chose completely different places. Abby's in rural Virginia, Chantel's in fantasyland, and I'm here."
He had to stop himself from stroking her hair. There was always that trace of wistfulness when she spoke of her sisters. He didn't understand family. He had only his father. "Would you like a drink?"
It was in his tone, the distance, the formality. She tried not to let it hurt. "I wouldn't mind some Perrier."
When he went to the compact ebony bar, she moved away from the window. She couldn't stand there, thinking about people milling around together, when she felt so divorced from the man she had come to see.
Then she saw the plant. He'd set it on a little stand where it would get indirect sunlight from the windows. The soil, when she tested it with her thumb, was moist but not soaking. She smiled as she touched a leaf. He could care, if only he allowed himself to.
"It looks better," Maddy said as she took the glass he offered.
"It's pitiful," Reed corrected, swirling the brandy in his snifter.
"No, really, it does. It doesn't look so, well… pale, I guess. Thank you."
"You were drowning it." He drank, and wished her eyes weren't so wide, so candid. "Why don't you sit down, Maddy? You can tell me why you came."
"I just wanted to see you." For the first time, she wished she had some of Chantel's flair with men. "Look, I'm lousy at this sort of thing." Unable to keep still, she began to wander around the apartment. "I never had time to develop a lot of style, and I only say clever lines when they're fed to me. I wanted to see you." Defiantly she sat on the edge of the sofa. "So I came."
"No style." It amazed him that he could be amused when this unwanted need for her was knotting his gut. "I see." He sat, as well, keeping a cushion between them. "Did you come to proposition me?"
Temper flared in her eyes and came out unexpectedly as hauler. "I see dancers don't have a patent on ego. I suppose the women you're used to are ready to tumble into bed when you crook your finger."
The smile threatened again as he lifted his brandy. "The women I'm used to don't sing duets in the lobby with the security guard."
She slammed down her glass, and the fizzing water plopped dangerously close to the rim. "Probably because they have tin ears."
"That's a possibility. The point is, Maddy, I don't know what to do about you."
"Do about me?" She rose, completely graceful, totally livid. "You don't have to do anything about me. I don't want you to do anything about me. I'm not an Eliza Doolittle."
"You even think in plays."
"What if I do? You think in columns." Disgusted, she began to pace again. "I don't know what I'm doing here. It was stupid. Damn it, I've been miserable for a week. I'm not used to being miserable." She whirled back, accusing. "I missed my cue because I was thinking about you."
"Were you?" He rose, though he'd promised himself he wouldn't. He knew he should see to it that she was angry enough to leave before he did something he'd regret. But he was doing it now, moving closer to brush his thumb over her cheek.
"Yes." Desire rose and anger drained. She didn't know how to make room for both. She took his wrist before he could drop his hand. "I wanted you to think of me."
"Maybe I was." He wanted to gather her close, to feel her hard against him and pretend for just a little while. "Maybe I caught myself looking out the window of my office and wondering about you."
She rose on her toes to meet his lips. There was a storm brewing in him, she could feel it. She had storms of her own, but she knew his would be for different reasons and have different results. Was it necessary to understand him, when being with him felt so right? It was enough for her. But even as she thought it, she knew it would never be enough for him.
"Reed—"
"No." His hands were hard and tense on her back, in her hair, as he pulled her closer. "Don't talk now."
He needed what she could give him, with her mouth, with her arms, with the
He had to stop himself from stroking her hair. There was always that trace of wistfulness when she spoke of her sisters. He didn't understand family. He had only his father. "Would you like a drink?"
It was in his tone, the distance, the formality. She tried not to let it hurt. "I wouldn't mind some Perrier."
When he went to the compact ebony bar, she moved away from the window. She couldn't stand there, thinking about people milling around together, when she felt so divorced from the man she had come to see.
Then she saw the plant. He'd set it on a little stand where it would get indirect sunlight from the windows. The soil, when she tested it with her thumb, was moist but not soaking. She smiled as she touched a leaf. He could care, if only he allowed himself to.
"It looks better," Maddy said as she took the glass he offered.
"It's pitiful," Reed corrected, swirling the brandy in his snifter.
"No, really, it does. It doesn't look so, well… pale, I guess. Thank you."
"You were drowning it." He drank, and wished her eyes weren't so wide, so candid. "Why don't you sit down, Maddy? You can tell me why you came."
"I just wanted to see you." For the first time, she wished she had some of Chantel's flair with men. "Look, I'm lousy at this sort of thing." Unable to keep still, she began to wander around the apartment. "I never had time to develop a lot of style, and I only say clever lines when they're fed to me. I wanted to see you." Defiantly she sat on the edge of the sofa. "So I came."
"No style." It amazed him that he could be amused when this unwanted need for her was knotting his gut. "I see." He sat, as well, keeping a cushion between them. "Did you come to proposition me?"
Temper flared in her eyes and came out unexpectedly as hauler. "I see dancers don't have a patent on ego. I suppose the women you're used to are ready to tumble into bed when you crook your finger."
The smile threatened again as he lifted his brandy. "The women I'm used to don't sing duets in the lobby with the security guard."
She slammed down her glass, and the fizzing water plopped dangerously close to the rim. "Probably because they have tin ears."
"That's a possibility. The point is, Maddy, I don't know what to do about you."
"Do about me?" She rose, completely graceful, totally livid. "You don't have to do anything about me. I don't want you to do anything about me. I'm not an Eliza Doolittle."
"You even think in plays."
"What if I do? You think in columns." Disgusted, she began to pace again. "I don't know what I'm doing here. It was stupid. Damn it, I've been miserable for a week. I'm not used to being miserable." She whirled back, accusing. "I missed my cue because I was thinking about you."
"Were you?" He rose, though he'd promised himself he wouldn't. He knew he should see to it that she was angry enough to leave before he did something he'd regret. But he was doing it now, moving closer to brush his thumb over her cheek.
"Yes." Desire rose and anger drained. She didn't know how to make room for both. She took his wrist before he could drop his hand. "I wanted you to think of me."
"Maybe I was." He wanted to gather her close, to feel her hard against him and pretend for just a little while. "Maybe I caught myself looking out the window of my office and wondering about you."
She rose on her toes to meet his lips. There was a storm brewing in him, she could feel it. She had storms of her own, but she knew his would be for different reasons and have different results. Was it necessary to understand him, when being with him felt so right? It was enough for her. But even as she thought it, she knew it would never be enough for him.
"Reed—"
"No." His hands were hard and tense on her back, in her hair, as he pulled her closer. "Don't talk now."
He needed what she could give him, with her mouth, with her arms, with the
Similar Books
