“Ah … marriage.” He exhaled lengthily. “So you’re against marriage. Any special reason?”
There were many special reasons, most relating to her experience as a child when her parents’ marriage had shattered into a thousand anguished pieces, stinging her badly. But that was in the past. “Nothing more than what I see every day in my work,” she said with a shrug, though her features were far from nonchalant.
Sloane averted his eyes to follow the slow motion of his fingers as they twirled the stem of his wineglass. For a long time he said nothing. Then he looked up and challenged her. “Why did you agree to have dinner with me tonight?”
The question was one which stymied even Justine. Howhadit come to pass? She couldn’t even recall. There was something about a headache, his hand massaging relaxation back into her, his voice crooning soft orders by her ear. Tingling anew, she smiled and ad-libbed as best she could. “I was in need,” she enunciated each word clearly, “of refreshment….”
When Sloane smiled warmly at her, that refreshment was heady. Mercifully, the waiter chose that moment to bring their dinner, and the conversation lightened up.
“That’s a nice building you live in. Do you live alone?” he asked, sampling his veal, tasting it, then smiling in approval of its subtle seasoning.
Justine answered easily. “No. I share the apartment with a friend, Susan Bovary. She’s a nurse.”
“That’s fortunate,” he smirked, “if one is accident-prone.”
“—as I am? Go on. I dare you. I can take it.” She chuckled pertly, then took him off the spot. “Actually, we met in the emergency room of the hospital. I had dropped a large container of orange juice concentrate from the freezer onto the floor—and it landed on my toe. I was barefooted.”
Sloane’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got to be kidding….”
“Don’t I wish it.” She spoke with due remorse. “It’s costing a bundle—all these emergency visits.Thatone required four stitches. The only good thing about it was Susan. She was just going off duty and helped me get back home. When she saw the apartment and the extra room going to waste, she asked if I needed a roommate. That was four years ago. It’s worked out well.”
Sloane shook his silvered head in disbelief. “You dropped a container of orange juice concentrate on your bare toe…. Lord help us!” He lifted his eyes heavenward for a brief moment, then returned to his dinner. “She works the night shift, I take it?”
“Yes. We see each other on weekends, but otherwise it’s a short note here or there.”
“Very convenient for you … if, that is, you want a bedtime companion….” The suggestiveness in his tone brought Justine’s head up with a start.From dusk to dawn,John had said,the fox hunts.Was Sloane hunting now? Foolishly, she had shown him the trump card which had often in the past saved her from an annoying and persistent would-be bedmate. The mention of a roommate was a sure coolant to a man’s lust. Now, she didn’t even have that excuse. Did she want it?
For an instant, as their eyes held one another’s, a current of awareness sizzled between them. In Justine it kindled that very heady spark of desire—a desire that only Sloane appeared to have the knack of fueling. Though she dragged her gaze away, he caught her vulnerability and diplomatically changed the subject, directing the conversation to a safer topic as they finished their dinner. Later, when he drove her home, she found herself intent on prolonging the moment of departure.
In addition to being compellingly attractive, Sloane Harper, she discovered, was as interesting a companion as she had found yet. He may not have had the expertise in music that Dave Brody had or the detailed knowledge of literature that Sam Allen, another of her past beaux, had, but he was, in the all-around sense, a challenge.
“Would you like to come up for a last cup of coffee?” she ventured timidly, but he quickly shook his head.
“No, thanks, Justine. I’ll walk you up—I’d like to see theinsideof your place—but then I’ve got to be moving along. There’s a meeting of the board at nine tomorrow morning. If I’m late, there will be all hell to pay!”
The “inside” of her place, as Sloane had put it, was thankfully neat. “Living room … kitchen … two bedrooms … and a bath.” Her slim hand gestured in a slow arc.
“Very nice,” he murmured, wandering deeper into the living room to admire the plush shag carpet, the bamboo wall units, the low end tables, and the sectional sofa. “Did you decorate it yourself?”
“Yes. I love doing that type of thing,” she offered softly, feeling strangely shy and on display with Sloane here at her own home. Yet she was proud of the decor—a palette of creams and cocoas spiced with splashes of color in artwork and accessories.
“These prints are fascinating.” He stood before a triptych on the far wall—three oversized oils, tall and narrow, which depicted a wilderness scene in the running, from the open freshness of a babbling stream to the more static expanse of a deer-dotted meadow to the dark of the forest. It was this last to which his eye strayed. “It’s frightening. I wonder why?” he asked, his question honest and totally devoid of amusement or smugness.
Tucking her hands in the pockets of her gray dirndl-style skirt, Justine came to stand by his side. Her copper curls bobbed as she cocked her head in study. “I’m not quite sure. I keep looking into the trees expecting to see something. But it’s never there. It’s … eerie.”
“Do you know the artist?” It was a signed original; his assumption was correct.
“I went to high school with him. We’ve kept in touch over the years. When I saw this, I knew I had to have it. For some reason, I find it riveting.”
Riveting.A powerful word. A word that aptly described her reaction to Sloane. In the instant’s recognition, she glanced up to find him studying her closely. Under his inspection her lips felt suddenly dry. Her tongue circled them as she took a breath.
“Are you … sure I can’t interest you in some coffee? A nightcap?”
His voice was a deep, velvet lure. “No. You’ll do just fine all by yourself.”
Her mouth opened in protest, then closed with protest unspoken. Time, life, the world—all seemed in suspension as she assimilated the raw desire which filled Sloane’s dark gaze. Once again his hair was like a halo; once again Justine knew that his thoughts were far from angelic.
The smoothness of his palm shaped her jaw, his fingers caressed the softness of her cheek. Her lips parted beneath the gentle nudging of his thumb, which circled them with infinite slowness and devastating effect. Her breath caught and held for one, everlasting moment of expectancy. Then, the telephone rang, shattering the mood with its shrill peal.
