But that didn't mean he couldn't admire what Eve had managed to do here. The small room didn't look contrived but somehow right. It suited her.
The kitchen opened into the workshop. From his vantage point, he saw Eve. Involved in her task, she didn't look up. He stared, transfixed. It wasn't the room that drew him now but the woman inside it. A Madonna-like smile changed her features from animated to thoughtful.
Was she thinking of him?
The idea had his lips curving upward. His ego was as out- of-control as Eve had claimed if he believed that. More likely, she was thinking of a new design.
She sat in the middle of the floor, legs tucked under her, hair a wild mane of red-gold hair haloing her face. In her lap she held a skein of yarn, the deep purple contrasting sharply with the fair skin of her hands.
Over and over, she wound the yarn, her motions as graceful as those of a ballerina. He watched, fascinated. Light played across her face, shifting as the breeze stirred the curtains which filtered it.
The serenity of her pose, the absolute peace that radiated off her in waves held him rooted to the spot. It was more than beauty, although she had that in abundance. It was an inner harmony that said she knew who she was and was content with it.
His hands fisted at his sides as he admitted that he could destroy that peace. Not willingly. Never that. But he knew himself well enough to recognize that what he felt for her wasn't going to go away. This was the real thing, the forever-and-ever- kind of love that poets revered and composers exalted.
He wished he had the fancy words to tell her of his feelings, the talent to put them to music. All he had was a heart that belonged to her.
Her hands moved with an unconscious grace and again he was reminded of a dancer. He took pleasure in the act of watching her. For now, he was content to simply watch. But not forever, he promised himself.
Not forever.
She felt him. It wasn't something she could define. No sound or movement had given him away. It was the presence that made him who he was. She could understand the voters' infatuation with him. He exuded power, a quiet strength that invited trust. How could she deny what was so plainly evident?
She lifted her head and smiled. "You're supposed to be in a meeting."
"Disappointed?"
"No."
"Good. Because I couldn't stay away."
His honesty didn't surprise her. She'd knew him well enough to understand that he didn't play games. It was something else she appreciated. She'd had enough of the game-playing that was part and parcel of the political scene in the nation's capital.
Daniel crossed the room to her, drawing her back to the present. She scrambled to her feet and placed her hands on his shoulders. He felt big and solid beneath her touch, a man a woman could count on, a man she could feel safe with.
The direction of her thoughts had her pulling back. She had admitted him into her life, but that didn't mean she was going to allow him any further. Her heart was out-of-bounds. As long as she kept to that, she'd be all right. She had to be.
She started to pick up her yarn when he stopped her. "You don't have to be afraid."
That had her chin lifting. "I'm not."
"Good. Show me what you're doing."
"I'm getting ready to make a rug. This—" here she handed him the skein of yarn "—is one of the things I'll be weaving it out of." She tugged at his hand. "Come on back and I'll show you the rest.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves separated the work area from the living area. Bulky spools of thread and skeins of yarn filled every available space.
"Have you ever seen a loom before?" she asked.
"Only in pictures."
She pointed to the massive piece that occupied the center of the workroom. "This is a floor loom. The warp threads stretch from here to—" she pointed to the other side "—there. The heddles lift and lower the threads so that the weft threads can be slipped crosswise, over and under the warp ones."
He held up a hand. "Hey, slow down. You're talking to a man who doesn't know his right from his weft."
A sheepish smile inched across her lips. "Sorry. I tend to get carried away." She picked up a sheaf of papers and handed it to him. "Maybe this'll give you an idea of what I do."
He glanced through the papers which turned out to be drawings. Water color sketches showed dresses, blouses, jackets, every imaginable type of clothing made from hand-woven cloth.
The colors were those of the earth and sky, ranging from the palest green of a young plant to a deep, rich brown of newly turned soil to the crimson of sunset.
He looked at her in surprise. "You're an artist."
"Some think so." Her lips curved up at the corners. "You thought I was just some nut case playing with yarn. Right?"
This time it was his turn to smile sheepishly. "Never a nut case."
"But a little strange," she persisted.
"Maybe a little."
"Okay, Senator. I'm some weirdo artist and you're a politician. Doesn't sound like the thing dreams are made of, does it?"
Beneath her tart tone was regret. He heard it and seized upon it. The lady didn't really want him to leave her alone.
She felt this thing between them as surely as he did. Now wasn't the time to pursue it. He turned his interest back to the sketches and swatches of cloth attached to them.
What attracted him most was the feel of the material. It wasn't crisp to the touch, as commercially loomed cloth felt. It draped softly, as though it were made to caress the skin instead of simply covering it.
The fanciful direction of his thoughts had his lips edging upward. He'd never been one for a fancy turn of phrase.
Contrary to popular opinion, not all politicians favored pretty words. His own bordered on plainness, at times, bluntness. It had taken the right woman to bring out the poetry he was told resided in every Scotsman's soul.
She placed her hands over his, gently guiding them to work the shuttle.
"You try it now."
