No More Lonely Nights (6 page)

Dominique dragged her eyes away from him and bent to pick up her handbag. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” she murmured.

When Dominique returned with the tray, Stephen was back at his desk going over the report. She placed a roast beef sandwich and a small pot of tea in front of him and, before he could thank her, took her own plate to her desk in the hall. They’d never before eaten together and the etiquette of the moment felt awkward to Dominique. She ate hurriedly, then went to the washroom to pin up her hair and brush her teeth. By the time she returned to Hampton’s office, he was finished eating.

When he saw Dominique, he stood up. “I’d like you to compile some data from the files in this drawer,” he said, pointing to the right side of his desk. “You sit here so you won’t have to keep going back and forth. I’ll work at your desk.”

Dominique’s face lit eagerly. It was the first time he had allowed her access to those files and she was pleased at the new sign of trust.

He smiled at her expression. “You’ve done excellent work,” he said. He stepped aside and made room for her. Gingerly, she sat in his chair. She could feel his body heat in the soft leather that enfolded her. It was a troubling sensation.

The next night, they worked to unify the data they had independently gathered. Stephen, at his desk, began a first draft of the report. Dominique sat at the small table in his office and edited. He accepted all her revisions and commented on their excellence. “Your English tutor certainly did his job well.” he remarked appreciatively.

“And you doubted me!” she reminded him of their first interview. “You see? My accent doesn’t mean I have poor grammar.”

Hampton gave her a crooked grin. “I never said I didn’t like it. No red-blooded male can resist a French accent!”

Dominique laughed gaily. His comment made her feel feminine and pretty, aware of the power of her charm. For a moment, she forgot he was the group captain. His gaze was that of an appreciative male and she responded to it. Then she caught herself. She lowered her lids to hide the coquettish light in her eyes. “I’d better get back to this report,” she said amidst their fading laughter.

A few minutes later, Dominique looked up from her work to find Hampton staring at her. She blushed and saw it reflected in the pink that flooded Hampton’s cheeks as he quickly looked away. Could he be attracted to her, Dominique wondered? A shaky excitement made her pulse hammer. She stole another glance at him, but he was bent over his desk in an attitude of concentration. She had better concentrate, too, she chided herself. She picked up her pencil and went back to the report.

As on the previous evening, Hampton sent Dominique to bring back dinner. This time, they gobbled their food as he paced up and down in his office and dictated a section of the report. The next two evenings followed the same pattern. Dominique brought up sandwiches from the mess and they ate as they worked. Until Friday evening, when the contents of Stephen’s sandwich dropped onto the Oriental rug.

His brows came together in an expression of annoyance, but Dominique couldn’t suppress her laughter at the sight of Hampton holding two pieces of bread, while the roast beef, cheese, and tomatoes lay in a tight little pile on the floor.

Hampton looked at Dominique and his frown turned into a grin. She could see the tension ease from his face. Nevertheless, he declared emphatically, “This is uncivilized and, I’m sure, not at all what you’re used to, especially on a Friday evening. Surely, we can afford half an hour to eat in a proper fashion. Let’s go down to the officers’ mess. I’d enjoy a chance to—Oh”—he stopped in confusion—“you’ve finished your sandwich.” Stephen’s face fell.

Dominique, flustered, looked at her empty plate, then back at Stephen. Disappointment washed over her. He had said, “I’d enjoy a chance to…” To
what?
Dominique wondered. To get to know her better? To have a break from work? She wished he’d finished his sentence. She wished she hadn’t already eaten her sandwich. She thought of saying that she was still hungry, then realized that she would look overeager. She could offer to have dessert while he ate, she thought. But a piece of chocolate cake was stationed accusingly at her elbow.

“Well,” she teased gently, “I haven’t been doing the talking.”

Hampton smiled. His cheeks carried a trace of five o’clock shadow and his tailored uniform showed a few wrinkles, but that only made him look more virile. “Next time, then,” he said.

When? Dominique wanted to insist. The offhanded phrase tantalized her. She wished the report weren’t almost finished. There might never be a “next time.”

