by Jeanne Adams
Her due diligence done, all Ana wanted to do was put her head on her desk and cry.
As predicted, Gates was waiting for her in the traffic circle in front of the building. When the guard called to let her know he was there, Ana struggled to pull herself together. Now, she wasn’t sure why she’d agreed to meet him. She was playing with fire, and she’d sworn to give that up when she got burned in Rome.
She heaved a sigh, irritated with her own melodrama. It was just dinner, and God knew, she could use the distraction from the trouble of the day. If she went straight home, which was her impulse, she’d just brood. Or cry. Or scream. None of that was productive, and dinner with Gates might be, so she went.
She kept her pace brisk and level as she came across the lobby, but it took every ounce of willpower she still possessed not to duck and cover on the way to the car. There was a misty rain falling as she came out the doors, and Gates’s driver held an umbrella up to shelter her. With that kind of service, she was glad she’d approved him to come through security rather than meeting him on the street.
It was only five steps, and she was nearly a jelly-kneed weakling by the time she slid in beside Gates in the back of the town car and the driver closed the door behind her.
“Hello, Ana,” he murmured, handing her a wineglass. As she took it, he leaned in and kissed her cheek, taking her completely by surprise.
“It is,” he said, smiling.
“What?”
“Your cheek. It’s as smooth as I remember it to be. Now, have some wine, relax, and tell me about your day.” He paused for effect before adding, “Dear.”
Surprised at his quick switch from sensuous to banter, she blinked. “O-o-okay.” She caught up a split-second later and grinned. “Dear. Brought home the bacon. Fried it up in a pan. Got shot at, wigged out on the boss. You know, the usual.”
“Nearly got fried, then got hacked.” Still playing, he made a mock-derisive sound. “So little happening in your narrow world, Agent. You really should broaden your horizons.”
“To international commerce, like you and Dav? No thank you,” she joked. “It’s just too dull. Although, you had shots fired too, so perhaps it isn’t as mundane as everyone says.”
He laughed. “There, you have the right of it. See, we have so much in common. Computers, getting shot at, mayhem, a love of good wine. So, let’s relax and enjoy this lovely vintage on our way downtown. We’ll get back to pandemonium and computer hacking over dinner, of course.”
“You know, you really need to get more action if this is your idea of a date,” she flipped back without thinking. Just banter, right?
Evidently not.
His fingers curled around hers, where they lay on the bowl of the wineglass. “Oh, I’m sure we could come up with some diversions if we put our minds to it,” he said, leaning in to brush her cheek with another kiss. Using a fingertip, he turned her head. She let him. He brushed a feathery touch of his lips over that cheek as well. “This, for instance,” he whispered as he took her mouth in a soft, probing kiss.
When she would have leaned in, taken more, he eased back. “But we wouldn’t want to spill this excellent wine, would we? Especially since you were so adamant that this was just business.”
She almost heard the sound of her jaw dropping at his dangerous, sexy play. She wasn’t ready for it. She didn’t know if she could handle it, not now, not tonight. Once upon a time, she would have been able to toss off the lines, make the right moves. Now, she was mired in emotion, jumbled by the whole day as well as her incipient reactions to Gates.
Since she couldn’t manage a coherent thought in the face of such a blatant assault on her senses, she resorted to an age-old ploy. She drank the wine.
He smiled and drank as well, once he’d touched his glass to hers.
Still feeling half a beat behind, she registered the full-bodied taste of the wine, the rich pear and fruit scent of it. It was like drinking sunshine.
“Wow,” she verbalized her surprise, staring at the wineglass like she’d never seen it before. “That’s fabulous.”
“Thank you.” His smile was smug now. “It is good, isn’t it?”
She knew she was still being incredibly slow on the uptake, and replied, “It is. And so are you. I’m presuming you had something to do with this,” she wiggled the glass, “since you look so pleased at my appreciation.”
“Oh, yes, I did,” he said, taking another sip, but giving nothing away.