It looked simple enough, but he wasn't fooled. He knew she had spent years perfecting her art. He wasn't arrogant enough to assume he could duplicate her work. But neither was he one to ignore a challenge.
He looked down as her long, slender hands deftly worked their magic on the yarn. His own felt clumsy and huge in comparison.
"You aren't paying attention," she accused.
But he was. Just not to the matter of weaving. He grinned before turning his focus back on what she was showing him. Her hands on his, she guided him through the motions.
"See?" she said when they'd successfully completed one line.
"You did it."
What he saw was the pale skin of her hands resting atop the darkly tanned skin of his own. What he saw were two people, different from each other in so many ways, yet right in the most fundamental ones. What he saw was…he looked up to watch her animated face…the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
But he couldn't tell her that. Not yet.
The two words chafed at him, but he held onto his resolve. There'd be a time. Soon, if he had his way.
He looked tired, Eve thought with a quick pang of concern. Her worry about keeping her heart whole slipped away as she reached up to touch the lines of strain that formed grooves at the corners of his mouth and eyes.
Daniel found himself oddly soothed by the concern he read in her eyes. He was accustomed to the long hours his job demanded. Having someone worry about him was something new, though. He could get used to it, he decided.
"You look bushed."
"Right the first time." He rotated his shoulders, trying to ease the kinks that had him twisted up in knots.
"Let me."
He closed his eyes and felt her hands settle at the base of his neck. Her fingers tightened and dug deep. His first response was to scream in agony but the almost-scream died as his muscles slowly relaxed, turning to jelly. Waves of pleasure rippled outward from where her hands touched, seeping into every inch of
his body.
Her hands settled between his shoulders now, rubbing, kneading, coaxing the tension there to ease and, finally, disappear. Her fingers slid down his back, gently soothing away every ounce of tension, working their magic until he was all but purring.
"Mmmm. Anybody ever tell you that you've got magic fingers?"
She smiled at his nonsense. "Tell me what's got you so tied up in knots."
And he did. He talked. Without wondering how he sounded. Without worrying if he made sense. Without anything but the need to share what he was feeling.
"I want to make a difference. That's why I ran for office in the first place. I know a lot of people just think it's a family thing, but it's more. I want to make things better." He laughed shortly. "I can't believe I said that. It sounds unbelievably corny."
"Not to me."
"You really meant that, don't you?"
The sincerity in her eyes was answer enough.
He twisted around long enough to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thanks for listening. I didn't realize I needed that. Until now." His hand slipped to cup her chin. "You're easy to be with."
It was the nicest compliment she'd ever been given.
Her fingers continued to work their magic as she listened, and he felt much of the tension melt away as he talked. Sleep snuck up on him, and he gave in to the exhaustion that dogged him all day.
An hour, then two, passed. Still, he slept. Eve worked at her loom, content that he was here. A frown worked its way between her brows as she thought of how tense he'd been when he arrived.
The responsibilities he carried would only multiply as he advanced in the party. And she knew he would. His need to serve, to make things better for the people of this country would see to it.
Chapter Five
Daniel had a call to return to his Washington office, another to a party leader. But all he could think of was Eve.
It had been three days since their last date. Three days in which he'd reminded himself that he'd promised to take things slow. Three days in which he'd kept that promise. Three days in which he tried to convince himself he didn't need to see her every night. Before he could talk himself out of it, he punched out her number.
"See me tonight?" he asked.
"Did it ever occur to you that you might try calling a lady in advance?"
He heard the "I'm-trying-not-to-smile-but-I-can't-help-myself" tone in her voice. "I might. But I didn't."
"What if I have other plans?" she asked, still with that trying-not-to-smile tone.
"Do you?"
"No. But that's not—"
"I'll pick you up at seven." He hung up without giving her a chance to refuse. His own smile was not of the trying-not-to type. It was an honest-to-goodness one, an if-I-died-now-I'd- die-happy one. It was the smile of a man in love.
* * * *
Eve checked her watch. Again. Her breath fled entirely, along with all thought, as the chimes on the front door sounded. She'd have suffered the most horrible of tortures before admitting it, but she'd been waiting for this moment all day.
Daniel stood there, more handsome than any man had a right to be, more dear than her heart wanted to admit.
"What made you think I'd be here? Waiting?" she asked.
"Because you like me." One corner of his mouth tipped into a lop-sided grin. The other followed suit, evening it out.
She felt her own lips imitate his. The man was incorrigible. His conceit was infectious. How could she resist him? The answer was simple: she couldn't. She drew him into the kitchen and handed him a soda. "What did you do today?"
"Took some calls. Thought about you. Wrote a couple of letters. Thought about you some more. Had a meeting. Thought about you a lot. Drafted a response—"
Her smile spread like an awakening sunbeam. "I'm beginning to get the idea."
"Good." He bent to brush a kiss on the side of her neck. "Come on. We don't want to be late."
"Where're we going?" she asked, grabbing her jacket.
"You'll see."
