"You've been highly successful," she commented.
"So have you," he replied, turning the focus of the conversation back to her. He wanted her to talk about herself, to tell him about her business. At the moment nothing could have fascinated him more.
All at once Cathryn felt vulnerable and exposed beneath the gaze of those discerning eyes. Drew Sedgwick was a pretty good psychologist. He knew exactly how to wear down her defenses. This would be the time that most women would expose their hidden vulnerabilities. They would say, "Oh, but success isn't everything," and then go on to tell him in ways subtle and not so subtle how success had left them unfulfilled and wanting, providing everything but a man. Well, she wasn't falling into that trap.
Instead, she sidestepped. "That was an interesting article about you in Business Week," she said, recalling the story that had appeared perhaps six months earlier.
"Not nearly as interesting as the one about you in Palm Beach Parade," he shot back. "Did the Sheikh of Isphat really give you a seventeen-karat emerald that you wear in your navel?"
In spite of herself, she felt her cheeks flush crimson. "I didn't know anyone with any sense read that scandal sheet," she managed to say. "And I don't remember the Palm Beach Parade article saying anything about an emerald. Even though I did design the interior of the Sheikh of Isphat's local residence, I can assure you that he never gave me a seventeen-karat jewel to wear in my navel or anyplace else."
He burst out laughing. "Well, that's a relief. A shame, though. You should wear emeralds. They'd do so much for your eyes."
"Where did you hear that ridiculous rumor, anyway?"
He laughed again. "I'm not about to tell you." He had her attention now; rumors about the illustrious sheikh abounded in Palm Beach.
"Drew! I can't imagine how such a story got started."
"Neither can I, especially when you act so prissy all the time. No one would ever, ever suspect Cathryn Mulqueen of wearing an emerald in her navel."
"I'm not pr—"
"Oh, but you are."
She set her glass down impatiently. "Look, first you stroll in here unannounced and invite yourself to dinner. You tease me with a ridiculous rumor and then become overcritical. What gives you the right to pull a stunt like this? The fact that I let you buy me a drink at our class reunion? Because we're business associates? I hardly even know you, and—"
"That's exactly the point, my dear Cathryn. I want to get to know you better. And you're not exactly the most receptive woman I've ever met." The troubled expression on her face worried him, and he softened his tone. "I want us to find out about each other," he said gently. "And we're a topic to be explored in a leisurely manner and with a certain amount of serendipity. Do you know what serendipity is? It's making fortunate discoveries accidentally."
What a line of patter! "I think I'd like another glass of Champagne," she said, refusing to smile at him. She held out her glass.
So she was going to go all frosty on him, was she? He recognized her defense and refused to be daunted by it. There was a way to get around such things, and he knew what it was. It was an unfair tactic at this point, but if she wasn't going to be responsive to the conventional ones, he would have to try another method. He'd gone too far to be rebuffed now.
His eyes found hers and steadied them, and from this connection there grew a meaningfulness that she instantly recognized. No, she thought, this was not the way she intended it to be. She'd always been able to turn men off with a look, a drawing away, a stiffness. It was something she'd learned to do, attractive to men as she was. It was something she had to do to maintain her career as the most important thing in her life. Few men had ever breached this defense, and few men tried.
Drew reached for her glass, and his fingers against hers created a powerful surge of energy that embarrassed her, though she didn't know why. He gave no hint of noticing, however, and merely set both their glasses down on the table in front of them.
And then he was turning to face her, a soft expression playing across his face. His eyes caught hers, swirling her into their depths like a whirlpool from which there was no escape.
"Ah, Cathryn," he was murmuring close to her ear. She had no idea how he had managed to get so close. "There are certain things that we shouldn't leave to serendipity."
His arms went around her, tucking her against him, and she was aware of her own arms sliding around him, feeling the lithe strength of the muscles beneath his shirt. She wasn't ready for this, she told herself. She shouldn't be quivering in the warmth of his arms, waiting without breathing for what was sure to happen. She shouldn't be, but she was.
