention to a developer’s plan to claw a section out of a Civil War battlefield.
Dick Welsh left. Tris rose, but only to close the door before resuming her seat with an air of settling in.
“So,” she started, “that was Grady on the phone, huh?”
“Um-hmm.”
“Didn’t know you two were exchanging phone calls on a regular basis.”
“We aren’t.”
“You didn’t tell him who your weekend visitor is.”
“Didn’t I?”
“You know you didn’t. Trying to make him jealous?”
“Good Lord, no!”
The vehemence slipped out and Leslie would have tempered it if she’d had the words to speak again, but Tris relaxed.
“It’s not that I don’t love Grady,” Tris said. “I mean, really love him, as a friend. For the person he is, not for the god I’d imagined him to be as a kid.”
Leslie couldn’t help but smile. She’d been around to listen nearly a year ago when Tris had prepared to finally test the college crush she’d harbored for Grady for a dozen years, and she’d been there this fall after Tris realized her feelings for Grady had become friendship, while her feelings for her longtime “buddy” Michael Dickinson had deepened to love. There’d been some rough spots for Tris and Michael in adjusting to their new relationship, but that was past—as Tris’s face clearly showed at the moment.
“I know, Tris. I know exactly what you mean.”
“And I really just started to appreciate what a great guy Grady is in the past few months. Maybe I’m seeing him better now or maybe he’s more relaxed with me because I’m not starry-eyed around him. Whatever it is, I see the good things in him, the real good things in him, not just his looks and his charm, but his loyalty and his kind heart and his caring for—”
"You sound like the man’s press agent,” Leslie murmured.
Tris frowned without pausing. “—his friends. With his friends he’s terrific. But when it comes to the women he dates . . . I’ve seen him, Leslie, time and time again. I know he doesn’t mean to hurt anyone, and most times he doesn’t because he picks women who won’t be hurt because they want the same thing, but sometimes he doesn’t realize, and he’s so charming . . . It’s like he just can’t help himself and—”
“Tris, let me set your mind at ease.”
Leslie stopped the spate of words partly out of self-preservation; her head was spinning. Now she leaned forward and put a hand on her friend’s arm, speaking with the assurance of a thirty-seven-year-old who knew she was well past foibles of the heart.
“I would not succumb to Grady Roberts’s famed charms, even if he were intent on trying them on me, which he most certainly is not. Is not, you hear? It’s very simple. Business kept Grady in town the weekend before you and Michael came back. He wanted to get a present for Paul and Bette’s housewarming. He asked me to help. I did. He called to thank me.” She straightened and smiled. “As simple as that.”
Tris still wore a faint frown.
“Grady called to simply say thank-you?” She sounded skeptical.
"Yes."
“Are you sure—”
“I’m sure.”
Perhaps she spoke a little sharply because Tris cut a look at her that reminded Leslie that Tris, while younger and perhaps a bit less battered by life’s disappointments, was not stupid.