“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” she laughed.
He forced himself to smile back. How could she be so relaxed? Didn’t she feel the electricity between them? It was impossible that such a strong emotion was one-sided. Or was it? Hadn’t it been one-sided in the past? Why had he expected it to change?
In the harsh light of the elevator, Mark thought he saw a few signs of the difficult times she had recently endured. A faint crease at the corner of each eye. A subtle wariness of expression. When she wasn’t smiling, her mouth settled into a line that was more firm than before, as though she were determined to… what? He wasn’t certain.
The elevator stopped and Dominique led the way out. She turned and looked over her shoulder at Mark. He noticed the youthful, confident squareness of her posture. He thought about the emotional battering she had suffered at Clay’s hands. It seemed she had survived; not only survived, but bounced back, not unscarred but, in a way, stronger than before. He remembered the quality that had first drawn him to her: the vivid force that emanated from her. It was still there. Had grown in power.
Once more, he felt himself plummeting toward hopeless entanglement.
The moment Mark stepped through the door, all Dominique’s anxiety about the gala melted away. He wore the same irresistibly charming smile she remembered. A smile that enfolded her and conspired with her and drew her to him with a magnetic pull. A smile that said nothing in life is that serious.
She watched Mark’s eyes light up as he focused on her, and she felt herself glow in return. He admired her, he genuinely admired her! He was a man surrounded by power, a man who could have his pick of virtually any beautiful, accomplished woman in America—and he admired her! It made Dominique’s confidence soar.
Almost at once, she reined herself in. He was, after all, a practiced politician. It was his job to engage people, make them feel important and, yes, admired. And he was so good at it! Her giddiness ebbed away.
Then Mark wrapped her in the warmth of his arms and—she couldn’t help it—she clung to him in return. Oh, it felt good to be hugged! To smell the male scent of soap and shaving cream and—something that was exclusively Mark’s—a freshness that reminded her of a morning walk in the woods. Not as overpowering as cologne, just a nice, clean smell.
She looked up at him and saw his face come toward her. Their lips were about to meet. But they had never before kissed on the mouth. He mustn’t think she had done it on purpose! She was suddenly terribly aware of her newly single state, and her pride asserted itself. She didn’t want to be perceived as one of the countless women who threw themselves at Mark. She turned her head and lightly pecked his cheek. She didn’t see the look of disappointment on his face.
He continued to hold her and she wanted to be held, but instead she stepped back. She looked attentively at him as she chattered about inconsequential things. Why did she always envision him as handsome? He wasn’t really. She compared him to other men she’d known. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t as handsome as Clay or Stephen Hampton. Yet he transmitted kindness, humor, warmth, and—Dominique blushed as she thought it—sexiness. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him, not as a friend, but as a lover. She was surprised by the strength of her feelings. She had never before allowed them to stray so far into forbidden territory. During her marriage to Clay, she had firmly assigned Mark the category of friend. Despite the initial chemistry between them, she had irrevocably drawn the line. It would have been disloyal to do otherwise.
Now, the necessity for boundaries was erased. Dominique’s sensuality, long suppressed, came alive like a flower turning to the sun.
By seven-thirty, the Hall of Nations overflowed with people, the hubbub of their conversation resounding off the marble walls. New congressional wives, initially a little bewildered, soon gravitated toward the “Welcome to Washington” room, where they relaxed with soothing harp music as soft-voiced “consultants” told them about their new city.
The crowd was a hodgepodge of styles, representing as it did every state in the union. New Yorkers wore the latest fashions—dresses with cutout midriffs and plunging necklines. Midwesterners ran the gamut from flowered print chiffons to no-nonsense simplicity, while New Englanders stuck to navy and pearls. The embassy community was clearly distinguishable from the rest. The women were either impeccably chic or festively arrayed in native dress.
At eight, handsome young men in black tie directed guests to a seated dinner on the top floor, giving the workers below a chance to clear the area of the debris from the cocktail buffet. Candlelit tables for eight, decorated with yet more Dutch flowers, were placed strategically about the room so that guests could enjoy views of the Potomac River.
