Chapter 3

 

As much as she had surprised Elaine with her behavior, Daphne had surprised herself even more. Walking out, with all the final chores of a fashion show still unattended to, was as unlike her as standing on her head in the middle of Times Square.

It was one thing, she realized, to know you were still in love with your ex-husband with eleven years and three thousand miles between you. It was quite another to be suddenly confronted with the living, breathing, breathtaking reality of the man, especially when you weren't prepared for it. It tended to put things in a whole different perspective.

Daphne stood in front of the bathroom mirror in her hotel room, lipstick pencil in hand, trying to figure out just what that perspective was—and failing miserably. She could only seem to think of one thing.

I'm as hot for you right now as I was that first time you ran over me with your bicycle. Had Adam really said that? And had he meant it?

"Oh, God, I hope so," Daphne said out loud, surprising herself with the fervent sound of her voice. A rueful, self-mocking smile twisted her lips as she met her eyes in the mirror. "Fool," she said to her reflection. "You're an idiot to even think of going to bed with him. The man divorced you, remember?"

She remembered—vividly. She would never forget it as long as she lived, but it didn't seem to make any difference. She had only to look at Adam and all the old feelings rushed back, making her body heat and flush. One kiss and she was suddenly remembering all those nights—those wonderful nights!—they'd spent not sleeping because they couldn't get enough of each other. Despite everything he'd done and everything he hadn't done, she wanted him. She always had and always would.

"Fool," she said again but the word lacked conviction. She could still feel his lips on hers. They tasted exactly as she remembered.

Hot.

Sweet.

Passionate.

Possessive.

She closed her eyes as the memories assailed her. The last—the final—time Adam had kissed her, had touched her, had made love to her, was as clear in her mind as if it had been yesterday instead of eleven years ago. It had been the night before she was to leave for New York and Adam's lovemaking had been tinged with a barely controlled anger because he didn't want her to go.

"You can design clothes right here in San Francisco," he'd argued. "You are designing clothes here. Why do you have to run off to New York?"

She'd tried to explain it to him. A big-name department store had expressed an interest in her designs and she was flying to New York to pursue the matter. She'd only be gone for a month or two at the most. Why couldn't he understand? Her career was as important to her as his was to him, despite the fact that she only cut and sewed on fabric instead of human bodies.

"Think of the money this could mean," she said finally, knowing that it might be the one thing that could reconcile Adam to her going. The money didn't really mean much to her, but Adam hated being poor. He'd been poor all his life and it kept him from doing the things he wanted to do for his family, and for her. "I could make a lot of money, if they really like my designs. We could move out of this dinky apartment. You could quit driving that taxi and give all your time to your studies."

But, surprisingly, Adam wasn't swayed. In fact, the mention of money only seemed to make him more set against her going. The argument had come to an abrupt halt when he had become impatient, and thus inarticulate, with the angry words they were flinging at each other. With a strangled oath, he had grabbed her, kissing her into silence, covering her body with his as they sank to the floor of their tiny studio apartment.

Their arguments always ended that way. In bed or on the floor or against the wall, with Daphne whimpering and writhing beneath the heated thrust of his golden body, willing to forget her side of the argument and give in. But this time it was too important to her and she couldn't—wouldn't—give in to the magic of his gentle, skillful hands and avid, hungry mouth.

Despite the long night of loving, the next morning she had been on that plane for New York. Her ticket, paid for by the department store, was round-trip but the return date had been left open. She had never used it because, one month later, Adam had filed for divorce.

Daphne opened her eyes and stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, feeling a sudden surge of the same anger, the same hurt that she had felt then. The lip pencil she held poised halfway to her mouth fell from her hand and her fingers clutched the edge of the basin, the neat coral nails vivid against the white porcelain, as all the painful memories rushed back.

The bastard had divorced her! Just like that. Without a phone call, without a letter, he'd handled it all through a lawyer. In typical tight-lipped silence, Adam had ended their marriage without so much as another word between them. And Daphne, incredulous and hurt but as stubborn as he, had let him.

And now he has the gall to think that I'm going to fall into bed with him, as if nothing had happened.

He had acted almost as if he wasn't aware of the eleven years that had passed since the last time they'd seen each other. Did he really think she was going to let him take her to bed? Just like that? After the way he had broken her heart and shattered her life? After no word, not even a lousy Christmas card, in eleven years? After...