And then, purposefully, knowing exactly what he was doing, he touched his lips to hers, and it was as though the whole world opened out to pull in the light of the universe. She felt suddenly illuminated, although the room was growing dark, and the light that surged through her was diffracted as though she were a prism flashing rainbows everywhere. The source of the light was part of her, making her feel the difference between the soft, smooth moistness of his lips and the rougher texture of his tongue, and he was kissing her until the rainbows inside her blended and circled and converged in a place she had never known existed.
His hand cupped the back of her head, urging her closer so that she could better taste the sweet tenderness of his mouth. She felt as though she were drowning. She couldn't breathe, nor did she want to.
He was the first to pull away. She opened her eyes, staring up at him, returning from the depths of her rainbow fantasy. Surely he didn't mean to stop, not now.
His hand remained on her neck, softly stroking, disturbing the wispy tendrils. His eyes were lighted with laughter, but not at her. They expressed the joy within him, a joy he had somehow transmitted to her, and she couldn't help but wonder at it.
"I'd prefer to go on kissing you," he said, his breath warm against her skin. "But I think we'd better stop. According to my sense of smell, we've burned the dinner."
Chapter 4
Wearing terry-cloth oven mitts on both hands, Drew plucked the aluminum pans from the oven rack one by one and set them on top of the stove, assessing each one critically.
"They're ruined," said Cathryn, standing by and feeling helpless.
He regarded the chicken-and-noodles, blackened around the edges, and the spinach souffle, which actually didn't look too bad. A smoky crust edged the escalloped apples.
Suddenly Drew swung into action, delving into a kitchen drawer for a spoon, opening and closing cabinet drawers loudly.
"All we need is a bit of curry powder—ah, here it is—and perhaps some brandy. Do you have brandy?"
His enthusiasm was contagious. "Here's a bottle of Calvados," she said, producing it with a flourish. "What else will we need?"
"A good salad, in case none of this works," he said, and their eyes met over the crisp remains of the escalloped apples and they both laughed.
Cathryn put together a hearty salad and tossed it with her homemade salad dressing. As she cut up the remaining carrots and tomato, she found that she was enjoying herself. Because of the untimely interruption of their scene on the couch, she would have expected things between them to feel strained or ill at ease.
But Drew didn't seem conscious of the fact that he'd disarmed her so completely with only a few kisses. He hummed to himself as he spiked the escalloped apples with a swish of the brandy before tasting his creation.
"Want a taste?" he asked as she skimmed past, bearing the salad to the table.
"Later," she told him breezily, and he turned his attention to the chicken-and-noodles. Cathryn wondered if he was always so easygoing. His sunny nature, for her, was a pleasant surprise. Most men she'd met in Palm Beach wouldn't be caught dead wearing terry-cloth oven mitts, although they might if they knew how attractive a little kitchen sense made them to women.
"Let's finish off that bottle of Champagne," she suggested, fetching it from the living room. She poured as Drew finished tending to the bur
ned casseroles. He deftly transferred them to the fancy serving dishes Cathryn had provided. She wondered if he'd always been this proficient with food or if the knowledge was something he'd had to acquire after his wife left.
She was lighting the candles in the dining room, the glow from the flaming wicks gilding her features, when he carried in the food from the kitchen. His eyes dwelled on her face for a moment before he wisely decided to keep the conversation light.
"Burnt offerings," he said wryly as they sat down.
"Not bad," Cathryn told him, testing her first mouthful of the chicken-and-noodles. "The curry seasoning almost covers up the burned taste."
"Try the apples," he said. "Don't you think the brandy adds something?"
"Definitely," agreed Cathryn after tasting them. "And the extra dash of cinnamon helps, too."
They both sampled the spinach at the same time. They exchanged grimaces.
"I haven't figured out what to do about burned spinach souffle yet," he said. "Unfortunately."