“Hmmm. Smooth is a word that comes to mind.” She sent him a challenging look.
“Ah, a good word. Another word I like is creamy, like your skin.”
“Hmmm. Yes, but strong also applies, don’t you think?” Surprising herself, she slipped into the groove of the banter. Oddly enough, it helped her feel more like herself, the real Ana.
“Oh, yes. This sort of thing, it’s strong enough to go to your head if you’re not prepared for it.” He seemed to be talking about more than the wine as he let a fingertip caress her hand where it lay on the wineglass.
For some reason, the words and the touch hit a nerve. Memories and sorrows flooded into her heart. “Are you ever prepared?” she managed to say as her ghosts grabbed her by the throat. She’d held them at bay all day, but his kindness, his interest and banter, and his touch were her undoing.
He must have seen something of her devastation on her face, because he slipped the wineglass out of her hand and slipped it into a clip in the small table. “Ah, Ana, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Here, come here.”
She couldn’t move, couldn’t close the distance between them. If she did…if she did, she might never recover. She had to maintain. Had to.
He gave her no choice. He came to her. His warmth enfolded her, his voice murmuring soft words she couldn’t understand for the roaring of emotion in her mind. Everything crashed in.
Everything.
Rome. Her friends on their biers in the morgue, their bodies burned beyond recognition because they’d followed her directions, gone after the bomb. Her parents. Never seeing them again after the attack. Their funeral, the devastated hold her aunt had kept on Ana’s shoulders. All the images and feelings tore through Ana like a scream, adding to her fear and panic over the afternoon’s events.
Ana struggled to keep up the façade, to regain control. Then streetlights lit the car, outlined the driver and the headrests behind the smoky glass between the front and back of the car.
A bullet in the headrest; a threat by phone. It was too much. Ana lost it.
Vaguely through her shaking and the moan of pain that rolled out of her, she heard him instruct the driver to give them ten minutes’ delay.
Ten minutes. How could she ever recover? Much less in ten minutes.
“There, now. Ana.” When he called her name, it was a caress of a longtime lover, rather than a new flirtation. “Anastasia,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
She raised dry eyes to his with soul-deep reluctance. She expected pity. Maybe superiority. Instead she found an echo of her own pain.
“Let go,” he said with soft insistence. “Feel it and let it go.”
The command, the darkness of the car, like a cocoon where no one else could reach her, did what no amount of debriefing and counseling had been able to do.
She wept.
As the tears flowed, it was as if she thawed her soul. Everything within her seemed to take on new life, to stretch and open up to life like a napping child who’s waking to a new afternoon.
The car continued to circle the neighborhoods as Ana brought herself under control. It hadn’t been a long, drawn-out session, but the short burst of emotion, held in someone’s sheltering arms was deeper and more meaningful than it ever would have been alone.
Gates presented her with a handkerchief, and she accepted it gratefully, easing out of his embrace, trying unsuccessfully to regain her social distance. Lord, she knew she looked a mess. She didn’t cry well. It was vain, but for the first time she regretted not ca
rrying a makeup kit with her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her head bowed over the soft cloth as she wiped her eyes. Streaks of mascara made dark smudges on the snowy fabric. “I don’t usually cry all over…” What the hell was he?
“Colleagues? Friends?” he suggested some terms. “Dates?”
“None of the above. Ever,” she confessed, finally looking up. “I’ve never cried on anyone like that. I’m sorry. How do I look? Like a weeping, idiot female?”
“No, you look vulnerable,” he said, his expression sympathetic. When he saw her reaction, he winced. “Ouch. That pissed you off, I see. Sorry, didn’t mean to.”
She shook her head. “No, don’t worry, that’s just one of those trigger words for me, like weak, or silly. I don’t think of myself as any of those things and resent it if anyone else sees me that way.”
“The key to pissing you off, now in my hot little hands.” He grinned, encouraging her to laugh with him.