Obviously, he did think that. Because she had let him think it. Because, she admitted, forcing herself to be honest, she had thought it, too. For one crazy, completely insane minute she had actually contemplated having sex with her ex-husband.

And was still contemplating it.

Sighing, she picked up her lip pencil from the far corner of the bathroom counter where it had rolled when she dropped it. With careful strokes she finished outlining her mouth, filling in the color with a matching coral lipstick. Then, quite unnecessarily, she touched up her eye makeup, tilting her head consideringly when she was finished

The woman who stared back at her was chic, elegant and sophisticated—light years removed from the long-haired, jean-clad girl she had been. At least on the outside. Inside, though... inside she was the same lovesick idiot she'd always been where Adam was concerned.

"If you had any sense at all," she said to her reflection, "you'd lock yourself in this room and forget you ever saw him tonight."

Obviously, though, she didn't have any sense. With another resigned sigh, Daphne scooped her tiny gold mesh evening off the bed and left the room.

She had no trouble spotting Adam as she stepped off the elevator. His bright golden hair shone like a beacon under the crystal chandeliers in the lobby. My Greek god, she thought, her heart full of tenderness as her eyes swept over him. Then she grinned. Impatient Greek god, she amended.

Adam stood by one of the rounded Doric columns near the hotel's impressive front desk, head bent as he studied the swirling pattern of the muted red and gold carpet. His stance was aggressive and his hands were again stuffed into the front pockets of his slacks, causing the material to stretch tautly over his firm backside. The set of his shoulders was rigid. She had seen him stand just exactly that way more times that she could remember, waiting for her. Punctuality had not been one of her virtues in the old days.

"Adam?" Daphne touched his shoulder as she came up behind him.

He whirled around as if she had poked him with a cattle prod, and Daphne took a quick half step backward to avoid being knocked over by the abruptness of his movement.

"Daphne," he began in the half-lecturing voice that she knew so well. He glanced at his watch as he spoke, and a quick frown creased his forehead. "You're on time," he said disbelievingly.

"Well, don't look so amazed." Daphne's husky voice was gently teasing. "It's not polite."

"Oh, it's not that," he denied quickly.

Daphne's arched eyebrows rose and her mouth quirked up at one corner.

"Okay, you're right. I'm amazed. Flabbergasted, actually." His admission came with a quick, engaging grin and he took her hand as he spoke, tucking it into the crook of his elbow as he turned her in the direction of the ballroom. Daphne's fingers curled automatically around the hard curve of his bicep. "It's just that I'd already resigned myself to the usual interminable wait."

"Interminable? Now really, Adam. Don't exaggerate. You never had to wait that long for me."

It was Adam's turn to lift a disbelieving eyebrow, his blond head cocked to one side as he smiled down at her.

"Well, okay, maybe once or twice," she admitted. "But that's all," she added as they neared the entrance to the ballroom.

As if by mutual consent, they paused just short of the open double doors and surveyed the scene before them. The dance floor was full to overflowing, music and laughter spilling across the threshold as smiling couples dipped and swayed to the Big Band sound of the orchestra. A huge mirrored ball twirled lazily overhead, sprinkling random rainbows of light over the revelers, while white-coated waiters worked the fringes of the floor, serving those who preferred to sit at the tiny white-draped tables instead of dance. It was a colorful, inviting scene but neither of them made a move to join in.

"Yoo-hoo, Adam! Oh, A-a-a-dam," Sunny McCorkle called out as she danced past the door in the arms of her husband, Brian. One hand fluttered in the direction of the tables. "We're sitting over—" She broke off when she caught sight of Daphne. For just a second, she looked as guilty as a kid who'd been caught with her hand in the cookie jar, and then her face split with a self-satisfied, ear-to-ear grin. "Come join us after this dance," she said, giving them a thumbs-up sign before disappearing into the crowd again.

"I'm beginning to smell a rat," Adam said softly.

"Only just beginning?" Daphne glanced up at him through her thick lashes. "I smelled one hours ago."

"Well, I don't think this particular rat should be allowed to get away with her little scheme, do you?"

"I think she already has," Daphne pointed out, a slight nod of her head indicating his hand covering hers where it lay on his arm.