Dominique sighed with relief as she overheard the guests rave about the dinner, an ambitious joint effort by several embassy chefs. There was sautéed fresh foie gras from France, creamy risotto in saffron from Italy, stuffed roast loin of lamb from Greece, cheeses from Switzerland, and pastries from Austria. Dominique herself was too nervous to eat. She shuttled back and forth from the great halls below to the dining room, ensuring that everything was moving along smoothly. On her last trip, she returned just as dessert was being served. The orchestra had begun to play, and a few couples swayed on the parquet dance floor at one end of the room.
Dominique noted that Sylvia Brussels was firmly ensconced at one of the tables, chatting as she enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cigarette. As Dominique passed by, she heard Sylvia accept the congratulations of the German ambassador. Dominique tried to shrug off her annoyance. After all, Sylvia was the company’s top executive—apart from Mrs. Filmore, who had already departed earlier in the month for her annual trek to Palm Beach. If Mrs. Filmore trusted Sylvia enough to leave the company in her hands, she probably did deserve a lot of credit.
But a little voice inside Dominique reminded her that Sylvia had stayed as far away as possible from tonight’s project. She sighed to herself. What did it matter? At least the woman was happy. For the first time, Dominique saw a genuine smile on her face. It was not directed at Dominique, of course, but that didn’t matter. Sylvia could not deny that Dominique had proved her worth. That was the important thing.
After dinner, Dominique circled the room to check that dishes were being promptly cleared. As she passed the head table, where Mark was also seated, he caught her by the wrist. Dominique felt a charge go through her at the contact.
“Do you have time for a dance?” he asked.
Dominique looked quickly about the room. Did anything need her attention? People were laughing and chatting, toasting new friendships, and enjoying the glow of good wine and good food.
Dominique smiled down at Mark. “Just one,” she said. As they passed Sylvia’s table on the way to the dance floor, she could feel the woman’s gaze burning into her. In view of Dominique’s duties that evening, she could have found an excuse not to dance. But, she rationalized, that wouldn’t be very polite. And the fact was that she wanted the dance. Just one, that was all.
It was a waltz—the rather sentimental “Fascination.” But the words, crooned by a honey-voiced brunette in a sequined gown, suddenly resonated with meaning.
Mark carefully placed his hand on the velvet covering Dominique’s waist—a little higher and he would have touched her bare back. As it was, his body heat radiated through the material. It made Dominique’s nerves tingle with awareness. She felt as though she were on a tightrope. One wrong move and she would stumble to an unknown fate. At all costs, she had to avoid looking into Mark’s eyes. Eyes that lingered on her face, her hair, her bare shoulders. She should try to make small talk, Dominique told herself. To look casual. But she was mute with tension.
Mark, too, was silent. He could smell the perfume rising from Dominique’s skin. Tantalizing, erotic. He wanted to bury his face in her hair. He wanted to lead her away from the others, to be alone with her.
They whirled about the room, effortlessly attuned to each other’s rhythm. The slig
htest movement of his hand told her when to turn, when to pause, when to move forward. This is how it was meant to be, he thought. Except… except she wouldn’t meet his gaze. She looked over his shoulder, at his tie, his hair, anywhere but his eyes.
“Dominique…” he said. His voice was soft, appealing. If he said her name, she would have to look at him.
And she did.
Dominique, feeling strangely tentative, looked up from under her lashes. She expected to see the familiar laughter in Mark’s eyes, but for once they were serious. Her heart raced as she saw the determination there. She opened her mouth to speak. Then, flustered, closed it again. His unexpected intensity disconcerted her. She tried for a light laugh, but it sounded false. There was no place for it in the atmosphere between them. Her smile faded and she gazed squarely at Mark. His eyes pulled her in. She hadn’t the power to look away.
