Dillon reached out and took her hands. Hungry for a kiss, for the feel of her lips crushed beneath his, he satisfied himself with the amazingly shy, trusting clasp of her fingers around his.
“Sorry I’m late.”
She tilted her head inquiringly, revealing a flash of the finest gold on her delicately shaped ears. “Were you flying the plane?”
Grinning at the teasing question, he shook his head.
“Then there’s no reason to apologize, is there? Besides, do you have any idea how fascinating an airport can be?”
“Frankly, no.”
“Interested in a tour? There’s a lovely newsstand and the coffee shop has a waitress who must have come from New York. She’d make you homesick, she’s so rude. It reminded me of a deli I went into once in midtown Manhattan. The nastiest waitresses seemed to get the biggest tips. Why is that? You all not only put up with it, you actually encourage it.”
“Maybe because their regulars know they can count on them to be there day in and day out, never changing. Constancy is something to be treasured, especially in a city as quick to change as New York.”
She looked doubtful.
“Okay,” he said. “You don’t buy that. Maybe it’s just because it gives us somebody we can justify yelling back at before we’ve had our morning coffee. If we snap at a waitress, she’ll punish us with cold coffee. If we snap at our wives, they’ll divorce us and take us to the cleaners in the process.”
“That sounds more like it. What about you? Are you a morning person?”
“Actually, I am. I never snapped at Paula over breakfast. I’d usually left the house long before she even got up. And I never growl at waitresses. Do you really want to stand here talking about my temper in the morning?”
“Actually, yes,” she said.
Puzzled, he glanced into her too-serious eyes. “Why?”
Her aristocratic chin lifted with the faintest suggestion of defiance. Once again he spotted that astounding vulnerability and the stubborn determination to overcome it. “Because a part of me is terrified of what comes next,” she admitted.
“Nothing that you don’t want,” he promised, touched by her determined honesty and awed by the suggestion of innocence in a woman who should have been filled with self-assurance. He recognized once more that such personal revelations were rare for her, something to be treasured and encouraged.
“Even if I have to spend the entire weekend in an icy shower,” he added wryly.
“Maybe my mother would overlook your Northern beginnings after all,” she said thoughtfully, a teasing glint lighting her blue eyes. “You have definitely captured the spirit of a Southern gentleman.”
The praise was a mixed blessing. “Let’s just hope my weak flesh can live up to my willing spirit,” he said.
“I have every confidence in you,” she said, linking her arm through his and playing havoc with his honorable intentions.
“I know,” he said, barely containing a sigh of pure pleasure at her touch. “That’s what makes it so damned difficult. If I ever succumbed to a moment of intense passion, I’d feel guilty about it for the rest of my life. Now let’s stop talking about this. Have you decided where you’d like to go for dinner?”
“The same place. I feel as though it’s lucky for us.”
“You’re superstitious?”
“Just hedging my bets. Do you mind?”
“Not at all, as long as you don’t expect me to serve the coffee. Last time the people at the next table complained because I didn’t pour for them.”
Catherine’s lilting laughter, suddenly carefree and unrestrained, filled the air. Dillon felt as though she’d bestowed a precious gift on him.
* * *
The restaurant was packed to capacity with holiday weekend visitors to Savannah, but the hostess took one look at Dillon and promised to do what she could. They were seated within minutes. The dinner was the best yet. Catherine actually tasted the shrimp for the first time and savored the spicy seasonings.
“This is terrific,” she said with unconcealed astonishment.
“It’s the third time you’ve had it,” Dillon pointed out.
“But it’s the first time I was paying any attention.” She regarded him intently. “You actually remember what I had over a year ago on the night we met?”
“I remember everything about that night,” he said and her heart thumped unsteadily. He placed his hand on the table, palm up, and after only the tiniest hesitation she linked her fingers through his. The contact sent shivers racing along her spine. His hot, hungry gaze melted her resolve to move ahead slowly, to keep him at arm’s distance until she really knew him.
“Dillon, you promised,” she accused in a breathless voice.
He stared back innocently. “I’m not doing a thing.”
“You are,” she insisted, drawing back her hand. Even without his touch, though, her pulse didn’t quiet and her flesh didn’t cool. She folded her hands tightly together in her lap and sat up straighter. “Tell me about your week.”
His low chuckle washed over her, teasing at her senses and making mincemeat of her attempt to regain control over her rampaging hormones. “I made a few bucks. How about you?”
She ignored the flip reply. She’d pursue the details about his week later. “I worked at the shop and went to three tedious luncheons for very good causes,” she said just as glibly.
“I’d rather have sent them the money.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because they tell me that listing my name on the committee helps to raise more money. What it really means is I feel guilty unless I get on the phone and insist that my friends turn out. Then I have to do the same for their charities. Pretty soon I’m up to my eyeballs in chicken salad and fresh raspberries.”
“You said something about calling the College of Art and Design this week to make an appointment. Did you? I’d like to go by and take a look at the place. I’ve heard a lot more about it since I’ve been coming down here regularly.”
