by Anne Manning
Then she realized she'd left him standing on the front porch. "Oh, I'm sorry. Please, come in." She stepped aside, allowing him to enter. As he passed by, a warm, grassy scent followed him. Annabelle found herself breathing deeper to draw it in. "I'll just get my wrap and bag."
"Is your mother here? Should I tell her I'll have you home by midnight and no hanky-panky?"
"I don't think that will be necessary. I'm almost thirty years old. Plenty old enough to take care of myself."
"As old as that?" He chuckled again and seemed to be enjoying a private joke.
She ignored the sense she was missing out on something very funny and got her things. "Okay, I'm ready."
With a wave, he motioned her ahead of him out the door, then waited as she locked up. His warm fingers cupped her elbow, not guiding or directing her movements, not helping her descend the three shallow steps off the porch, but somehow so, well, courtly.
They didn't speak as he accompanied her down the walk to his car, which she hadn't noticed.
Boy, did she notice it now.
"Oh, my," she whispered. "An Aston Martin, just like James Bond used to drive."
His reply was a satisfied smile as he opened the door. She folded herself into the low-riding car. The leather covering the dash and the seats shone. The chrome gleamed. Why it should be so, she didn't know, but she felt a twinge of jealousy at the tender care he lavished on the machine.
Gaelen got in and started the engine. It caught on the first try and purred like a well-fed jungle cat.
Again he smiled, obviously pleased she appreciated his baby.
They drove in silence, but Annabelle didn't feel uncomfortable. That in itself struck her as odd. She didn't date much, and certainly none of the men she'd gone out with were in Gaelen Riley's class.
"You know," he said, breaking the silence, "I was a little afraid you'd call and tell me not to come tonight."
The honest uncertainty in his voice surprised her. She wasn't sure how to respond. He relieved her of the responsibility with a grin.
"Should I confess now or after dessert that I've had my cell phone turned off all afternoon?"
She laughed. "I refuse to believe you were nervous about this."
He cast her a glance. "I've been very nervous. And I'm very glad you are here with me now."
Annabelle gazed at him, a silly glow warming her. She'd just met the man. She had reason to distrust his motives, yet here she was drinking in his deep, sexy voice and the words that were balm for an ego too often bruised.
Obviously he was what her mother called a real ladies' man. He knew what to say and how to say it to get what he wanted. Annabelle wasn't fool enough to think herself the object of fascination he wanted to make her think she was.
Her head spun with all the convolutions of the situation. Couldn't she just enjoy the evening?
He pulled up in front of The Tea Room, parking in a spot right at the front door. Was the man charmed or something? There were never free parking spaces on Franklin Street. She watched him drop coins into the parking meter and then come to open her door.
"Here we are, mademoiselle." Offering his hand, he helped her out of the low-slung car and, she was certain, saved her dignity in the process.
Annabelle tried to pull her hand from his, but he held her, looping their arms and smoothing her fingers over his forearm.
"Dr. Riley, how are you tonight?" the maître d' asked, reaching for two menus from under the desk. "Your usual table?"
Gaelen pressed his lips together and glared, just for an instant at the man. "No, Ivan. I think we'd prefer something a little more secluded."
Ivan flicked a glance over Annabelle and winked--winked--at Gaelen. "Of course," he said in a perfectly smarmy, New York-waiter way. "This way, please?"
Annabelle wondered at Gaelen's reaction to Ivan's remarks. So, he came here a lot. It was a great place, one of the few in Chapel Hill not populated by students. It wasn't surprising a professor who saw plenty of his students during the day would prefer a place he'd not be likely to run into them. She found herself looking around, trying to figure out which one was his usual table.
"Your menu, miss?" Ivan slid the menu in front of her face. "Your server will be with you momentarily." Again Ivan winked at Gaelen and sauntered off.
"What was all that about?" she asked, studying her menu, pretending not to really care.