"Well, then, she shouldn't be allowed to gloat over her success."

Daphne smiled. "What do you suggest we do to prevent that?"

Adam considered that for a moment. "Didn't someone mention a quiet drink somewhere? Away from all this noise and confusion?"

"Yes, I think someone did." Daphne glanced at the dance floor again and then back up at him. "It is awfully crowded in there, isn't it?"

"Hmm," Adam agreed as he steered her away from the door. "Be like trying to dance in a sardine can."

Together, they turned, and, still arm in arm, crossed the wide lobby and entered a dimly lit cocktail lounge on the other side.

Adam guided Daphne to one of the tiny tables in the farthest corner of the room, silently signaling to the cocktail waitress who stood at one end of the bar. "I'll have a Chivas on the rocks," he said when she hurried over to take their order. "Daphne? Do you still drink rum and coke?"

Daphne shook her head, her long crystal earrings sparkling in the candlelight as she did so. "I'll have a martini, please. Vodka. Two olives."

She laid her mesh purse on the table, her eyes skimming over the dimly lit lounge as the cocktail waitress headed back to the bar. The room was small and intimate with a gleaming mahogany bar and smoked, beveled mirrors. The bar stools were upholstered in burgundy leather and the small round cocktail tables were covered in rose linen and decorated with fat white candles in hurricane lamps. There was no room for a dance floor and no place for a band, but a baby grand sat on a raised platform at one end of the room. A woman in a long black dress was playing soft sad love songs with a muted touch.

"This is nice," she said to Adam. "Cozy and quiet."

"Think we'll be safe here?"

Daphne's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Safe from what?"

"From one very lovely redheaded rat." Adam leaned an elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his hand, and grinned at her over the flickering candle flame. "She'll go crazy wondering where we've gone," he said with satisfaction.

Daphne laughed delightedly. "Oh, God, she will, won't she? Well, it serves her right. I swear, I could have killed her when I looked out into the audience tonight and saw..." Her voice trailed off as she caught his eye. "Oh, dear, that doesn't sound very gracious, does it? I just meant—" she waved one hand distractedly "—that, well, it was a surprise, that's all and..."

"Hey, it's okay. I understand. It was a complete surprise for me, too, you know. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw you walk out onto that stage." He fell silent as the cocktail waitress approached with their drinks, leaning back in his chair so that she could set them down on the tiny table. "Biggest damn surprise of my life," he continued when she had gone again. He picked up his drink.

"Well, here's to old times." He paused for just a heartbeat, his glance catching Daphne's over the rim of the glass. "And to new ones," he added softly. His eyes held hers, telling her exactly what he hoped those new times would involve. I want you, they said, more clearly, more eloquently, than mere words ever could.

Daphne sucked in her breath. There it was again, she thought. That change in him. That utterly devastating directness that was so... so utterly devastating. She wondered briefly how many women it had taken to make him so sure of himself—and hated every single one of them.

"To new ones," she said diffidently, feeling suddenly like a girl on her very first date. She stared down into her glass for a moment, calling herself six kinds of a fool for letting him rattle her so easily. All it had taken was a hot glance from those blue eyes and a veiled innuendo to make her go all hot and shivery. No other man in eleven years had ever rattled her so.

But then, she thought wryly, no other man was Adam.

She looked up and caught his gaze across the table. "So," she said briskly, determined to break the spell that held her. "Tell me what you've been doing for the past eleven years."

Adam eyed her for a brief moment, a considering look on his face, and then he lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug and let her lead him away from the topic that was on both their minds. "Studying," he said. "Working."

"Be more specific," Daphne ordered. She lifted her drink and took a small sip, relishing the cold bite of the chilled vodka. "What did you do after you graduated from med school?"

"Took my state boards."

"And then?" she prodded, amused by the return to his usual laconism. Apparently, he hadn't changed as much as she'd first thought. Getting Adam to talk about himself had always been about as easy as getting blood from a stone.

"And then there were two years of rotating internship, three years of residency in general surgery, a year in orthopedics, and then, finally, another two years residency in plastic surgery," he said, summarizing eight years of hard work and sacrifice into one sentence.

"All at the same hospital in L.A.?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

Daphne smiled sweetly, "A little rat told me."

