Sandra Field - Honeymoon For Three

Amused, feeling her fingers begin to warm in his, he asked, “Weren’t you allowed to make mud pies when you were little?”

“Very strict parents. Frilly starched dresses and no dirt. My next job will probably be working in a spa slathering people with mud packs.”

“Your eyes,” Slade said in sudden discovery, “are the color of molasses—that wonderful combination of brown and black. Shiny.”

“Well, I must say I’ve never been compared to molasses before. Gooey and sweet—is that the best you can do?” Suddenly Cory chuckled. “You know what? Your hair is the color of good compost.”

“Rotting vegetable matter? Thanks.”

“And your eyes,” she announced with considerable satisfaction, “are like slate. Gray with gorgeous undertones of blue.”

Slade rather liked this game. “Beech leaves in October—that’s what your hair reminds me of.” His voice deepened. “My stepfather used to grow pink peonies; your cheeks are that color right now.”

As if suddenly realizing that they were still holding hands, Cory pulled hers free and babbled, “We’d better go; you’ll be late.”

“If all the legal stuff’s done before I go back to Toronto, I want you to have dinner with me. To celebrate.” He hadn’t known he was going to say that. Too late now, he thought, with, for the second time, a curious sense of fatality.

“I—I guess that would be all right.”

“Good. I’ll call you.” He glanced at his watch. “Can you get me back to the office in seven minutes?”

They talked about commonplaces all the way back. Cory made no move to touch him again. But before he got out of the truck she gave him a singularly sweet smile and said, “Thank you, Slade. Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome,” Slade said, and shut the truck door.

It had taken them ten minutes to get back to the office. Nevertheless, he stood on the sidewalk watching her drive away. So much for separating business from the personal. So much for saying no.

He was going to make use of every one of his connections to make sure there were no hitches with the city. Because he very much wanted to have dinner with Cory Haines. No matter what the consequences.

One week later at seven-thirty in the evening Slade was standing in the lobby of what he considered to be the city’s best restaurant. Cory hadn’t wanted him to pick her up at her house; instead she’d agreed to meet him here.

He was wearing his most expensive dark gray suit and a new silk tie. His hair was brushed into some kind of order and his shoes had a military shine his father would have been proud of. He was nervous.

While he’d had a couple of brief conversations with Cory during the week to sort out the details of their agreement, he hadn’t bumped into her at the squash club, nor had she come to the office. This hadn’t prevented him from thinking about her almost continuously, however, and dreaming about her with a sexual insistence that, when he woke up, dismayed him.

He wanted to take her to bed, no question of that. Maybe tonight he’d ask her whether she was attached or free. That would be a start.

A start to what? And would she be as beautiful, as full of life as he remembered?

At seven thirty-one the mullioned door of the restaurant swung open and Cory walked through. Slade’s heart began to racket around in his chest as though he’d been playing a tournament. He smiled at her, brushing her cold cheek with his lips. She smelled delicious. He said, he hoped casually, “You’re on time.”

“No more friends with newborn babies,” Cory said lightly, and slid her arms out of her coat. What on earth had possessed her to say that about babies? she wondered agitatedly.

They were on her mind, that was why. One particular baby—Sue’s—had caused Cory to have a week so full of ups and downs that beneath her surface calm she was as jittery as if she were on her first date. She’d visited Sue three times during the week—Sue was her best friend, after all. But visiting Sue had meant she’d had to bold little Jason in her arms; she’d been deeply upset to learn that pleasure and pain could be so intimately entwined. The last two nights she’d even cried herself to sleep. Her outfit and her makeup were valiant attempts to conceal this fact from Slade Redden’s all too discerning gray eyes.

She watched him survey her from head to foot. Her skirt was midnight-blue, slim-fitting and slit up one side; her blouse, of creamy silk, bared her throat and hinted at her cleavage. Her hair, shining with cleanliness, was looped on the back of her head; she only hoped it would stay there. As for her dark blue eyeshadow and matching mascara, she’d operated on the principle that the best defense was offense.

His mouth dry, Slade said, “You look very beautiful.”

Infinitesimally Cory relaxed: the mask was working. The maitre d’ arrived and led them to a corner table under a collection of old hunting prints, where, as they waited for their cocktails, they talked about the latest developments in their project. Then Slade raised his glass. “To parks and gardens—long may they flourish.”

Solemnly they clinked their glasses. With mutual determination they proceeded to discuss the menu, the changes on the city council and the drop in the Canadian dollar. They ate mussels and smoked salmon and drank white wine. Then Slade said, “Dance, Cory?”

The music was lively and because she didn’t have to touch him—and was therefore safe—Cory danced her heart out; she had always loved to move to music. The fact that her fiery energy and evident pleasure might be as seductive as actual touching didn’t occur to her. Nor could she possibly have known that some of her movements would recall, with uncanny accuracy, portions of her partner’s dreams. As the final chord sounded she said exuberantly, “That was fun! Thanks, Slade.”