He did her the courtesy of not trying to pretend he didn't know what she was talking about. "I come here quite often."
"So, where's your usual table?" Annabelle smiled to make the question seem less important to her than it actually was.
"There," he tipped his head back, "by the front window."
There was only one table by the front window. A table for two.
"Not very intimate."
"No, it isn't."
"So, do you sit there alone?"
Where in the world had that question come from? she wondered.
"Not usually."
The words jabbed through her heart.
Luckily, they were interrupted by the waiter getting their drink orders. Annabelle had a chance to cover her reaction.
And fuss with herself for being so stupid. Of course a man who looked like him, talked like him, drove a car like he had, wouldn't spend very many dinners alone. And she reminded herself--again--she was perfectly aware of his motive. He thought she could lead him to Lucas.
One more thing to remember, as well. She wasn't here to spend a wonderful evening with a fascinating, gorgeous man. He must know what Lucas was so worried about. That affected her sister, so it was her business, too.
"Miss Tinker?"
She raised her eyes from her reverie.
"Your drink?"
"Oh, ah, chablis."
The waiter nodded and left them alone again.
Brazenly, Annabelle plowed ahead, as though the interruption and her own introspection had never happened. "Why do you sit there, then? When you're not alone, that is?"
"I'm something of a show-off. I like to show off the women I'm with."
A knife couldn't have sliced her any deeper.
"Of course," he covered quickly, "there are times when I like to keep the woman my own secret for a while." He took her hand in his, stroking her fingers.
"I'm flattered," Annabelle lied, pulling her hand away.
Darn it all, why should she be hurt he didn't flaunt her in the window for all Chapel Hill to see and envy?
* * * *
Damn it all! He'd hurt her. She'd withdrawn like a snail rolling up in its shell, in spite of his clumsy attempt to cover his mistake.
How was he to get what he needed from her if she clammed up on him?
And what would she say if he told her he was hiding her back here in the shadows? Could she understand he was protecting her? And himself?
He directed his anger at Lucas. This was what came of dallying with mortals. Lucas would sure as hell get a lecture on the dangers of not sticking with your own kind when this was all over, if for no other reason than Gaelen felt he was earning the right.
He tried to be irritated at her thin skin, even as he sensed her vulnerability. No, it was more than that; it was tenderness, the pain of a bruised soul, but one still willing, in spite of all the hurts.
Her brown eyes flew open, staring at him as though she could hear his thoughts. Only then did he realize he'd probed, sent his mind into hers, seeking.
He withdrew, grateful for the sudden appearance of the waiter with their drinks.
Still shaken, Gaelen allowed the silence to hang between them. It was actually restful to be with a woman who didn't demand to be entertained. Though he was good at entertaining, he also enjoyed the rest Annabelle unwittingly offered.
Did she feel it, too?
Again her eyes met his, questioning. Yet she didn't open her mouth to give him an answer to his unspoken question.
"Are you ready to order, Dr. Riley?" The waiter hovered.
&
nbsp; "Miss Tinker? What will you have?" Gaelen asked.
She jumped, as though not expecting the question. "I'm sorry. I haven't made up my mind."
"May I suggest the Beef Stroganoff?"
She nodded with a thin smile.
"Make that two," he told the waiter.
"Two Stroganoffs. Thank you." The waiter took their menus, the shields they'd used to maintain their distance.
Gaelen felt exposed and covered his sudden uncertainty by picking up his vodka martini.
Conversation was definitely called for.
"I was just thinking," he started, then stopped. What he'd started to say was how nice it was to just be with her.
What the hell was wrong with him, anyway?
This is a mortal woman, Gaelen. You can't allow her to get to you. Look at the mess Lucas has gotten himself into.
"What?" she asked when his silence became conspicuous. "What were you thinking?"
The willing soul was back. She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table before her. Did she notice how her breasts molded against her arms?
