She started down the stairs and stopped. Both men stood at the bottom of the stairs looking up at her. She grabbed the banister and continued down the stairs. Suddenly, Byron’s face lit up in a wide grin, as he moved to meet her.
“You seem a little shaky,” he said. He put an arm around her waist and kissed her. He turned and started down the stairs using his arm to support her. Clark stood at the bottom of the stairs, an expression of shock plastered across his face.
When they reached the bottom of the staircase, Byron patted Clark on the shoulder. “Get used to it, man.” What she would have given to record the expression on Clark’s wide-eyed face.
“Well, hell! Have fun.” He walked away, turned and gave his sister a stern look. “Curfew’s at eleven o’clock.”
“Is he serious?” Byron said to Tyra.
“He’d better not be. But if he is, I’ll advise him not to bring a woman here unless he wants a dose of his own medicine.” She took Byron’s hand and yelled to Clark who she knew was in the family room sitting in front of the television. “I’ll be back home tonight, but don’t count on my doing that all the time. Good night.”
“You think you should have said that to Clark?” Byron asked as they settled into the car.
“He knows I said it to put him in his place. He could have been teasing, but how do I know? Let’s forget about him for now.”
“You never ask me where I’m taking you. How do you know I’m not driving you to some secret lair?”
She settled into the soft leather seat and turned on the radio to a classical music station. “Being spirited away to your secret lair? I’d be so excited I’d probably pass out. Just thinking about almost takes my breath away.”
“Are you saying you like to live dangerously? I wouldn’t have thought so.”
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. A delicious feeling coursed through her body as her mind recalled the previous evening and imagined his hands and mouth doing all kinds of things to her in preparation for the pleasure to come.
“Where’s the danger in going off to a cave or some other isolated spot with you? I bet I’d have the time of my life.”
The car skidded to a stop. “You’d better not talk like that if you don’t mean it.”
“Why are you so sure I don’t mean it? If you took me off some place, wouldn’t I have a great time?”
He started the engine, looked over his left shoulder and drove away from the curb. “To answer your question, I’d do my best to make it an occasion you would remember for the rest of your life.”
“I can’t wait.”
He brought the car to a stop in front of a building that looked like a private home in a block of row houses. “Here we are,” he said.
“Huh? I thought you said we were going to a restaurant.”
“I said dinner.” Her stare brought a torrent of laughter from him.
“What’s so funny?” she asked. “Please let me in on the joke.”
When he began laughing again, she tried to shake his shoulder. At last, controlled and evidently sober, he said, “This is a restaurant, and you’ve just proved that you’re all bark and no bite. After bragging about the excitement of being intimate with me, you were scared to death that I was taking you to a room and you’d have to pay up. Be glad I didn’t take you at your words.”
She pretended to pout. “It’s not nice to laugh at me. You’re not as sweet as I thought you were.”
He wiped the grin off his face and grasped both of her shoulders. “Do you think I’m sweet? Do you?”
She’d never seen him as open and vulnerable as he appeared at that moment, and she told herself to be careful. His eyes and the huskiness of his voice revealed a need for…yes, for affection and understanding.
She stroked the side of his face. “Yes, I think you’re sweet, and if we were somewhere else, I’d hug you real tight.”
He closed his eyes and brought her close to his body. “I want to kiss you, but I don’t dare. Let’s go inside.”
What he needed from her went far beyond a kiss. He needed her in the fullest sense of the word. He’d chosen the Sonata Restaurant because its rounded, boothlike banquettes gave diners a good measure of privacy.
“Right this way, Mr. Whitley,” the maitre d’ said. “Your table is ready.”
“Do you have any more secrets?” Tyra asked him. “I love this one. Thanks for choosing it.”
“You make doing things to please you a delight. What would you like to eat? I confess I’m not very hungry.”
She put her menu on the table, placed her hands in her lap and seemed to study him. “You said you wanted us to talk. Is what you have to say going to make me unhappy?”
“I don’t know. It shouldn’t.”
“I see.” She picked up the menu, glanced over it and said, “I’ll have cold cucumber soup, broiled lamb chops with wild rice and asparagus tips and raspberry sorbet for dessert.”
“I’ll have the same plus a good burgundy wine,” he told the waiter.
“What will madam drink?” the waiter asked.
“The same,” she said, ignoring Byron’s raised eyebrow.
When she had eaten half of the raspberry sorbet, she pushed the remainder aside. “This is killing me, Byron. You haven’t told me anything that you couldn’t have said over the phone.”
He knew that, but he hadn’t wanted to upset her while she ate. And if he were honest with himself, he’d admit to procrastinating. “Tell me exactly how you felt about having to raise Clark and Darlene?” Her deep frown didn’t surprise him. They had touched on that before.
She leaned back and looked straight at him. “I loved them so much, and the responsibility for taking care of them was merely an extension of what I’d been doing when our parents weren’t at home. If you’re asking if I resented it, no I didn’t. And Maggie helped me.”
“I’ve observed your relationship with Maggie. She isn’t motherly toward you. She treats you as if you’re head of the house. Do you want to have a family of your own, or have you had your fill of raising children?”