“Right,” she drawled. “But I have your handkerchief, and I’m holding it for ransom until you agree never to call me vulnerable. Ever.”
“Oh, man. Tough terms.” He pretended to consider the ransom terms as he unclipped their wineglasses and handed hers over. “I’ll have to think about it. I can’t do that on an empty stomach.” He stroked a finger on her cheek again. “I seem to be unable to keep my hands off you, and that’s dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” she stuttered, unsure what he meant. Was he still teasing, or was he serious?
“Very dangerous. A simple touch had you weeping in my arms,” he made the blatantly false statement with a poker face. “Can’t have that.”
“Right,” she managed to laugh. Somehow, his dry humor was helping her recover her equilibrium. “You’re a real button-pusher there, Gates Bromley. We women should beware.”
“Exactly,” he said, then asked, more seriously, “Do you think you could eat?”
“Yes.” Her stomach protested the long wait with an audible growl. “Obviously.”
“Good, me too.” He tapped on the smoked-glass panel, and the driver smoothly changed lanes and made a turn. Before she could finish her wine, they were there.
“Wow, I’m feeling the impact of the day,” she said, clipping the glass into its holder. “Between the crying jag and the wine, I’m not sure how steady I’m going to be.” Much as she hated to admit it, she figured it was better to forewarn him rather than drop like a rock at his feet if she was overextended.
“Food then, first thing.”
“Good.” She glanced out the window, trying to figure out where they were. Nothing looked familiar, which bothered her.
She hated feeling out of control. Being vulnerable with Gates had given him too much insight into her. She needed to find her footing, be sure she was on solid ground before they got back into this dark, cozy town car and he took her home. She’d made too many mistakes with suave, handsome men. She didn’t want to repeat them.
When she’d refused Jen’s attempts to get her to go out, this was what she’d been avoiding. Intimacy. The powerful draw of the sensual.
No one’s ever done this to you, made you feel this way. The little voice in her head, referring to Gates and her reaction to him, was almost as frightening as losing control.
Whether it was the effect of the wine or the adrenaline, Gates was even more attractive, more sensual than he’d seemed before. Considering she’d had erotic dreams about him based just on his voice, that was saying something.
I gotta get some food before I do something stupid.
That was the first sensible thought she’d had in an hour, so she repeated a version of it out loud. “Seriously, you’re right. I think I’d better get something to eat, and soon.”
“That’s the plan,” Gates said as they pulled into an alleyway. “Here we are.”
Startled, Ana balked at getting out. “Why are we in the alley?”
Gates’s smile was charming and totally calm. “The front entrance is too exposed. Given that someone took a shot at me yesterday and you today, I’m feeling vulnerable.” He grimaced. “Yeah, I guess that’s a trigger word for me too. Anyway, we’ll be going in the side door. We can pretend we’re rock stars.”
Nonplussed, Ana looked at him. “Side door it is. Now, let’s go before I do something stupid like hug you and start crying again.”
“Wait? There’s hugging?” he said as they slid out into the dark. The driver held an umbrella over their heads. “Nobody told me there was going to be hugging,” he protested, laughing.
“It’s barely raining now,” she murmured, trying to ignore his teasing.
“Can’t shoot what you can’t see,” he whispered in her ear, his words as serious now as he’d been playful before. The driver opened the side door to the restaurant and ushered them in. A maitre d’ was waiting, all beaming smiles.
“Welcome, welcome, Mr. Bromley. And your lovely guest. Yes, yes, come this way,” he enthused. “I have your table all ready. Certainly,” he answered some unasked question. “Yes, and a nice bottle of white chilling. So, lovely lady, is there anything you don’t like to eat? Anything you cannot eat?”
The man paused with considerable drama at the end of the corridor, his hand on the door that presumably led to the restaurant itself. Distracted by thoughts of Gates, the ride to the restaurant, everything, including the maitre d’took her off guard. He was obviously waiting for her to answer, but she didn’t remember the question.
“Yes?”
