Brad stood as she neared him. “Thank you for coming,” he said, then kissed the cheek she offered him. He hadn’t expected her to angle her face toward his lips that way, but he sensed subliminally that if he hadn’t kissed her she’d have pivoted on her high heel and marched back out of the café. She glided to a chair and waited for him to pull it out for her. Once he did, she sat.
“Well,” she said, setting her purse on the table and pressing her hands together, fingertips to fingertips and palm to palm. “What do you want?”
Her briskness didn’t faze Brad. “Would you like to order a drink?”
“I’ll have what you’re having,” she said, eyeing his glass and then twisting in her chair in search of a waitress.
Brad doubted that she’d be satisfied with straight soda. He flagged down a waitress and ordered Nancy a rum-and-Coke. “You’re looking well,” he said once the waitress was gone.
“I know,” Nancy agreed serenely. “I hope you didn’t make me drop everything and come running here on a rainy evening just to tell me that.”
She didn’t sound arrogant as much as supremely self-confident. Brad forgave her. “No, I’ve got something else to tell you.” He waited until the waitress delivered Nancy’s drink before saying, “I’m leaving.”
Nancy’s densely lashed eyes lingered on him as she sipped through her straw. “Pardon me if I’m missing something here, but as I understand it, you left a long time ago.”
“I mean Seattle. I’m leaving Seattle,” he told her.
Her eyebrows rode high on her brow. “Oh?”
“I’ve accepted a transfer to New York.”
“So? What do you want me to do about it?” she asked archly.
Throughout a leisurely drink of soda, he studied Nancy closely. She was so pretty, so unnervingly spectacular in appearance. Her hands, like Daphne’s, had performed feats of sensual magic on him at one time, yet he could look at them and recall their dexterity without suffering any pangs of arousal. Her lips shaped a rounded valentine around the tip of her straw, yet for all the times she’d kissed him, for all the seductiveness of her kisses, he felt only a nostalgia for what had been, not a desire for what could be.
“I don’t want you to do anything about it,” he explained. “I just thought you ought to know.”
“You don’t have to keep me up to date on your plans anymore.”
“I know I don’t.” Once again he had to swallow his impatience. “I just thought it would be nice for you to hear the news from me instead of someone else. We had a long, intense relationship. I don’t want you thinking I skipped town in the dead of night.”
“Fair enough.” She took another dainty sip of her drink. “You’re right—I probably would have been hurt or suspicious if you hadn’t told me yourself. But you don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“I know you will.”
“I guess...” She smiled tentatively. “I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you I’ve been seeing someone else.”
Brad found this news oddly gratifying. “Who?” he asked.
“I don’t think you know him. His name is Adam Steele. He’s a friend of Mac MacKenzie’s.”
Brad nodded.
“He’s a good man,” Nancy went on. “Reputable background, excellent schooling, solid career and all that. We have a lot in common.”
Just like you and I do, Brad thought. “Do you fight all the time with him?” he asked aloud.
Nancy’s eyes met Brad’s, and she laughed. “Not as much as we did,” she conceded. “Just enough to keep the sparks flying.” She leaned back in her chair. “How about you? Any women waiting for you in New York?”
A picture of Daphne flashed across Brad’s brain. “I know a few women there,” he admitted. “I’ve already got a date lined up with an old college acquaintance named Phyllis Dunn.” Hearing him mention Phyllis’s name momentarily took him aback. He must have thought of her because he’d spoken to her so recently. And yet, it had been Daphne he’d pictured in response to Nancy’s question. “I’ve got friends there, too,” he added, hoping his confusion wasn’t evident.
“That’s nice,” she said. “You’ll be happy living back east. That’s always been your real home.”
Brad nodded. He was glad he’d arranged to meet Nancy, glad that she was taking his departure in stride.
