Against All Odds (Arabesque) (6 page)

“Melissa, I... Look, I enjoyed this.” He settled for banality, when what he needed to tell her was that he wanted her right then.

She smiled in an absentminded way and responded to his meaningless remark: “Me, too.”

Maybe he’d spend some time with Ariel on Sunday and get his desire for Melissa under control. Abstinence wasn’t good for a man. He smiled grimly as he bade Melissa goodbye, admitting to himself that self-deception wasn’t good for a man, either. The next morning, Sunday, it was Melissa whom he called.

Chapter 3

A
soft sigh escaped Melissa when she awakened and realized that Adam wasn’t with her, that she’d been dreaming, and that the glistening bronze male who’d held her so tenderly was an illusion. Had she leashed her emotions so tightly these past four years that her defenses against masculine seduction were weak and undependable, that a man, who’d never even kissed her, could take possession of her senses? She didn’t think so. What was it about Adam? She reached for her glasses, looked at the clock, decided she could sleep another hour, and turned over. Wishful thinking. She answered the ringing phone.

“Hello,” she murmured, half conscious of the seductive message in her low, sleepy tones.

“So you’re awake. Thinking about me?”

“No,” she lied. “I was thinking about the weather.”

“First female I ever met who gets turned on by thoughts of the weather.”

She frowned. He was too sure of himself. Then she heard his amused chuckle and couldn’t suppress a smile, then a giggle, and finally a joyous laugh.

“Want some company? I want to see you while you’re so happy. You’re uninhibited when you first wake up, aren’t you?”

“Why did you call?” She twirled the phone cord around her index finger and waited while he took what seemed an inordinate amount of time answering.

“I didn’t intend to—it just happened. How about going to the Museum of Modern Art with me this afternoon? There’s a show of contemporary painters that I’d like to see, and browsing in a museum is my favorite Sunday afternoon pastime. What do you say?”

“Depends. I’m going to church, and then I’m going to shoot pool for an hour.” After his long silence, she asked him, “Are you speechless? Don’t tell me I shocked you. Women do shoot pool, you know.”

“Surprised, maybe, but it takes more than that to shock me. Should I come by for you, or do you want to meet me?”

“I’ll meet you at the front door of the museum. One thirty.”

She hung up and immediately the telephone rang, sending her pulse into a trot in anticipation of what he’d say.

“Mama! Are you alright? Why aren’t you going to church this morning?”

“Oh, I am, dear, and I’m just fine. I wanted to say hello before your father and I leave home. Schyler called. He just got a promotion to vice president and head of the company’s operations in Africa. I knew you’d want to know.” They talked for a few minutes, but Melissa’s pleasure at receiving her mother’s call had ebbed. Her parents took every opportunity to boast of her brother’s accomplishments. She hoped she wasn’t being unfair, but if they boasted about her, she hadn’t heard about it.

* * *

Melissa’s status within her family was far from her thoughts while she roamed the museum with Adam. She could have done without many of the paintings, she decided, but an hour among them was a small price to pay for a stroll with Adam in the sculpture garden. She had to struggle not to betray her response when he slung an arm around her shoulder as they stood and looked at a Henry Moore figure, splayed his long fingers at her back as they walked, and held her hand while he leaned casually against a post, gazing at her with piercing intensity—letting her see that his plans for them included far greater intimacy than hand-holding. She had to conclude that Adam Roundtree was a thorough man, that he left nothing to chance. He’d said he wanted to find out if there could be anything between them, and he clearly meant it. He was also stacking the odds. He might need proof, but she knew they had the basis for a fiery relationship, and he couldn’t want that anymore than she did, but he was in a different position. He was head of his family, and his folks might not try to censor him as hers surely would, but she couldn’t believe he’d be willing to drag up those ancient hatreds.

Adam let his gaze roam over Melissa. Her wide yellow skirt billowed in the breeze, and he could see the outline of her bra beneath her knitted blouse. Her softly feminine casual wear appealed to him, made her body more accessible to his touch, his hands. He grasped her arm lightly. “I’ve got a friend in Westchester I’d like you to meet. Come with me.” He sensed her reluctance before she spoke.

“I have to be home early—I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Come with me,” he urged, his voice softer, lower. Persuasive. “Come with me.” He watched her eyelids flutter before she squinted at him and insisted that she should go home. He knew she wanted to escape the intimacy between them, but he was determined to prolong it.

“I’ll take you home early. Come with me.”

She went.

* * *

They boarded the train minutes before its departure. Melissa didn’t know what to make of Adam’s mood, and his invitation to join him in a visit with a friend perplexed her. She was certain that he hadn’t planned for them to go to Westchester when he’d called her that morning.