“Food allergies? Anything you detest? Are you vegetarian, vegan?”
Whoa. Now that is service.
“I hate Brussels sprouts and pretty much any kind of beans,” she said, feeling slightly defensive about food issues when put on the spot. “I don’t eat veal.”
“Yes, yes, good. None of that tonight, so good. Anything else?”
“Not that I know of.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when he whisked through the door with a further wave of his hand. “This way, this way. Yes, yes, yes, it’s all ready. Very good. Welcome and all that. Now, here you are, sir,” he directed Gates to slide in one side of a booth in a darkened corner. There were other diners, but they were separated by high banquettes. Several other isolated tables like theirs were minimally visible through screening plants. Some were occupied; some were not. “And you on this side, Madame,” he directed, holding out an imperious hand for her briefcase. “Settle in now, be comfortable. I’ll put this right here.”
The maitre d’ bustled around, fluffing their napkins and dropping them artistically on each of their laps. “Your usual vintage, Mr. Bromley?”
“Please,” Gates said, and Ana could tell he was suppressing a smile. “My companion found it to be enjoyable, so we’ll continue with that.”
“Water too, please,” Ana added.
“But of course, Madame. Sparkling?”
“That’s fine, Mr. Prinz.” Gates was polite, but Prinz easily read the dismissal and with a brilliant smile, he trotted off to do their bidding. Gates turned to her. “So, no Brussels sprouts for you either?”
She made a face. “Nasty things. Bitter. Bleeech.”
“I know people who love them, but I agree with you. Bleeech.” He tapped the menu in front of her. “Nothing in here warrants that face or reaction, I can assure you. I’ve never had a bad meal here, and most of the ones I’ve had have been,” he paused, which made her look his way, “exquisite.”
Somehow, he was making that all about her and not about the food. That look was back, and the hand he’d casually slipped behind her in the booth now toyed with the loose tendrils of hair at the back of her neck. The roller-coaster ride of her emotions took another startling dip and rise. He was putting on the serious flirt again, but it was far more than a surface thing. This was real, important, and that scared her to death.
“That’s quite the uh, recommendation.” She was having a hard time concentrating on the slim folder. His touch was so sure, so s
ensuous; she wanted to arch into his hand, purr like her cat, Lancelot. Where was her control? Where was the reserve, the shell that had served her so well since Rome?
Gone. Gone like the block that had kept her tears from flowing. Washed away by the spate of weeping.
She was still staring blindly at the menu when Prinz bustled back to the table.
“Here we are, wine and water. Essential to life, both of them, of course.” He beamed, pouring a taste for Gates.
“No need for formality, Mr. Prinz. I know it’s wonderful, so pour out.”
“Of course, sir.” He poured out and bustled off again.
Gates let the menu fall so he could pick up his wine without stopping his assault on her senses, as he continued to stroke her neck under the fall of her heavy hair. He was a dangerous, dangerous man.
“I think we should get our orders settled, discuss some business, and then I can have dinner to just enjoy your company. Does that work for you?” Gates said, watching her with just the hint of a smile.
“Of course.” She returned to the consideration of her own menu as if he’d said nothing out of the ordinary. The list of luscious dishes blurred before her tired eyes, and all she could focus on was the feel of his stroking fingers. “That would be fine,” Ana said, trying once more to resurrect her equilibrium.
She felt idiotic. Then again, the last time she’d been on a date, it had been with an all-hands octopus of an Italian in Rome, just before the bombing. She’d been trying to get back on the proverbial dating horse. It hadn’t worked. Certainly, the sensation of Gates’s featherlight touch on her neck was nothing like the ham-handed grabbiness of the Italian guy.
“Ana?”
“Sorry,” she said, distracting his all-too-sharp gaze by tapping the menu. Trying for normal conversation, she asked, “What do you think is involved in bourgeois steak with potato frites and greens? How does one make a steak bourgeois?”
She fell back on the agent’s rule of thumb: When in doubt, ask questions.