But the peculiar thing was, once he’d bade Nancy a final farewell, walked her to her car and headed for his own car at the far end of the parking lot, he felt at odds with himself. He didn’t want to go back with Nancy, figure out why they hadn’t been able to make their romance work and try to correct their mistakes. He had no urge to repair the damage of their past, or to build a friendship with her. Whatever had existed between them was over, finished, and he was content to leave it at that.
He wanted no future with her—that was why. You didn’t go back and fix the past with someone unless you were planning for a future with her, he surmised.
And what future did he want with Daphne? A future in which they were neighbors, friends, pals?
“Damn.” He grunted the oath out loud, startling himself. “Damn, damn, damn.” Then he switched on his windshield wipers and decided that the incessant rain was what had driven him to start swearing.
Chapter Ten
DAPHNE FOLLOWED the receptionist down the hall to the conference room at the rear of the single-story stucco building that housed the offices of Kreitz, Ferragamo & Leeds, Attorneys at Law. She did a substantial amount of legal work with Jay Kreitz, and when Brad had asked her to find him a competent real estate lawyer for the closing, she’d arranged for Jay to handle it.
She knew she was going to be the sole woman present at the closing; both the seller and the buyer were bachelors, the seller’s lawyer was also a man and Daphne was the only realtor involved in the sale. Ordinarily, being the lone female at a business meeting didn’t bother her. Today, though, it did. She wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible. She was edgy and keyed up, and she was afraid the state of her nerves might lead her to make a fool of herself.
Unrequited love was a depressing condition.
She arranged a brave smile on her face, whispered her thanks to the receptionist and stepped into the conference room. Phyllis had claimed that all Daphne had to do was fall out of love with whoever had failed to fall in love with her, but turning off your emotions wasn’t quite as simple as turning off a lamp. The light Brad had lit inside her was still burning bright, and she hadn’t yet figured out a way to switch it off.
The men all stood as she entered the room, and Jay greeted her by name: “Daphne! Come on in, we’re just about to start.” He waved her over to a vacant chair beside his at the far end of the table. “You know everyone here, don’t you?” he asked, then proceeded to introduce her even though she did, indeed, know everyone. She dutifully shook hands with the seller’s lawyer, exchanged a few pleasantries with the seller, and took a deep breath before turning to acknowledge Brad.
He was positioned diagonally across the long mahogany table from her, dressed in what she’d come to think of as his house-hunting uniform: a cotton oxford shirt, a sports jacket and khaki slacks. He offered her an enigmatic smile, and her own smile lost what little strength it had. The silent pep talk she’d given herself before leaving her office twenty minutes ago—that she would have to be immune to Brad’s dazzling looks, that the night they had spent together was as much history to him as was the night they’d left the fraternity party together eight years ago, that he considered her his friend and his real estate agent and nothing more—none of it had prepared her adequately for the visceral shock she experienced at seeing him. She disguised her nervousness by taking a seat and burying her nose in her briefcase, pretending to search for her folder of documents pertaining to the sale.
The closing was routine—a review of the documents, confirmation that each party to the sale had identical copies, a discussion of terms to make certain that none of the details
was open to misinterpretation. Once the review was over, Daphne knew that checks were going to be written, including one made out to Horizons Realty to cover her commission. Until then, she had little to occupy her attention.
That was unfortunate. She honestly didn’t want the freedom to contemplate the man seated across the table from her. Seeing his dark, silky hair as he bowed his head to peruse one of the documents made her think of how soft and thick the black tresses had felt between her fingers when she’d held his head to hers for a kiss. Watching the rolling motion of his shoulders as he shrugged in answer to a question forced her, against her will, to remember the smooth, hot expanse of his back. His open collar button revealed just enough skin to remind her of how much she had enjoyed kissing him there, how irresistibly sexy she found his neck.
A few times he raised his head and caught her staring at him. His shimmering sky-blue eyes filled with a gentle glow, matched by the friendly warmth of his dimpled smile. Fondness—that was what she read in his expression. He was fond of Daphne. He’d settled the score between them back in May. Now, nearly two months later, he was content to view her as a pal.