Now Stephen was pacing up and down again, clearly ready to resume dictating. Oh, she was a fool! He’d meant nothing, absolutely nothing, by the comment. She was his secretary. He was her employer. That was all, she told herself firmly. Besides, Stephen Hampton was not the man for her. He was married. He had a mistress. And yet… he was fascinating. Dominique was intrigued by the mysteries behind his discreet facade.

On the following Monday, Dominique’s routine returned to normal. She left the office each evening at four-thirty, went home to change for dinner, then danced till midnight. Like the people around her, Dominique attacked her social life with the sort of frenetic hedonism born of tension. Restaurants and clubs were full every night with lavishly gowned women and free-spending men. Parties were frequent, with a seemingly endless supply of liquor and delicacies served by white-jacketed waiters. The atmosphere was one of a perpetual New Year’s Eve.

The British had promised to withdraw from the Canal Zone, their last base in Egypt, by June 1956, and there was a sense of an era ending, of chances slipping away, of good-byes and tears amidst the frivolity.

Then, one evening in mid-October, as Dominique was preparing to go, Stephen approached her desk and announced in a tight voice, “Field Marshal Waterhouse is coming from London the day after tomorrow. There’s concern that these Israeli-Egyptian skirmishes are going to blow up—maybe even close the Canal. I need to prepare another big report and I’d like your help.”

The gravity of his voice made Dominique’s pulse quicken, but so did the prospect of working late with him. “Of course,” she said. She looked at her watch. “I just need to make a phone call.”

Hampton was apologetic. “I hope I haven’t ruined your evening. We should be no later than seven-thirty or eight. Most of the information I’ve already sent off in dispatches to London. It’s just a question of summarizing it in a risk assessment.”

Dominique’s brow furrowed with concern. “There must be considerable risk if the field marshal is coming here on such short notice.”

“I don’t think anything will happen until the Israeli elections in November, but we have to be prepared.”

Dominique paled. “For war?”

Hampton was silent. His eyes met Dominique’s—sympathetic, anxious, and… something more. He took a deep breath. “I don’t think it’s reached that point. We’ll probably just see more of the same for a while. Border raids and the like. That’s what I intend to say in my report.” His voice dropped. It came out raspy and tender, like a lover in the dark. “I haven’t forgotten my promise to you. I’ll let you know if I think something’s going to happen. I wouldn’t let anything—” He stopped short. His eyes locked with Dominique’s. “I wouldn’t allow your family to fall into jeopardy,” he concluded formally.

Dominique held her breath as she focused implacably on his face. After a moment she said softly, “I know.” Her trust in him was total, she realized.

An odd light came over Stephen’s face. Dominique could see he was touched by her faith in him. She followed him with her eyes as he went back to his office.

It was a little more than an hour later that she heard the sharp sound of high heels marching down the hall. Lieutenant Amanda Smythe brushed past Dominique without a word and entered Hampton’s office. She slammed the door so hard behind her that Dominique was afraid the glass panel would shatter.

The woman’s voice, shrill and angry, rang out. “We’ve been planning this for weeks! You can’t cancel now!”

Dominique couldn’t hear Hampton’s response—didn’t want to hear anything at all. She got up and went to the ladies’ room. When she returned, she saw that the door to Hampton’s office was still closed. She averted her eyes as she saw the blurry figure of Amanda Smythe pass behind the door. Dominique started to type, trying to ignore the drama going on just a few feet away. It was almost ten minutes more before the door opened again.

“Fine.” The lieutenant’s high-pitched voice still registered displeasure, but the fury was gone. “I’m not at all happy about this, Stephen, but I’ll see you at eight-thirty. Don’t be late.”

Dominique kept her head down as the lieutenant passed. But she still felt her glare.

Seconds later, Hampton emerged from his office. Dominique continued to type, not wanting to meet his eyes. She was embarrassed for him—embarrassed to have witnessed such a private scene.

As if reading her mind, Hampton addressed the matter directly. “Can you stop typing for a moment, Miss Avallon?” His voice was subdued.

Dominique stopped and looked up at him. She focused on a place somewhere over his left shoulder. This was mortifying. She hated the woman for humiliating Stephen. He was so dignified and reserved. Such public ugliness must be unbearable for him.