"Busy little rat, isn't she? What else did she tell you?" he said, reaching for his drink.

"Not much." Daphne shrugged and the neckline of her silk dress slid downward, revealing an equally silky shoulder. "Just that you had moved to L.A., is... all," she finished softly, caught by the look in Adam's eyes.

He was caught, too, his drink held halfway to his mouth, his eyes following the slide of her dress. Then he blinked, as if trying to free himself, and brought the glass to his lips. But he still watched her, his lambent gaze caressing her bare shoulder as he took a sip.

Daphne's breath seemed to catch somewhere in her throat. Her tongue snaked out, licking suddenly dry lips. "So." She fingered her sleeve, nudging it upward. "How long have you been back in San Francisco?"

"Almost six months now." His voice sounded hoarse, and he paused to clear it. "A position opened up here on the staff of Children's, Brian McCorkle recommended me and—" he smiled suddenly, lifting his glass as if to make another toast "—here I am, back in my old hometown."

"And loving it."

"Yes," he admitted, watching intently as she lifted her glass to her mouth. "There's no place quite like the City by the Bay."

"Hmm," Daphne agreed. She lifted her drink to her lips again for another small sip. Adam's eyes followed the movement. "I've heard San Francisco's become a mecca for bachelors," she said then, trying for some sort of cool, some sort of distance, some sort of anything to diffuse the heat that was building in his eyes.

"So I've heard," he said, giving her his slow sleepy smile. She wondered if he knew he was doing it. Or if he knew what that smile did to her insides. They were quivering madly, like a soft tower of jello being shaken on a plate. And Adam was doing the shaking.

"Only heard? Aren't women chasing you all over the hospital?" Her tone, meant to be teasing, came out breathless and intimate instead. And inquiring, as if she had a burning interest in his answer.

But Adam didn't answer her question. "Why don't we talk about you now?" he suggested. "What does it take to become a success as a fashion designer?"

"Work, work and more work." She strove to make her voice less breathy, more casual and matter-of-fact. "In that order."

"Well, it's obviously paid off," he complimented her. "From what I saw tonight, it looks as if you've become a raging success—"

"Only fair to middlin'," Daphne interrupted, waggling her left hand in the air in a so-so gesture.

"—just like you always said you would," he finished. His long fingers idly twisted his glass in small circles on the rose-colored tablecloth. "You didn't stay with that department store very long."

"No," she answered, wondering how he had known that. Sunny, probably, she decided. "Those quilted jackets I was doing for Bloomie's were only a flash in the pan. In one season." She snapped her fingers. "Out the next."

"So what happened?"

"Oh, I got a job with a small design house where I learned more in one month than I had in the whole two years of fashion college. In less than a year my boss decided I was ready to do a few designs on my own—under the house name, of course. I did that for almost three years. And then—" she hesitated and then plunged ahead "—then Miles and I decided to go into business for ourselves and, well, the rest is history."

Adam's smile disappeared. "Miles," he said and flashed her a quick look she couldn't quite read. "He was your husband."

"Yes," she said softly and then fell silent for a moment, gazing absently into her drink as if suddenly lost in thought. Her eyes grew a bit misty. "Poor Miles," she said softly.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." Adam's voice was tight, as if it hurt him to say the words. "It upsets you to talk about it."

"No, I—" she began, and then stopped. It didn't upset her to talk about it, not the way Adam meant. It was just that she had never really loved Miles, not in the way she had loved—still loved—Adam. The thought always made her feel a little guilty, a little ashamed of herself, and a little sorry for Miles because, as her husband, he should've had all the love she had to give. It was regret, not pain, that made her eyes grow misty. And sitting here with Adam, wanting him the way she did, only made that regret all the more poignant. Her only consolation was that Miles had probably never known that she had any more love to give and, so, was content with what little she offered.

"No, it doesn't upset me to talk about him. Really," she assured Adam. "It's been almost three years since the accident."

"How did it happen?" he asked quietly.

"Miles was driving up to a friend's place in Connecticut," she told him, her husky voice soft and even. "It was a Friday night, very late, and he was hit head-on by a drunk driver."

"Daphne, I'm sorry. Sorry, and terribly ashamed."