He nodded, his jaw a tight line, and followed her back to the table. But the medallions of pork and julienne vegetables they had ordered were cooked to perfection and slowly the level sank in a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Then the small band started a waltz. “Let’s try this one,” Slade said.

Normally Cory avoided what she called contact dances. But she’d had rather a lot to drink and more than once Slade had made her laugh until she cried. Confidently she threaded her way through the tables.

At the edge of the parquet floor Slade took her in his arms. Because she was wearing high heels, her chin nearly came to his shoulder; he dropped his head so that his cheek rested against hers. Curving an arm around her waist, he drew her closer, ignoring her slight resistance.

Dream and reality fused. The woman in his arms was the woman who had haunted his sleep for the last eight nights.

But Cory was suddenly and distressingly sober. As she automatically followed Slade’s lead, she was attacked by a host of conflicting sensations.

One of the buttons on his jacket was digging into her ribs. He smelted nice. Although she was almost sure he wasn’t wearing cologne, a faint scent of lemons overlaid the more earthy scent of clean male skin. She was enclosed in his embrace as a garden was enclosed, safe from the buffeting of wind and storm; yet, simultaneously, she felt as smothered as an evergreen wrapped in plastic, as constricted as a tree trunk girdled too tightly. So tightly that her lifeblood was cut off, she thought, trying to control her uneven breathing.

It was one of her unspoken policies to keep her distance—literally—from men. Because claustrophobia, of the emotional variety, had been Rick’s parting—and lasting—legacy to her.

Then the hand that rested on her waist moved lower, splaying itself over her hip and drawing her still closer. Against her groin she felt the involuntary hardening of Slade’s body, that indisputable and uncontrollable signal that he wanted her. Panic sliced through her illusive sense of safety; she froze, stumbling over his foot. Raising her head, she muttered, “Slade, I’m not—”

Cursing himself for betraying his need, Slade rested one finger on the softness of her lips and eased away from her. “I didn’t do a very good job of hiding that, did I? Sorry. I want you—sure I do. But this is a public place and you’re quite safe.”

She pulled free, and even in the dim lighting he saw that the emotion tightening her features was fear. Turning away from him, she hurried back to their table, pulled up her chair and buried her face in the dessert menu. Slade sat down across from her. “Come on, Cory. This is the twentieth century, and I’m obviously not the first man you’ve dated. Take it as a compliment, why don’t you?”

“Fine,” she said tautly. “I’ve been complimented. I’m not sure I want dessert; perhaps I’ll just have coffee.”

Nonplussed, because she was acting more like a Victorian virgin than the capable and confident woman he knew her to be, Slade drained his glass of wine. “So are we going to pretend that nothing happened out there? That I wasn’t entirely ready to make love to you?”

The menu slipped from Cory’s fingers. Her eyes widened and for a full five seconds she gaped at him as though she had never seen him before. Make love to you, make love, make love... The words echoed in her brain as all the pain and longing of the last week coalesced into an idea so simple and so outrageous that she was struck dumb.

“Now what’s wrong?”

She grabbed her wine glass and tossed back the contents. Then she blurted, “Are you married, Slade? Or engaged? Or living with someone?”

“No, no and no. What about you?”

His answer sank in; his question scarcely registered. It was a crazy idea. Crazy. She should be committed for even thinking it. “This wine is really excellent, isn’t it?” she gabbled. “Just a hint of oak and that glorious rubyred.”

Slade leaned forward. “Why did you ask about my marital status?”

“I was just wondering,” she said weakly, “that’s all.”

“Why don’t you try telling me the truth? You’re a lousy liar.”

“My mother used to shut me up in a cupboard if I lied to her—that’s probably why. Slade, I had an idea. But it was a totally insane idea and I want to forget about it—please. Let’s talk about anything from horticulture to horoscopes, and maybe I will have dessert. I adore key lime pie.”

Storing in the back of his mind the image of a small, chestnut-haired girl being confined in the dark, Slade said implacably, “Tell me about your idea. Because it’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” she said wildly. “Very definitely.”

“When you first arrived, I thought you looked tired. That’s not considered much of an opener for impressing your dinner date, so I didn’t mention it. What’s up, Cory?”

So much for mascara. “I don’t have to tell you,” she said defiantly. “In fact, I’m not going to tell you.”

“The restaurant doesn’t close until midnight and it’s only nine-thirty. I can wait. I could even order another bottle of the wine you so much admired.” He gave her a charming smile. “I’d enjoy having to carry you out.”

He’d do it, too. She knew he would. And if she kept the idea to herself certainly nothing would come of it.

With the sense that she was embarking on a very flimsy bridge across an extremely deep gorge, Cory said, “All right—you asked for it.”

Who knows? she thought. He might even say yes.

CHAPTER THREE

CORY held out her glass to Slade for a refill, shadows dancing over her features from the candle that flickered on their table; she was rather proud to see that her hand was entirely steady.