"I have an idea," said Cathryn. "Throw it out."
His eyes met hers in the glow of the candlelight, and they sparkled warmly. She liked laughing with him, she thought to herself. She didn't laugh enough. Now she wanted to linger over dinner, watching the candles melt slowly down to their holders while she got to know him.
And then it hit her: she didn't want to have a good time; she didn't want to admit that he captivated her. It would be all too easy to let this become more than an adventure in serendipity. The chemistry was there, and it was a threat.
Not only that but Drew Sedgwick was another woman's leavings, and this made her cautious. Cathryn liked her personal life the way it was, quiet and uncomplicated. She didn't want to be hurt again.
The smile on Cathryn's face faded, and Drew, in the mood to notice everything about her, picked up on this.
"Why so woebegone?"
"Am I?" She tried to speak nonchalantly, but it wasn't easy with his gaze probing her like that. It made her want to squirm in her chair, to bolt and run. She wasn't about to throw caution to the wind with Drew Sedgwick still an unknown quantity.
The mood throughout the rest of their dinner was tense and edgy. Drew was aware that something had gone wrong. The expression on her face was like an echo of the night of the class reunion when she'd withdrawn and become suddenly remote. This evening she had been so absolutely open and passionate and delightful, just as he'd hoped she'd be, and he was confounded by the sudden switch.
That didn't keep him from trying to salvage the situation, however. He was a master of repartee, and he genuinely and lightheartedly tried to make it easy for her to respond to his banter. But Cathryn remained guarded, afraid to let him get too close.
After dinner, when they self-consciously and politely edged around each other as they cleaned up the kitchen at Drew's insistence, she thought he'd go soon.
"Show me where you work," he said suddenly and surprisingly after Cathryn had hung up the dish towel and latched the dishwasher door with a definite and final click.
"Well, I..." She hadn't expected this. She'd been prepared to fend off amorous advances, but not an interest in her work. His genuine curiosity cast a spell. "I do most of my work at the studio," she said.
"The article in Palm Beach Parade painted you as a real workaholic who takes work home every night, slaving until the wee hours of the morning in your home office. Or is that as much of a rumor as the one about the emerald?"
She couldn't help smiling. "Of course not. I do work at home sometimes, but—" Then, her heart escalating at the leisurely way his eyes swept her face, she said, "This way."
She led him down the hall, still in her bare feet and wishing that she'd put her shoes on earlier when she'd had the chance. She could have used the dignity at that point.
Her home office was furnished sparely in contrast to the luxurious furnishings in the other rooms. Drew appraised the room, his eyes resting briefly on the desk crowded with paperwork, the slanted drafting table near the window. "It's not like the rest of your apartment," he said, restlessly exploring the bookshelves, scanning the titles, stopping once to take down a book and flip through it. He studied the framed and matted photos on the wall, professional photos of rooms that Cathryn had designed. Some of the pictures had appeared in glossy magazines like Home Fantasy and Design Weekly.
"I like my office plain, not fancy," she explained with a lift of her shoulders. "It's less distracting." His presence in the room dominated it and seemed almost too much of him in this quiet, simple place. He seemed to shape the room to himself, to electrify it. She wondered if, when he left, he would leave some of himself behind and if she would feel him there when she sat down to work later.
A silly notion, and she shook it off.
He took in her laptop on the desk and design books heaped on the floor. "Do you work here every day?"
"Most days."
"And you work at night?"
"Most nights."
"And after you're through working?"
"I fall into bed, exhausted," she said. And she knew that his next question would be, "Alone?" but he didn't ask it.
Instead, as though afraid that the answer would be too painful, he moved his gaze away.
"What's this?" he asked sharply, inspecting a framed watercolor which hung on the wall.
"Just a picture."
It was a seascape done in delicate pastels. The initials "C.M." were inscribed in the lower right-hand corner.
"Did you paint this?"
"Well, I—yes." She'd given up painting years ago, although she had once entertained the idea of selling her paintings professionally.
