Storm Over the Lake by Diana Palmer Page A

humming when she dressed for a night on the town.” He chuckled. “God, I even missed the nylons she left strewn across the floor. Neatness wasn’t one of Janine’s better points. She was the unhappiest woman I ever knew. She laughed all the time, but her eyes died before she did.”
    â€œYou loved her?”
    He studied the softness in her eyes, the vulnerability. “At that point in my life, little girl, I didn’t really know what love was.” He watched her quietly, and therewas in his expression something totally adult, masculine and provocative. “Dana, you’re so very young,” he said in a tone that made her blush.
    â€œTry to burp me, and it’s going to be a free-for-all in here,” she warned quietly.
    A swarthy grin cut across his face. “Honey, if I ever take you on my lap, it won’t be to burp you.”
    She lifted her face defiantly, ignoring the heat in her cheeks. “You only just got through saying you don’t rob cradles,” she reminded him.
    He chuckled softly. “I have to keep your age in mind. Occasionally I forget that you’re eighteen years my junior.”
    â€œSeventeen,” she corrected him. “I’ll be twenty-three the day after tomorrow.”
    He held her eyes in the silence, looking his fill while her heart shook. “I was already a man when you were just born, Dana,” he said gently.
    Her gaze slid over the lines in his face, his broad, chiseled mouth, the darkness of his skin…touching it with her eyes. “Adrian…”
    â€œWhat is it…something you’re afraid to ask?” he mused. “I don’t bite.”
    â€œDid you…I mean, most men…” she trembled over the words. “Did you ever want children?”
    Something—brown sunlight, an explosion of autumn leaves, a burst of brown flame—touched those dark eyes and dilated them. “Why did you ask that?” he queried gently.
    She dropped her eyes, afraid that he might see the answer. “I just wondered.”
    He put out the stub of his cigarette and finished his coffee. “You’d better get some sleep, little one. It’s very late. No, leave the cups, let Lillian get them in the morning.” He held the door open for her. “I never did get my cake.”
    â€œOh, did I forget…Adrian, I can still cut you a slice—” she began.
    â€œIt’s just as well,” he replied, clicking off the light, “I’m heavy enough without it.”
    Impishly, she put out a slender hand and touched the hard muscle of his stomachabove his belt. “You’re big, not heavy,” she teased.
    He caught her hair and tugged her face up with a firm, steady pressure, moving closer so that she could feel the warmth of his body, so that the scent of him filled her nostrils.
    â€œCome here,” he murmured, and bent his head to touch his mouth very gently to hers in a kiss that brought the stars spinning down.
    He drew away a heartbeat later, his face solemn, his eyes quiet. “Better than cake,” he whispered deeply, and a slow, wicked grin touched his mouth. “No calories.”
    She managed to smile back and disengaged her hair from his hands. “Goodnight,” she said, turning away to hide the effect that brief kiss had on her pulse.
    â€œDana?”
    â€œYes?” she replied without turning, at the foot of the staircase.
    â€œI want children very much.”
    Stunned, she met his eyes, saw the dark gentle smile in them, and couldn’t findwords to answer him. She only nodded and turned away, curiously breathless.
    Â 
    The next afternoon, Dana was sealing a letter when the phone rang and a familiar deep voice came over the line.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” he asked lazily, as if he had all the time in the world to talk to her.
    â€œGetting out a letter, to that textile equipment company you wrote to about the buttonhole