Calculated Risk by Elaine Raco Chase Page A

choices.
She had drifted out of her house on a heavier cloud of perfume than
usual because he had mentioned it registered on his personal
Richter scale. And her dress – wasn’t blue supposed to be a man’s
favorite color? Maybe her eye shadow was too soft and her lipstick
too bright. Were the matching earrings too much with the
necklace?
    Stevie choked down a semi-hysterical
laugh. Clothes, makeup, jewelry, perfume – these items had never
concerned her to such a degree before. She had always been
self-conscious about her height and her figure, which despite
regular exercise tended to be more ample than the fashion pages
dictated.
    And yet, since knowing him, she felt
more confident of her femininity, more comfortable with her body
and more relaxed with herself. How different a person she had
become. Her tawny brows puckered in thought. But had she really
changed?
    Her level of competence at the office
was not affected. As, a matter of fact, her energy level seemed at
an all-time high. She felt revitalized and stimulated; decisions
came more easily and quickly. She was still saying yes and no; she
was still forceful and assertive.
    In thinking about her appearance,
Stevie realized that she had selected that particular dress because
that shade of blue was her favorite color and the style suited her.
She had worn the same perfume for the last ten years and her
jewelry wasn’t new. Manicured or not, her hands still operated the
self-service gas pump, took out the garbage and shoveled
snow.
    Still, Stevie acknowledged that a
metamorphosis had occurred in those intangible areas that made up
her feminine fiber. An elusive magic revived feelings that she had
thought dead. And the sorcerer who made the magic was Quintin
Ward.
    The waiter cleared his throat three
times before either of them noticed. “Stevie?” Quintin’s knee
nudged hers beneath the table. “Have you decided?”
    She smiled at both men. “What is your
chef’s specialty?” Stevie inquired, and sat blinking in
bewilderment as a singsong list was issued.
    “We’ll have the luncheon for two.”
Quintin took command and plucked the menu out of her hand to give
to the waiter. “Tea, now, please.” His head bowed the diminutive
man away.
    “What is it you’ve ordered?” Her voice
was a whisper, but the closed curtain that cocooned their booth
seemed to demand low tones.
    “I haven’t the vaguest idea. But as
long as it’s cooked and doesn’t have sprouts, I figure we’ll both
be happy.”
    She made an elaborate display of
shaking out the white linen napkin. “I trust you.”
    “Do you?”
    Hazel eyes never faltered in their
direct gaze. “Yes.”
    His hand sought hers; the tips of his
fingers delineated each slender, polished digit. “Is your work
schedule any easier this week?”
    “No.” Auburn tresses swished against
her neck. “But so far this weekend is clear. Next Saturday I take
the ten a.m. flight to Los Angeles for the music award
ceremonies.”
    “Do you mind all the traveling?” His
thumb continued to stroke her wrist. Beneath the table, his knee
once again sought contact with hers. Quintin found himself cursing
the navy suit material that imprisoned his legs when he so craved
the sensual smoothness only her sleek limbs could offer.
    Stevie wondered if he could feel how
rapidly her pulse was beating. The prickliest sensations were
dancing up her arm, swirling warmly around her breasts, and snaking
ever so hotly lower. “I’m…I’m like a little kid on an airplane,”
she confessed, her voice an octave below normal. “I watch the
movies, listen to the radio channel, always get the window seat and
I even like the pretzels and food,” she said and laughed. “But
Nashville is hosting more award shows, so sometimes I only travel
as far as the Opry.”
    “Tell me more about what you do.” He
wanted to educated himself on every facet of her life – it was
essential for his own well-being.
    Her expression registered both