Despite Dillon’s apparent interest, Catherine immediately felt defensive. “You sound like Beth,” she grumbled lightly. “Please, don’t you turn into a nag, too. I’ll get to it one of these days.”
“It’s not too soon to check out fall classes,” he persisted with the determination of a man not used to wasting time. “If you were living in Savannah, we could see even more of each other.”
He held out the possibility of more time together like a delightful temptation, but it came with strings. She wasn’t prepared to make a change so drastic in her life-style, not for any man, especially when she wasn’t ready to do it for herself.
“Can’t we table this conversation?” she pleaded.
He seemed genuinely confused by her hesitation. She envied his self-assurance, his quick decision-making skill. Dillon was obviously a man who always grabbed for the brass ring, relishing the success, but willing to risk the defeats. She wasn’t nearly so brave. Yet, she amended. She was getting stronger by the day.
“Why don’t you want to discuss it?” he asked.
She took a deep breath and admitted, “Because every time one of you brings it up, I start to feel like a failure.”
Dillon looked stunned at her heartfelt candor. “A failure? This isn’t about failing, Catherine. I thought working in historic preservation was something you wanted. I’m just trying to encourage you.”
“I mentioned it a couple of times. What you and Beth are doing feels more like pressure than encouragement.”
“Because you’re scared,” he said with another of those uncanny flashes of intuition. “Is that it?”
“Damn right, I’m scared,” she retorted. “I’m leading a safe, secure life right now. Why should I turn it upside down on some whim?”
“If that’s all it is, then you’re right.” He studied her intently. “Is it just a whim?”
Catherine sighed. “I don’t know anymore. Every time I walk through this town and see how
much has been accomplished, I get excited all over again. Then I go home and fall back into a familiar routine and I don’t see the point. There are plenty of other people to tackle preservation projects. The school’s reputation is growing. The work is exciting. It’s new. The country is finally beginning to see the importance of preserving history, instead of knocking it down and replacing it with another high rise. Savannah’s been a leader in that fight.”
“Things may be changing here. People in Savannah do have a genuine commitment, but there aren’t that many leaders for the fight yet in other cities. How many historic buildings in Atlanta fell so they could build the new downtown stadium? That’s right in your own backyard.”
Catherine cringed at the accuracy of the charge. She’d spoken out, but she hadn’t actually led a crusade. She hadn’t been in there pitching alternatives. Maybe she was just one of those people who was committed to a cause only as long as it was easy, only as long as the main requirements were cash and time, not the risk of controversy.
“You’re right,” she said miserably. “I walked away from a fight. Maybe that’s the worst carryover from my marriage. I’ve forgotten how to stand up for myself and what I believe in. I spent too many years focused totally on Matthew’s goals and one of his primary objectives in life was to avoid controversy.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way, you know. You’re too intelligent and caring to take the easy way out forever.”
She grabbed at the praise like a lifeline. “What makes you so confident of that?”
“I see the spirit in your eyes, the flashes of temper. You bank them before they get out of hand, but they’re there. Yelling back just takes a little practice.”
Suddenly she realized just how often she did bite her tongue to avoid making a scene, how often she kept her opinions to herself in the name of diplomacy. Matthew had prized her tact and her even temper almost more highly than her knack for choosing the best wine and creating the most extravagant entr;aaees. “Be careful,” she warned Dillon. “You may be creating a monster. The next thing you know you won’t be able to utter a word without me challenging you.”
He grinned. “I’m a born street fighter, sweetheart. I’ll take my chances. Now finish that wine and let’s get out of here. There’s someplace I think we should go.”
“Where?”
“You’ll see,” he said mysteriously. No matter how hard she prodded, he wouldn’t reveal his plans.
It was just as well. When they left the restaurant, the waterfront was alive with holiday weekend activity. There was a concert in progress and the crowds from each of the restaurants and clubs spilled out onto the riverwalk. Some paused to listen to the music. Others strolled at a leisurely pace, pursued by the sultry strains of jazz.
“Stay or go?” Dillon asked, watching her face.
The beat of the music came alive inside her, tugging at her heart. “Stay,” she said at once as flute and trumpet soared with impossible beauty and clarity.
Dillon found a spot to stand, where they could hear the music and see the shadowy forms on the river. Leaning back against the low wall, he pulled her back against him, his arms linked around her midriff. The heat of his body surrounded her, the press of his hard, muscled thighs tempted. Every fiber of her being from head to toe was vibrantly aware of him, filled with the musky, masculine scent of him. Her breasts ached from the longing to be touched. She folded her arms around her middle, her hands atop Dillon’s. It took every ounce of restraint she possessed to keep from lifting those strong fingers just inches higher to caress and tease. His warm breath whispered past her ear and Catherine felt a sigh shudder through her.
“Look up,” he said in a hushed, awestruck voice. “Quickly.”
She glanced at the sky.
“A falling star,” he said, pointing. “Make a wish.”