As the last note of the song faded, Mark held Dominique firmly in his arms. For a second, they stood that way. Then, reluctantly, he let her go.
Even after they stepped apart, their eyes remained locked.
Mark had to speak now, to seal the moment between them, before it faded from her memory, before she could shrug it off. “You’ll see me again, won’t you?” he asked. His voice sounded raspy, as though he were speaking for the first time that day.
Dominique thought of all the reasons why she shouldn’t. He was her friend. This would complicate their relationship. He might be trifling with her. It was a momentary attraction. She couldn’t bear being hurt again. She was better off on her own.
She looked into his eyes and said, “Yes.”
Monday morning, and Dominique basked in the praise of a circle of co-workers. They were intoxicated by the success of the gala and what it would mean to the company’s revenues. In the quarter hour before the meeting officially began, they clustered around Dominique, balancing cups of coffee and doughnuts as they patted her on the arm or shook her hand.
“I hope you saw the society page yesterday!” Felice told her. “You should cut it out and frame it!”
“It was on the TV news, Saturday and Sunday!” exclaimed another co-worker.
Dominique, flushed with gratification, thanked them. Best of all, she knew that Sylvia Brussels had to be pleased, despite the fact that the woman had avoided speaking to her on Saturday. In the rush and confusion of the good-byes and final cleanup, Dominique hadn’t noticed the omission. Then, shortly after two a.m., she had turned to look for Sylvia and found her engrossed in conversation with a diamond-draped platinum blonde whom Dominique recognized as one of Washington’s rich young matrons. Dominique knew that Sylvia would not welcome an interruption, so she had finished her business and gone home.
Now Sylvia was forgotten as Dominique laughed with her co-workers and relived the victories of the gala.
“Did you see the line at the realtor’s table? That was a stroke of genius!” said Frank Collier, one of the firm’s two male employees.
“The dinner was divine!” said the catering manager.
Dominique barely had time to respond to one compliment before another issued forth.
Suddenly the atmosphere in the room changed. One by one the voices of praise fell silent. Dominique saw that the others were looking at the door, and she turned and looked also, her neck already beginning to tense.
Sylvia’s petite frame seemed to fill the doorway like a beacon of ill-boding. When all eyes were on her, she strode into the room and dropped a pile of folders heavily on the conference table. “Let’s begin,” she ordered in a crisp voice. She opened one of the folders and propped her glasses on her nose. “First order of business: the reception for the Yves St. Laurent boutique.”
The meeting passed brusquely, efficiently, and without a word about the gala. At the end of the hour, Sylvia snapped closed the final folder and stood. “Thank you. That’s it,” she said, and marched from the room.
Dominique and her colleagues exchanged stunned glances. Dominique felt hot with embarrassment, though she knew she had the support of those around the table. With her silence, Sylvia had undermined Dominique’s entire effort.
“Well…” breathed Felice. She gave Dominique a look of commiseration. “You can be sure that Mrs. Filmore knows how wonderful the gala was. I mean, we had as much media coverage as a state dinner at the White House.”
Dominique nodded feebly, trying to take comfort in the words.
One by one, her colleagues rose from their chairs, murmuring about appointments and work to be done.
Dominique remained seated, too shocked and hurt to move.
Felice came behind her chair and put a comforting hand on Dominique’s shoulder. “Hey, don’t take it personally. She’s one of those people who can’t get a compliment past her lips.” She patted Dominique on the back.
Dominique stood up slowly and smiled at her friend. “You’re right.… I should just ignore this. Not let her get to me.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Felice, beaming.
“We’d better get back to work,” Dominique said in a disheartened voice.
Felice gave her a philosophical look. “How about drinks after work?”
“Pardon?” Dominique was distracted, her mind still on Sylvia. “Oh, oh sure.” She paused, gathering her bearings. “Six-thirty?”
Felice made a thumbs-up sign and left the room.