"Oh, nothing. I think I've been working too hard." He sipped his drink to give himself a reason for pausing. Better get to business. He didn't think he could do this again. She was way too much for him. "Actually, I was thinking of Lucas, where he is. Why he hasn't returned my calls."
* * * *
Since she had been prepared for it, his raising of Lucas in the conversation didn't throw her. But the tone of his voice, the worry, touched her. Did he know how much he loved his brother? She could hear it clearly enough.
So, why was Lucas so afraid of Gaelen? Why was he desperate that Gaelen not find him?
Annabelle put on her reporter's hat. How could she get him to talk about his relationship with his younger brother?
"Why wouldn't he return your calls?" she asked.
He looked at her as though she'd grown wings. "Didn't I just say I didn't know why?"
His tone was decidedly edgy. Should she proceed?
Why not?
"Well," she offered, leaning forward, selecting her words carefully, "if he's avoiding you, there has to be a reason. From what Erin tells me, you and Lucas are close."
"Why would she say that?"
"Aren't you?"
"Well, not close like you and Erin are." He cupped the martini glass and rolled it between his large hands. His large, strong hands. "We talk, but we've taken vastly different roads."
"Does that matter? You're still family."
"I don't think men are as family-oriented as women." He drained his drink and set the glass on the table. "Let's stop talking about me. I'm a very boring subject, I assure you."
"I doubt that." She didn't know where the words had come from.
The waiter delivered their Stroganoff and lightly steamed broccoli.
"Ah, good. I'm starved," Gaelen said, greeting the waiter's arrival.
Annabelle wasn't sure it was the food he greeted, so much as a chance to change the subject. She watched him dig in with typical masculine gusto for good food. He even seemed to enjoy the broccoli.
She took a forkful of the Stroganoff that was the restaurant's specialty.
"Ummm!"
"Good, huh? I was right?" His fork hovered over his plate as he waited for her reply.
"To die for."
His smile returned in full force, making her tummy jump. "Told you so."
They gabbed for a bit about harmless stuff: hobbies, movies, books. Gaelen waved over the waiter for refills for their drinks, and another plate of Stroganoff for himself. Annabelle refused--she was still working on her first--but enjoyed watching him enjoy.
It was so...restful. Annabelle hadn't been so comfortable with someone in a long time. Maybe never.
"What do you do?" he asked between forkfuls of his second plate of Stroganoff.
So much for being comfortable. The noodles coated in the savory sauce may as well have turned to shredded newspaper soaked in mud. Annabelle was disappointed in herself to be suddenly hesitant to reveal her line of work to a man who held an advanced degree in Classical Literature. She wasn't ashamed of her job. Exactly. It just suddenly seemed so...so stupid.
"So, what do you do?" he asked again.
Why bother hiding it? I'll never see him again once Erin is better and I can go back to New York.
"I'm a journalist."
Leaning slightly forward, with an expectant expression, he clearly wanted more.
"I write for The Weekly Investigator."
His reaction wasn't exactly what she'd expected.
For the space of an instant, he stared, his mouth hanging open. Then a flicker of sublime amusement crossed his handsome face. Followed by a hoot of unrestrained laughter.
"Oh, Bridget!" he snorted, rocking in his chair and slapping his leg.
Heads turned in the fancy establishment, causing a tide of heat to rise in Annabelle's face.
Not only embarrassed at the attention he was drawing to them, but furious that he'd laugh at her, she tossed her napkin on the table and stood up with as much dignity as she could manage.
He grabbed her hand, holding her beside the table.
"No, please. Don't leave," he wheezed between snorts.
"Don't leave? Why on earth would I stay here to be laughed at?"
"Oh, no, no. I'm not laughing at you, I promise," he sputtered. He drew a deep breath and added, "Please, sit down. Please? I swear, Annabelle, I'm not laughing at you."
"Then please share with me what's so darned funny."
Shrugging his broad shoulders, he smothered another outburst.
"Let's just say, you reminded me of something else."