"It's very good. Do you still paint?"
She shook her head. "No. I don't enjoy it anymore."
"What do you do for fun?"
"Various things. Friends. Lunches. Keeping fit."
"You date?" A much more discreet question than the one he had wanted to ask.
"Sometimes."
"Anyone special?" His eyes pierced into her, trying to divine her answer before it was given.
"Not at the moment." Her breath seemed to have left her lungs. Drew Sedgwick nodded, and for a moment a quiet elation lighted his eyes. His biggest fear—other than total rejection—was that she already had someone.
He turned away from her and lightly touched the fuzzy leaves of an African violet in a clay pot on her desk.
"This needs water," he told her, and Cathryn couldn't help but notice the black hair springing up from the back of his hand, a minor detail about him, but now only one of many details of which she was too aware.
"I—I hadn't noticed," she said, but she sounded anything but casual, and the words almost caught in her throat. Drew Sedgwick in her private place had an effect on her that she could never have foreseen. He was overpoweringly there, and her strong feelings about his presence disturbed and confused her.
She no longer saw him as a single impression, but viewed him feature by feature. He was gently tapered fingers; he was folds of suntanned golden skin at the elbows; he was a shadowed hollow of throat, a lean tendon beneath a jaw that seemed sculptured in strength.
"What kind of way is this for a woman to live?" he asked sharply, jolting her out of her trance. "You're earning a good living, you could travel, enjoy life. Instead, you hide yourself away from the world and everything in it."
"You're wrong," she said, feeling an anxious surge inside her and wondering if it was from anger at his curt questions or from something else. "The world and everything in it are at my fingertips, waiting to be shaped into beautiful places for people to live."
"In the meantime, the place where you live must be devoid of relationships and people to make it real and warm and alive?"
This was not the kind of man-woman conversation that usually took place during the initial stages of getting to know each other. She'd expected Drew to be curious and appreciative, and she was hurt that he was neither. Why was he delving so deep in
side her and wanting to know complicated things? Why didn't he just leave her alone?
She didn't know what to say—this man made her nervous and unsure of herself, and she never knew what he was going to do next.
"You're retreating from me now, aren't you?" he demanded. "I can see it. You let your defenses take over, and the message is 'Leave me alone.'"
He knew. It was true, what he had said. She'd always cloaked herself in a thin garb of reserve, letting few people penetrate it, and even the resulting loneliness was a kind of protection. But no one, not even her closest friends, had ever had the audacity to comment on it.
He stood before her, his hands on her shoulders. His hands felt heavy there and strong. Her shoulders seemed fragile beneath them, bending under the weight.
She held her breath. She thought he would make his move, either invite himself into her bedroom or begin to impose upon her his considerable physical persuasion. But again, Drew Sedgwick surprised her.
"I'm going to melt that icy facade," he said mildly, a hint of a smile on his lips. At her blank and surprised look he said, "Oh, yes, Cathryn, I want to make love with you. But when it happens, it's going to be a conscious decision on your part, not just a spur-of-the-moment romp in bed. And it'll have to be something long-term, because I won't be satisfied with anything else."
He dropped his hands from her shoulders, and she felt at once bereft. She didn't want him to go now, but he wheeled and walked to the door. She started to follow, but he turned and shook his head.
"I'll let myself out," he said, stopping her in her tracks.
She stood there staring at him. She felt caught in the frame of a movie that had just inexplicably stopped.
"I think the ice is already melting," he said, his eyes glinting in the harsh overhead light. "Careful, don't let it drip on your toes. I wouldn't want you to get cold feet." Then, with a wink, he was gone, leaving her staring down at her naked feet.
* * *
The next morning, as was her habit, Cathryn went for an early-morning run on Palm Beach. She seldom encountered anyone during these jogging sessions, but that morning she saw a swimmer out in the ocean, his arms slicing precisely and rhythmically through the calm water in a perfect crawl.
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