She ought to have been content, as well. She and Brad had achieved exactly what they’d set out to do—find him a house to buy and perform minor plastic surgery on an eight-year-old scar. She ought to be satisfied—and she ought to learn to live with the fact that the surgery on the old scar had left her with new scar tissue. If she wasn’t satisfied, well, she had only herself to blame.
The closing took about an hour. When it was over, the assembled participants engaged in a dizzying round of hand-shaking and congratulating. As Daphne packed up her briefcase, Jay Kreitz asked her whether she’d made any vacation plans for the summer, and she in turn asked the seller how he liked his new home in Boston. Daphne had participated in sales in which the negotiations had been so hostile that, by the time of the closing, the buyer and seller were no longer speaking to each other. But no matter how bitter the negotiations, the conclusion of the sale was always an occasion for ritual politeness—more hand-shaking than most politicians had to endure during an election campaign, accompanied by the requisite charming chit-chat.
After fifteen minutes of chit-chat, Daphne finally made her escape. She got as far as the parking lot beside the stucco building before Brad caught up with her. “Hey, Daff—where are you running off to?” he asked, jogging across the gravel lot to her car. He was carrying an oversize manila envelope filled with the documents that made him the legal owner of his new house. A warm breeze ruffled his hair as he ran.
She could lie and tell him she had another appointment that afternoon, but that would be cowardly. Instead, she resurrected her brave smile and ignored his question altogether. “Welcome to Verona, Brad. I guess you’re an official Jersey-ite, now.”
He drew to a halt less than a foot from her. In her high-heel sandals, she stood just a couple of inches shorter than him, and it took only the slightest adjustment of her head to meet his gaze. She chastised herself for having failed to exchange her eyeglasses for sunglasses when she’d left the air-conditioned office building for the bright late-June afternoon. Not only was the sun’s glare magnified by the lenses of her eyeglasses, but their transparency gave Brad an unobstructed view of her face. She wondered if he could see the anguish in her eyes, the frustration and disappointment.
“How’ve you been?” he asked.
He had asked her that same question, with the same phrasing, every time he’d spoken to her in the past month. The last time they’d talked had been eight days ago, when Daphne had told him the closing had been scheduled and Brad had informed her that he’d be starting his cross-country drive the following day. They’d discussed his estimated date of arrival, the schedules he’d drawn up with the movers, his plan to spend a night or two at a nearby hotel until the closing, and Daphne’s willingness to contact the local gas and the cable companies on his behalf. When Daphne was ready to conclude the call, Brad had always said, “So how’ve you been?”
She’d always responded, “Fine, Brad.” A good, noncommittal answer. She decided to use it again. “Fine, Brad. How was your trip east?”
“Exhausting,” he told her, laying his envelope on the roof of her car and sliding off his blazer. He unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, then unfastened the second button below his collar.
Objectively, Daphne knew his actions were an effort to remain cool in the summery afternoon heat. But she couldn’t stifle an irrational voice inside her, complaining that Brad had opened his buttons merely to aggravate her with tantalizing glimpses of his body. Her gaze riveted itself to the strong column of his neck and she swallowed.
“When did you get in?” she asked, eager to keep the conversation alive so she wouldn’t have a chance to think about how attractive she found him.
“Yesterday. I would have called you, but I got to the hotel late, and by the time I grabbed a bite to eat and all...” He drifted off, evidently aware of how feeble an excuse that was. “Anyway, I knew I’d be seeing you today.” His gaze ran the length of her, pausing at her ankles. Then he raised his eyes, grinned sheepishly and shrugged.
It was a surprisingly eloquent gesture. He seemed to be saying, I know, Daff, we fouled up again and I’m sorry. Daphne wanted to assure him that she was sorry, too, sorry she hadn’t been able to take their night of passion in stride as they’d both sworn they would, sorry she was allowing her emotions to screw up their friendship. But given the way she felt, she suspected that it would require at least eight more years before she’d be able to engage in another heartfelt discussion with Brad about their stupidity in sleeping together.