“I long to have children, Byron. That is if I get the chance at all, but I still want to try. What about you? Do you want to have a family?”
She seemed to be holding her breath in anticipation of his answer. When he reached across the table and took her hand, he realized how desperately he needed her to understand. “Tyra, I probably should have told you this earlier, but our relationship didn’t warrant it.”
“You’re not married!” she gasped.
“No. My wife died two weeks after she gave birth to our son, Andy. He’s four and a half.”
Her face clouded up in a frown that he couldn’t decipher. After a few seconds, she said, “Oh, lord, Byron. I’m so sorry. Who takes care of him while you work?”
“I didn’t want him to be raised by a succession of nannies and babysitters. My aunt had recently been widowed and lived alone, and I invited her to live with me. She’s been a godsend, but I’m the one who’s responsible for Andy’s up-bringing. I bathe him, put him to bed at night, read to him—or did before he learned to read—and hear his prayers. I’m his father.”
“Are you going to let me meet him?”
“Eventually. Yes. What I want to know is whether my having a child changes your attitude toward me.”
She seemed taken aback. “Why should it? If I discovered that you didn’t take care of your son, that you didn’t love him and do everything for him that you could or that you neglected him in any way, my attitude and my feelings for you would definitely change. But I don’t believe you’re guilty of any of that.” She leaned forward. “Tell me about him. What is he like?”
“I am certainly biased, but I think he’s a wonderful kid. He’s very smart, reads well for his age, counts and is trying to learn arithmetic, although that’s his idea, not mine. He’s becoming a good storyteller, and his day school teacher often gives him that role at school. Andy’s affectionate, but he’s
very impatient and definitely exacting. He can tell time, and if I tell him I’ll be home at six, he wants to see me there at six, traffic notwithstanding. I don’t complain about that, because I’ve taught him that he can depend on me. He loves music, and he’ll sit quietly without saying a word for half an hour while I play the piano, no matter what I’m playing. He and I have a wonderful relationship.”
“Is he obedient?”
“Yes he is. I let him argue his case for a few minutes, and then I tell him what’s final. He accepts it.”
“Does he look like you?”
“If you put his picture and mine at that age side by side, a stranger would think it’s the same child. Yes. He looks as much like me as I look like my father. Oh, he’s just begun learning to play the piano, and he loves it.”
She massaged her forehead with the tips of her fingers, and watching her do it, her face creased in a worried frown. He couldn’t help being anxious. She hadn’t even hinted at answering his question whether knowing about Andy made a difference in her attitude toward him.
“You know my family. Tell me about your parents and siblings. Are you close to them?”
She had a right to ask that. If you didn’t know a person’s family, you were missing vital information about that person. “After my parents divorced, my father raised my sister and me. My mother married someone else and moved with him to Eugene, Oregon. I was seven, and from that time on, she wasn’t a part of my life. Not my choice or my father’s choice, but she didn’t make it possible for my sister and me to visit her and she didn’t visit us.
“My sister, Nannette, lives in Florence, Italy, with her Italian husband, who’s a surgeon. My father’s a doctor, so we grew up well off. He’s seventy-two, but still busy with a full practice. I’m close to my father and to my sister, and I talk with her at least once a week. I’ve been thinking that my dad would love you, because you and he share similar outlooks on a lot of things. I’m proud that my father raised my sister and me alone, though I now realize that I must have missed something not having a mother.”
Now that he’d told her, he couldn’t bear not knowing what she thought or how she felt. If she had to think about it, or if her acceptance was contingent upon anything, he didn’t want to know. She could forget it. He had a strange, dull feeling.
“Tyra, I asked you a while ago whether knowing that I have a son changes your attitude toward me. Your answer was ‘Why should it?’”
She seemed flustered, as if she didn’t understand him. “Honey, I told you that I’d walk away only if you weren’t a good father. Don’t you remember?” Her right eye arrowed slightly, as she looked at him in an intense gaze. “If you’re asking whether I’ll love your child, of course I will if he’ll give me a chance,” she said.
He inhaled deeply. It was what he needed to hear, not some sugar-coated answer about loving Andy because he was his child, but an honest and sensible response. He knew Andy would learn to love her. But as long as he hadn’t committed to Tyra, he couldn’t bring up that subject.
“I’ve never introduced Andy to anyone I was seeing, because I don’t want him to get attached to someone who proves to be a temporary relationship. Oh, you know what I mean. But there’s nothing temporary about my feelings for you, and I want you to know everything about me. I want you to care for the man I am, not what I appear to be.” He had to know one more thing. He was in too deep, and he wanted to be sure where he stood with her. “Do you resent my not telling you about Andy on our first date?”
“No, I don’t. But after what we shared last night, I needed to know where you and I are headed. With your telling me about your son and your family, I’m satisfied that you’re sincere.” She paused for a moment. “The funny thing is that I never doubted your sincerity. But I feel that I know you better now.”
Maybe if he did it casually rather than taking her home with him to meet Andy, it would work out better. “Do you like to fish?” he asked her.
“I did when I was little. I used to fish with my dad in the Monacacy River. Why?”