"Ashamed?" A slight frown wrinkled her smooth brow for a moment. "Why?"

"For that crack I made backstage. I had no right dismissing another man's death so callously. Even if—" his fingers showed white where they gripped his glass "—especially if it would give me something I wanted."

It took her a minute to comprehend what he was saying. Then it hit her. "I should say I'm sorry, shouldn't I?" he'd said. "But I'd be lying. I make it a rule never to have sex with married women. And I've suddenly discovered that I want, very much, to have sex with you."

If he should be ashamed for saying it, then she should be ashamed for the thrill his words had given her. And she wasn't.

She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. "Please, Adam, don't. I know you didn't mean it."

"Ah, but I did." His lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. "Oh, not quite the way it sounded. I'm not really glad another man is dead." He reversed the position of their hands so that hers was lying under his and his thumb rubbed, ever so lightly, across the back of her wrist as he spoke. His eyes were lowered as he watched the movement. "But I am glad that he isn't standing between us."

"So am I," Daphne whispered. Oh, so am I!

He looked up at that, and his hand tightened on hers. She couldn't quite read the message in his eyes. Desire, of course. That had never been far from the surface between them. But there was something else there, too. Relief? Understanding? Need? Uncertainty? Yes, all those, she thought, but something else, too. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

He stood, pulling her to her feet. "Why don't we go have that dance now? It's time."

Yes, Daphne thought. More than time.

She picked up her purse and waited quietly, patiently, while Adam took out his wallet and dropped a couple of folded bills to the table. Then, silently, hand-in-hand, they walked back toward the ballroom.

Just as they reached the threshold, the orchestra began a slow, sweet number, and without a pause Adam swung her onto the crowded dance floor. His right hand settled on the small of her back, pulling her close to his body. His left hand reached for hers, intending to twine her fingers with his, but she held her purse in that hand.

"Here, let me take that," Adam said, his warm breath tickling the wispy curls at her temple as he spoke.

He took the tiny mesh purse from her fingers and slipped it into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, then reached for her hand again. Their fingers linked, palms touching, and he brought her hand to his chest, turning her wrist slightly so that it was resting snugly against the black satin lapels of his jacket.

She moved more fully into Adam's embrace, settling into him without even thinking about it, her body seeming to know, to remember, the way they had always danced together. Her head nestled beneath his chin, her left hand unconsciously seeking the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck. The movement caused the wide neckline of her dress to slide down again, baring the opposite shoulder, but Daphne didn't notice. She relaxed against him, feeling utterly at home in his arms.

Sighing, his eyes closed, Adam lowered his head to rest his cheek against her hair. The back of his hand pressed against the top of her breast as they swayed to the slow, soft music.

Daphne's eyes closed, too, and her heart began to beat a little faster. She had to make a conscious effort to keep her breathing even. She needn't have bothered. Adam's breath was just as uneven, his heart was beating just as fast—and he was making no effort to hide it at all.

"See what you do to me," he said shakily, turning her hand between their bodies so that it lay flat against his chest. His heart thudded into her palm.

"Me, too," she whispered. She moved his hand, placing it over the curve of her silk-covered breast, letting him feel the rapid pounding of her own heart. He drew a sharp breath and his fingers curled for a moment, caressing her. Then his hand slid up to the slim column of her neck and he tilted her head back, the ball of his thumb under her chin, his fingers on her sensitive nape. It was a move she remembered from times past. He'd done exactly the same thing the first time he'd kissed her. She let her head fall back into his cradling hand and closed her eyes, silently inviting his kiss.

"Daphne." The word was a caress. A curse. A prayer. A question. "Daphne, look at me." His voice was low and taut, intense with emotion.

Daphne opened her eyes and gazed up at him. His eyes were blazing, a bright, burning, scorching blue. It was like looking into a raging inferno of long-suppressed desire. And, as she always had when faced with the fire in his eyes, Daphne melted.

"Yes," she said, answering his unspoken question. Her voice was little more than a sensuous purr.

Adam stopped dancing, oblivious to the couples who still swirled around them. "When?"

"Now." Daphne's eyes closed again and her head fell forward onto his chest. "Please."

Adam bent his head, touching his mouth, almost reverently, to the exposed curve of her shoulder. Then, clutching her hand in his, he led her from the ballroom.