Savoring the unexpectedly powerful feeling of contentment that being in his arms brought, she told him honestly, “I don’t think I could wish for anything more than this.”
* * *
Catherine awoke to the sound of impatient knocking and Dillon’s voice.
“Rise and shine, my long-stemmed beauty!”
Laughing, she drew on her robe and opened the door. “Long-stemmed beauty?”
“Isn’t there some poem about a love that’s like a red rose? That’s how I think of you.
You’re as elegant and petal-soft as an American Beauty rose. For a bit I thought you were more like an orchid, but last night I began to detect the strength, the thorns.”
“Thanks…I think. Do you always go on so poetically at—” she glanced at her bedside clock “—barely 9:00 a.m.?”
“I rarely have the inspiration,” he admitted. “Do you want your breakfast on the table over there or in bed?”
“That depends,” she said cautiously. “Are you sharing it with me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you’d better put it on the table.”
He sighed dramatically. “I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“What did you bring?” she asked, realizing that she was starved. Maybe Dillon wasn’t going to be good for her after all. Now that she had her appetite back in his presence, she had a feeling she could puff up like a pastry in no time if she didn’t watch herself.
As if he could read her mind, he taunted, “No dieting allowed this weekend. You’ll eat everything on your plate.”
“Now you sound just like the family housekeeper. My mother’s grapefruit breakfasts and my half-grapefruit and dry toast made her crazy. When my father had to give up eggs, Maisie almost retired. She said there wasn’t any point to knowing how to cook if nobody in the house was going to eat a blasted thing. She threatened to put out bowls of birdseed and be done with it.”
“Did she do it?”
“Of course not. Maisie would die if she didn’t have my parents to boss around. Her biggest regret is that she only gets to bully me at Sunday dinners now. I can’t bear the look on her face when I turn down dessert. Are you ever going to open those bags or am I going to have to steal them from you?”
“That could be interesting,” Dillon said, lifting the two huge white sacks just beyond her reach. She stood on tiptoe and stretched. His laughing gaze locked with hers, then drifted slowly down, turning hot and leaving fire and breathless anticipation in its wake. As his burning gaze lingered on her chest, Catherine realized that her robe was coming loose, leaving only the faintest scrap of lace to cover her breasts from Dillon’s intent examination.
“Catherine…” he began, his voice suddenly hoarse.
Her own breath had lodged in her throat and her heart hammered in her chest. “Yes,” she whispered.
“I…” He cleared his throat, then shook his head as if coming out of a trance. “I think we’d better eat.”
She nodded weakly and sat down hurriedly, tugging her robe more tightly around her and belting it securely.
Opening the bag with fingers that trembled, Dillon removed croissants that were still warm from the oven, containers of homemade jam, cups of fresh chilled melon, real silverware borrowed from the inn’s dining room and huge cups of steaming coffee. Reaching back in the bag one more time, he extracted a thick pamphlet and placed it in front of Catherine. She recognized the logo of the College of Art and Design and suddenly her appetite vanished.
“Dillon, you’re pressing.”
“It wouldn’t hurt to look it over, would it? I thought we could stop by later and talk to someone over there about fall enrollment.”
Catherine began to feel as if she was battling a steamroller. And losing. “Why is it so important to you that I do this?”
“It’s not important to me that you do this. It’s important for you.”
“How can you say that? You don’t even know me. You latched onto one little thing I said and you’re turning it into a cause.”
“Hardly that,” he said, calmly putting jam on his croissant. Catherine felt like shaking him for
being so disgustingly in control. Despite her fierce scowl, he kept on. “You did tell me this was something you’d once wanted badly. You keep saying you’re bored with all those luncheons. As far as I can tell the only thing keeping you from enrolling in this program is the age thing. I just want you to see how silly that is. Now do you still think I don’t know you?”
“Okay, superficially, maybe,” she admitted grudgingly, not willing to concede any more than that. “That doesn’t give you the right to interfere in my life, to take the decision out of my hands.”
“Is it interfering to want what’s best for you?”
“Not if I get to choose what’s best.”
“Then choose, Catherine. Make a choice. Any choice. I’ll back you up.”
There was an odd note of censure in his tone that infuriated her. He had no right, none at all, to suggest that what she was doing with her life now wasn’t enough. She threw down her napkin and stood up. “Maybe this is a mistake, Dillon. Maybe we should have left well enough alone.”
He seemed to go perfectly still. “Meaning?” he said very quietly.
She began to pace, glaring at him for ruining what had seemed so perfect only twenty-four hours earlier. “That some fantasies don’t hold up all that well under closer scrutiny. You’re every bit as domineering in your way as Matthew was in his. I won’t let another man run my life. I don’t want to be molded into your version of the ideal woman.”
“Hey, slow down. I don’t want to run your life. I want you to do it. There’s a big difference.”
“I am running my life.”
“Are you really? I don’t see it.”
“That’s because you’re obsessed with your career. You think everyone who isn’t a workaholic is bored.”
Next Time...Forever Page 4