“My dad loves to fish. Perhaps you can join us sometime.”
“I’d love that, Byron, even if I don’t get a single bite.”
“Then, I’ll arrange it.”
Tyra wanted to ask Byron if Andy would join them when they went fishing. But she had already decided that if he seemed inclined, she would encourage him to let her meet his son, but she wouldn’t push it. She knew the implications, and she didn’t doubt that she would meet his father before she met Andy.
“Would you like something else?” he asked her.
She shook her head. “Thanks. It was a delightful meal. If you’re not in a hurry, could we walk a little?”
“Of course. But if walking is a way to prolong the evening, I have some other suggestions. We could go to the carriage company, hire a hansom and take a ride, or we could go to the Frederick Hotel’s supper club, have coffee, a liqueur and dance. In either case, I could have you in my arms. What would you like?”
“If I choose the hansom ride, will you take me dancing another time?”
“Of course I will. Ready to go? I need to hold you, and I don’t want to do it standing in your foyer.”
“What’s wrong with my foyer?” she asked in an attempt to bring a little levity into their conversation. The seriousness of their after-dinner conversation had nearly exhausted her. The subject had obviously weighed heavily on him, and she didn’t understand why. Surely he should have understood that she would find a way to show love to a four-year-old, motherless child, no matter who his father was. But she wasn’t going to worry about it. Andy was extremely dear to him, and he’d just served notice that any woman who couldn’t love and care for his child would have no part in his life. On that score, she agreed with him.
“Nothing’s wrong with your foyer except that every minute I’m standing there with you, I’m distracted. I feel as if I should look over my shoulder for Darlene or Maggie.”
“Distracted? I wonder what you’d be like if I had your undivided attention?”
“I’m going to do my best to make sure you find out.”
“Do you have any pictures of Andy?”
She knew at once that she’d said the right thing, for his face beamed with pride. “You bet.” He opened his wallet, removed two pictures and handed them to her.
She studied them. “Byron, he’s a beautiful child. And you’re right, he looks just like you.” She handed the pictures to him. “You’re blessed to have a healthy, happy and intelligent son.”
“I know, and I’m grateful for it. I could have been left with no one.”
She reached up and stroked his face. “Are you over your wife’s death? I know it’s hard.”
“Yes, I’m over it.”
As they left the restaurant holding hands, she asked him, “How far is it to the hansom carriage? I thought it was right around the corner.”
“It’s right around the next corner. Would you like to walk, or shall we drive there?”
“It’s a balmy night, let’s walk.”
She looked up at the full July moon, at the sky as clear as crystal and squeezed his fingers. “What is it?” he asked.
“The moon. The sky. The night. It’s so idyllic. I wish it could last forever.” A brisk wind brushed the hair away from her face, as tiny bit of debris whirled around her feet. Lights twinkled in every building that they passed. It seemed to Tyra that neither residents nor merchants were willing to sacrifice the beautiful night.
“I also noticed how perfect the night was. I’m so busy all the time, that I rarely notice things—such as this night—that give me so much pleasure. When I’m with you, though, my senses work overtime.”
“Where do you want to ride, mister?” the driver of the hansom asked Byron. “For twenty-five extra, we can take a drive through Gambrill.”
“Want to?” he asked her.
“He’s a romantic, so maybe he knows something. I’d like it if you have
time.”
He helped her into the carriage and tucked her close to him. “The night is young, and you’re so beautiful,” he sang. To the driver, he said, “Gambrill sounds fine.”
With his arms around her and her head on his shoulder, she was as one with him. “For tonight, at least, I have you,” he said. She wanted to know what he meant and asked him. “I know what I want and what I need,” he said. “But I know that not even the next piece of bread is guaranteed. So I’m treating this evening as the precious experience that it is.”
She pondered that, but didn’t respond. Byron could relax. She was not going to let him down.
Chapter 5
When Tyra walked into her office the following Monday morning, she was more besotted with Byron Whitley than ever and in no mood to tolerate advances from any other man. So when Christopher Fuller walked up behind her as she opened the door of her office and patted her on her bottom, she swung around and, without thinking, let him have the weight of her briefcase across his face.
“What the hell is wrong with you, woman?” he growled. “Who do you think you are?” He stood inches away from her.
She didn’t back away. “If you ever put your hands on me again, this briefcase isn’t all I’ll hit you with. I should sue you for sexual harassment.”
“Who’d believe you?”
“Everybody. You’d be surprised what your colleagues think of you. If you’re charged with sexual harassment, what do you think it will do to your career. Now please let me get into my office.”
“You haven’t heard the last from me,” he said.
“You’d better hope you’ve heard the last from me,” Tyra replied and stormed off to her office.
She sat down at her desk, made a note of the incident, dated it and filed it under the heading, C. Fuller. If she left her job, he’d probably be the reason.
The incident didn’t occupy her thoughts for long. Memories of the previous evening with Byron crowded her mind. She had never seen a brighter, clearer moon or felt a softer breeze than when she sat snug in his arms in a red-bordered hansom carriage. The only sounds were the rustling of the trees and the clickety-clack of the horse’s hooves.
Finding Mr. Right Page 6