His strong fingers held her arm in a tight grasp, so unless she wanted to make more of a spectacle of them than he'd already done, she had to sit as he asked.
"Besides," he said, "you wouldn't want to miss dessert, would you?"
Just at that moment, as though conjured by his words, the waiter appeared with cheesecake and coffee.
"The cheesecake here is the best in the whole world."
"You've tried them all?" she asked, skeptical.
"I've tried enough to know the best when I get it. Tell me about your job."
"What do you want to know? I make up stories for a supermarket tabloid."
His eyes flew wide. "You mean they're not true?" he asked, with perfect sincerity.
In spite of her irritation with him, she had to laugh.
"'Fraid not. After all, it's hard to get aliens to submit to an interview."
"How did you get the job?"
"It was a mistake. I answered an ad in The New York Times for a newspaper journalist. I was so naïve, I figured, why wouldn't The New York Times advertise in their own classifieds for a reporter? I almost didn't take it when I found out, but I was fresh out of school, and I needed a job."
"But it isn't journalism?" It was a question.
"No. But then it turned out journalism isn't really my thing, anyway."
"What kind of stories do you write?"
"I am a specialist in paranormal phenomena, aliens, UFOs, psychics, potatoes that look like Elvis."
"All fake?"
"All fake."
"Do you like it? Is it what you want to do?"
Was he really interested? Should she really tell him?
Annabelle shrugged and picked at her cheesecake. "It's close enough, I suppose, fiction of a kind. I really want to write children's books. The bane of being exposed too early to Peter Pan."
"Peter Pan. Let me guess. You always wanted to be Wendy?"
"No, Tinkerbell. She could fly."
Gaelen narrowed his eyes and smiled, then chuckled. "Tinkerbell," he whispered gently.
"Didn't you ever want to be some fantastic creature?"
He laughed, a soft soothing sound. "No, I've only ever wanted to be a mortal man."
"Even when you were a boy?"
"Even then."
A chuckle escaped
her. "Why don't I believe that?"
An expression crossed his face, one of fear. He quickly masked it, but Annabelle was sure she'd seen it.
"What don't you believe?" he asked, his voice strained.
"That you only wanted to be mortal. Where's the fun in that?" She raised her fork to her mouth, noticing only as she closed her lips around the tines that he was watching her intently. The cheesecake went down like gravel. "I mean, Peter had ever so much more fun."
"There's fun to be had in living and working. In doing something you love and producing something that will show the world you were here. That you really existed."
"Isn't it enough to exist?" she asked. "Why do you have to prove anything?"
Gaelen smiled, "Maybe because..." He puffed a chuckle. "I guess it must be a man thing. Live, work, die." He scraped at the crumbs on his plate. "Maybe it's a fear that I could disappear and no one would ever know I'd been here."
Annabelle could hear there was more to his fear than just not accomplishing anything in his life.
"But, Gaelen, you are. You don't need anybody's belief to make it so."
"That is a comforting thought. I'll have to put it to the test sometime."
His words carried a heavy dose of irony. Anxious to put him at ease again, she asked about the subject obviously closest to his heart.
"So what exactly does a professor of Celtic Lit do?"
He looked up from his plate. "Sure you want to open up this topic? I'm just a man, dear, and very likely to go on for hours once a beautiful woman shows interest in my work."
"I'll take the chance."
A smile lit his face. "Well, I work in the language department, actually. I pour Old, Middle and Modern Irish into the sponge-like minds of my eager students." He looked into her eyes to make sure she got his joke. "And I also teach in the Medieval Studies department."
Well, she'd gotten him started. She'd never had much interest in Ireland, but found herself caught up in his passion for the subject.
"In fact," he said, stabbing his fork in the air, "if it weren't for Ireland and her monasteries, there would have been no Renaissance. Everything would have been forgotten in the Dark Ages." He stopped suddenly and smiled, clearly embarrassed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to get carried away."