Dominique watched her go, then sat down again, her mind unable to let go of Sylvia’s insult. Dominique had thought that surely this time Sylvia would have to acknowledge her worth. But it was suddenly clear to her that nothing she could do would please her boss. Dominique’s insides churned with tension. Even more stress-inducing was the knowledge that she couldn’t afford to displease Sylvia. If only Mrs. Filmore were in the office more! If only Dominique had been at the firm a little longer, she could have searched for another job. But such a short stay—after a hiatus of a decade—wouldn’t look good on a résumé.
Dominique was trapped and she could think of no way out. She stared blankly at the table in front of her. After a moment, her eyes focused on the newspapers one of her colleagues had brought in. It was open to a page full of photographs from the gala. Dominique reached forward and pulled it toward her. Her spirits lifted as she read the captions. The evening had been an unqualified success! Nothing Sylvia did or said could take that away from Dominique.
With an air of resolve, she gathered up the papers and put them under her arm. She knew from reading the articles that her name was mentioned in none of them. But the clients knew she had been responsible, as did the dozens of people she had worked with to put on the affair.
Dominique’s chin was high as she headed to her office. Just as she reached it, the phone rang. She threw the papers on her desk and hurried to answer.
“Senator Patout on line three,” the receptionist told her.
Dominique inhaled sharply. Her heart pounding, she pressed the flashing button before she even sat down. “Mark, how are you?” She wanted to sound welcoming, but moderate. She kicked closed her office door, then brought the phone cord around the desk and sat down in her chair.
“What a great night! Everyone up here is still talking about it!” Mark sounded like a little boy at the circus.
“It wouldn’t have worked without such an esteemed guest of honor,” Dominique teased lightly. Then, in a tone of sincere gratitude, she said, “I don’t know how I can ever thank you for your help.” She smiled into the telephone.
“You can have dinner with me on Wednesday.”
A short, tense laugh escaped Dominique. The thought of actually going on a date again made her apprehensive. And yet, she enjoyed being with Mark—had always enjoyed it.
“Wednesday?” she repeated. “That… that sounds fine.”
“Good! I’ll pick you up at your place at seven.”
A wave of panic swept over Dominique. What would Gabrielle’s reaction be? Resentment? Outrage? Jealousy? And Solange? She’d probably be pleased, b
ut full of unwanted advice. Dominique was tempted to say that she would meet Mark at the restaurant.
“Dominique, are you still there?”
Dominique swallowed. She wouldn’t be cowed into hiding her actions from her family. If they had objections, it was better to know now. “Let me give you my address.”
“Wednesday!” Felice squealed. “He didn’t waste any time.”
“Sssh!” Dominique quickly looked around. They were just emerging from their office building, and Dominique scanned the people around them to ensure that there were no familiar faces. When she saw there were not, she relaxed.
“Let’s run!” Felice said, pulling her coat around her. “It’s freezing!” She began to trot in the curious, mincing way of women in high heels.
Dominique kept pace beside her, shivering as the wind sliced into her. “Where are we going?”
“Let’s go over to Nathan’s. I have my car today.”
Dominique halted abruptly. “Nathan’s? That singles bar?”
Felice, a few steps ahead of her, jerked to a halt. She turned back to her friend with a startled look. “Haven’t you been there? It’s just a few blocks from your place.”
Dominique didn’t move. “I know.” She met Felice’s curious gaze. “It’s just that… I’ve never been to a bar like that without a man.”
Felice’s expression was, for a moment, frozen with disbelief. Then she twisted her face into a half-smile, put her hands on her hips, and said, “What are you telling me?”
Dominique was amused at her friend’s reaction. She took a few steps forward until they were standing side by side. With a gesture of her head, she indicated they should resume walking. “I mean…” she said with deliberation, “… that I never went to a bar unescorted.” A smile curved her lips. “That’s not the way things were done in New Orleans. And when I was young…” She let out a merry gasp indicating that such a thing would have been absolutely taboo.
“Are you saying you don’t want to go?” Felice’s tone was challenging.
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