Hampton looked down at his feet, then at his secretary. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

She couldn’t meet his gaze. She replied hastily, “I really didn’t. I was down the hall most of—” She paused when she saw the understanding smile on his face.

Hampton said gently, “That’s a generous lie, Miss Avallon.” He was silent for a moment as he studied her face, his eyes soft. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “You are a true lady,” he said.

Her heart ached at the open simplicity of his declaration—at all that it implied. She wanted to cry, “Why do you put up with her? You deserve so much better!” It was almost a physical labor to suppress the words.

Dominique’s eyes locked with Stephen’s. She swallowed, and the sound filled her ears. She sat motionless, unable to speak.

Stephen held her gaze, wouldn’t release it. His eyes were bright silvery gray, like clouds after a storm. Dominique’s nerves tingled with the impact of his regard. When he spoke, she was almost startled by the sound. “Miss Avallon, I’m sure I’ve disrupted your plans this evening. When we finish, would you permit me to drive you home so you don’t have to wait for the shuttle?”

Heat rose in Dominique, starting in a place near her stomach and filling her chest, then her head. It took great effort to answer calmly, “Yes, sir, I would.”

When Dominique and Stephen emerged from the office at seven-thirty, the sky was dusky blue. Dominique lifted her face to the fresh air, glad to be liberated from the stuffy office. Directly in front of the entrance sat Hampton’s military car. His driver held open the door to the back seat. Dominique started to enter, but Stephen caught her by the elbow. She turned and looked at him questioningly.

He smiled. “It’s such a fine night. I’d like to take my own car if you don’t mind.” He pointed to a sporty red Jaguar roadster parked some yards away. The top was down and Dominique could see the sparkling tan leather interior.

She grinned back at him. “That would be wonderful.”

Hampton dismissed his driver and led Dominique to the convertible. He held the door open for her as she got in, then went around to the other side. He turned his head to look at her. “You should take off your hat, or it may blow away.”

“Oh… I hadn’t thought of that.” Dominique reached up and removed the tiny round cap pinned to her curls.

“I think there’s a scarf in the glove box if you’d like to cover your hair,” said Stephen.

“No, thank you,” she said, too quickly. Dominique suspected that it was Lieutenant Smythe’s. She didn’t like to think about that.

“Right, then. We’re off,” Stephen said briskly. The engine growled to life, then settled into a contented purr. Dominique watched Stephen’s hands as he put the car in reverse, then shifted into first. They were strong-looking, but long and elegant.

As they started to drive, the wind mussed Stephen’s hair. It made him look younger, Dominique thought, as she covertly studied his face. She felt the sudden urge to run her finger down the smooth line of his aristocratic profile, as a blind person might to discover the features of a loved one. She quickly averted her eyes and looked straight ahead.

The car slowed at the base checkpoint and Dominique spoke. “I live nearby.” She gave him rapid directions. “You’ll be back by eight-thirty.”

Stephen gave her a puzzled look.

Dominique reminded him, “For your appointment with Lieutenant Smythe.” She tried to keep her tone neutral.

“Oh, yes,” Stephen said indifferently.

They drove the rest of the way in silence. Dominique was excruciatingly aware of Stephen’s body. Each time he moved his legs to depress the clutch or step on the gas, she could see the muscles of his thighs through the thin, tropical-weight wool of his slacks. His left hand on the stick shift was so very near that her skirt, buffeted by the wind, once blew over it. She hastily pulled back the material and secured it under her right knee.

Dominique wished she could think of something witty or intelligent to say, but she was tongue-tied. Nor did Hampton look at her or speak. He seemed deep in thought. Occasionally he whistled a few bars of a tune, then abruptly stopped. Dominique remembered the day in the office when he had whistled the tune of the rumba from the officers’ club.

Before she realized it, they had arrived at her apartment. Hampton eased the car to the curb and stopped. He took one hand off the steering wheel and turned the upper half of his body to face Dominique. For a moment, he contemplated her.

Dominique held her breath, wondering what would come next.

Finally, Hampton said, “Thank you so much… for your help.”

Dominique was overcome with disappointment. But what had she expected? she asked herself. She knew he had a date at eight-thirty. And even if he didn’t,
what had she expected?