“How are your finances?” he asked. He seemed aware that his question might be misconstrued, because he quickly clarified: “Have you figured out a way to pay for your share of the partnership yet?”
“I took a loan,” she told him, wishing she didn’t sound so despondent. The excitement of becoming a partner in her company had disappeared the day she’d signed the bank papers. A few good years of commissions and she’d be out of debt, but in the meantime she’d have to live her life so frugally that her greatest luxury would be her monthly twelve-dollar salads with Andrea and Phyllis in New York City.
“That’s great,” Brad said with artificial enthusiasm. “I’m glad you were able to work it out.”
“I haven’t worked anything out,” she retorted. “I’m over my head in debt at the moment. I don’t consider it great at all.”
“Look, Daff...” Perhaps he could sense her discomfort; perhaps he even shared it. “You know, I—when you walked into the room before, and you—I mean, I—” He faltered, glanced over his shoulder at the building behind him, and then turned back to Daphne. His smile had lessened, and it was shadowed with a poignancy Daphne was unable to interpret. “You’re looking well,” he said.
The only honest way to compliment a woman who never looked pretty was to tell her she looked well. Health, after all, was supposed to be more important than beauty. “Thanks,” she muttered.
“I mean it,” he swore. “It’s a nice dress.”
The dress she was wearing wasn’t worth commenting on, she thought with an almost spiteful peevishness. In fact, it wasn’t a dress at all. It was a straight below-the-knees skirt of forest green knit and a tan jersey with matching green trim and decorative gold buttons around the neckline, and when Daphne had put it on that morning she’d thought it made her look a little like a toy soldier. However, she kept her opinion to herself and said, “Thank you.”
“Are you busy?” he asked, his voice underlined with a strange urgency.
“Now?”
“This evening,” he said. He seemed to be on the verge of taking her hand, but he switched directions in mid-move and grabbed his envelope from the roof of her car, instead. “I was thinking, maybe we could...”
“Have dinner?” she completed his dangling sentence. Her pulse quickened slightly, but she warned herself not t
o become too optimistic. Even if she had dinner with Brad, it wouldn’t constitute a real date. It wouldn’t be as if he were trying to win her heart.
“Have sex,” he said quietly. He raised his eyes to the sky and laughed, as if he couldn’t believe he’d said such a thing.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“No!”
His smile vanished as he absorbed her emphatic tone. “I’m sorry.”
“Why?” she shot back. “Why are you sorry?”
“You seem...offended,” he said, searching for the right word.
She let out a long, steadying sigh. “I’m not offended,” she told him. There was no reason to be, after all. He hadn’t said anything cruel to her, or put her down in any way. He’d just asked her for sex, and given how much fun sex had been the last time they’d indulged in it, who could blame him?
“It’s not...” Again, he seemed to struggle with his words, groping for the right phrasing—or, at least, a phrasing that wouldn’t send Daphne into a fit of anger. “It’s just that, when you walked into the conference room and I saw you for the first time in so long, I remembered how good it had been with us and I...got turned on.” He presented her with a sheepish smile. “Am I being too blunt here, Daffy? I’m just trying to tell you—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” she snapped. What she wanted to hear was that Brad loved her, that he worshiped her, that he wanted her to be his beautiful wife and bear his beautiful children. He wasn’t going to say that, though. He wasn’t even going to say that she turned him on. What had turned him on was a memory—a memory of something going a bit haywire one night and taking both her and Brad by surprise. When he reminisced about it he became aroused.
Big deal. So did she. It didn’t mean she was going to invite him into her bed for a repeat performance.
“You’re pissed at me,” he guessed, appearing slightly miffed. “I’m sorry. All I said was—”
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