* * * *
The air was heavy with excitement, the aroma of butter-flavored oil poured over popcorn, and bodies pressed together.
The carnival.
She took in the sights and scents and sounds with the abandon of a child. Tugging on Daniel's hand, she dragged him from one ride to another. The Scrambler, Hoop-the-Hoop, Whirly Birds, they did them all. She clung to him for dear life as the tiny cup they were strapped in jerked and tumbled its way down the impossibly narrow tracks of the Wild Mouse.
He flexed his hand when they disembarked, drawing her attention to crescent shaped grooves which scored his palm.
"Did I do that?" she asked.
"'Fraid so, sweetheart." As she started to form an apology, he pulled her to him. "Hey, don't worry. It's a small price to pay for getting to hold hands with my best girl."
His words were light, but she wondered. Did he mean it? That part about her being his best girl? And how did she feel about it if he did? How did she want to feel about it? She had no time to ponder on it as he pulled her toward another ride.
A meager breeze ruffled his hair, and she reached up to smooth it off his forehead just as he did the same. Their hands collided. Dark against light. Hard against soft. Man against woman. He caught her fingers in his and laced them together.
Laughter spilled around them with the punctuation of shrill screams. Multi colored lights winked, beckoning the carnival-goers to the sideshows—the fire eating woman, the Gypsy palm reader, the hall of mirrors. For tonight, they weren't Senator Cameron and date but simply two people enjoying each other.
She realized that's all she wanted them to be. Two ordinary people with ordinary jobs doing ordinary things living ordinary lives. Ordinary—the one thing Daniel could never be.
The realization sobered her. Aware that he was watching her, she pushed the unsettling thoughts from her mind. Tonight belonged to them. Whatever happened, whatever didn't happen, they'd have tonight.
They feasted on pink cotton candy, hotdogs sloppy with ballpark-type mustard, washed down with giant paper cups of root beer.
"My stomach's not going to thank me for this tomorrow morning," she said, wiping mustard from her lips as she finished her second hotdog.
"You missed a spot." He took the napkin from her and dabbed at the corner of her mouth.
The gesture spoke of intimacy. It was then that a flash exploded in front of her eyes. If she hadn't just swallowed, she would have choked.
She blinked against the temporary blindness, groping for Daniel's hand.
He shielded her from further pictures, but the carefree mood was spoiled. They tried to recapture it. They laughed, but the laughter came too late. They held hands but felt self-conscious. How many other amateur photographers were out there, waiting to snap a picture of a United States senator out enjoying himself with a woman?
The ride home held none of the earlier good spirits. At her house, he didn't wait for an invitation but came inside. They had to have this out before it festered.
"I'll make us some coffee," she said, starting toward the kitchen.
He followed her, watching as she went through the motions of making coffee, concentrating on covering the grounds with water, careful not to pour too much water, or too little. She caught her tongue between her teeth, a gesture he'd come to recognize to mean that she was troubled. He wanted to protest that he didn't want coffee but knew she needed time.
"It'll be ready in a few minutes," she said without turning around.
He took the hint and headed back to the front room. He contented himself by looking around. The living room was a treasure trove, filled with both things Eve had created and loved. A cloisonné elephant shared space with a fragile Lladro figurine. Two woven wall hangings flanked a traditional landscape. A rag rug covered the plank floor. The effect was at once exciting yet peaceful. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, they fit together to form a whole.
When she returned
, he took the tray from her and set it on a table. He turned her in his arms so that her back was to him.
His arms linked around her waist, he rested his brow on the back of her head and sighed deeply. Having some enterprising photographer snap pictures of him was nothing out of the ordinary. To him.
To Eve, it was something else. He felt the tension in her, the struggle to control it. He'd prefer she yell, scream, give way to the anger he knew she was feeling, anything but this quiet.
She felt small and fragile in his arms. She was so vibrant, so full of energy and life that he sometimes forgot how vulnerable she really was.
"Let it out," he urged.
"It's nothing."
His patience snapped, and he made a rude sound. "You hated it. Admit it."
"All right. I hated it."
"Good." He let out a long breath. "Chances are it won't make the papers."
She nodded, but they both knew differently. Senator Daniel Cameron was news—whether in the amusement park or on the senate floor.
They said stilted goodbyes.
The hope that the picture would be ignored or buried on the back page vanished when she opened the morning paper. There they were on the front page with the caption, "Senator amuses himself at amusement park." Eve cringed at the coy wording. She read the brief, chatty article accompanying the picture.
The calls started that morning. By ten, she took the phone off the hook.
There was no reason for her to be upset, she reminded herself. The paper hadn't printed anything that wasn't true.
She was seeing a United States senator. The hint that there was something more between them than simple friendship was only a standard gossip columnist ploy.
She and Daniel shared common friends; it was only natural that a friendship should develop between the two of them. Yeah. And if she believed that, maybe she ought to buy some swamp land in Florida.
Was that the real reason for her distress? That she knew her feelings for Daniel went far beyond friendship?
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