“Are we going to visit one of your relatives?”

Adam draped his right ankle across his left knee and leaned back in his seat. “If that were the case, Melissa, I’d warn you. I would never spring a member of my family on you unexpectedly, and I think you know that. Winterflower is a very special friend. You’ll like her. She has an aura of peace about her that’s refreshing—the best preparation for the Monday morning rat race that anybody could want. I go up to see her as often as I can.”

“How old is she?” She could see that the question amused him.

“Oh, around fifty or fifty-five, I’d say. But I could be way off—I don’t make a habit of asking women their age.”

“I got the impression from what you said a minute ago that she’s different. Is she?”

“In a way. Yes. Winterflower doesn’t fight the world, Melissa—she embraces it.” He shrugged elaborately. “Flower defies description...you have to experience her.” So he had a tonic for the New York rat race after all, she mused, pleased that the woman wasn’t his lover.

* * *

A tall Native American woman of about fifty greeted them with a natural warmth. Adam introduced them, and Melissa liked her at once.

“What are you two doing together?” she asked Adam before telling him, “Never mind, it will work itself out. But you’ll both hurt a lot before it does.”

Melissa watched, perplexed, as Adam hugged the woman and then admonished her. “Now, Flower, I do not want to know about the rough roads and slippery pebbles ahead, as you like to put it. You told me about them three months ago.”

The woman’s benevolent smile was comforting, though her words were not. “You’re just coming to them.” Melissa had a strong sense of disquiet as Flower turned to her and extended her hand. “It’s good that you are not as skeptical as Adam is. You complement him well.”

Adam snorted. “Flower, for heaven’s sake!”

Flower held her hands up, palms out, as though swearing innocence. “Alright. Alright. That’s all—I’m not saying anything else.”

They walked around the back of the house to the large garden and seated themselves in the white wooden chairs. Adam moved away from the two women and turned toward the sharp decline that marked the end of Winterflower’s property, impatiently knocking his closed right fist against the palm of his left hand. He didn’t need Winterflower or anyone else to tell him that Melissa was well suited to him, that she could be his match. She was unlike any woman he had ever known. Independent, self-possessed, and vulnerable. He didn’t turn around—he was vulnerable himself right then, and he’d as soon she didn’t know it.

Winterflower served a light supper. The late, low-lying sun filtered through the trees, tracing intricate patterns on them, patterns that moved with the soft breeze and seemed to cast a spell over the threesome, for they ate quietly.

* * *

Melissa spoke. “Are you clairvoyant, Flower?”

Winterflower nodded. “I see what chooses to appear. Nothing more.” Melissa nodded. Not in understanding, but acceptance.

“Why were you surprised to see Adam and me together?” She thought her skin crawled while she waited for what was without doubt a reluctant reply.

“I’ve been associating the two of you with the end of the year.” Winterflower nodded toward Adam, who frowned. He may not agree, Melissa decided, but he didn’t suggest that the woman’s words were foolish, either.

Winterflower’s soft voice reached Adam as if coming from a long distance, intruding in his thoughts. “How is Bill Henry?”

Adam shifted in his chair, aware that her mind was again on the metaphysical. “He’s well enough, I suppose. I haven’t been home to Beaver Ridge recently, and I haven’t spoken with him by phone since I last saw you.”

“You will learn something from him,” she told Adam. “He has taught himself patience, and he has stopped racing through life. Now he has time to reflect, and soon his heart will be overflowing with joy.” She looked from one to the other, nodded, and relaxed as though affirming the inevitable. “And he is not the only one.” Then she turned to Melissa. “Ask Adam to bring you back to see me.”

Adam stood and hugged his friend. “See you again before too long.” Melissa shook hands with Flower and thanked her.

“You’re very quiet, Melissa,” he said, as they trudged downhill toward the train station. “Was I mistaken in bringing you to visit Flower?”

“No. I’m glad you did.” She appeared to pick her words carefully. “You seemed different with her.”

He couldn’t help laughing. “Melissa, I expect everybody’s different around her. She’s so totally noncombative, so peaceful. Life-giving. Sometimes I think of her as being like penicillin for a virus.”

“But she’s also unsettling.”

He slid an arm across her shoulder and drew her closer. “That’s because you were fighting her good vibes.”

“Oh, come on!” she said, and he thwarted her attempt to move away by tugging her closer.

“Now, you’re fighting
my
vibes.”

“Adam,” she chided, “you could use a little less self-confidence.”

He squeezed her shoulder. “Be reasonable. Nothing would lead me to believe that you like wimps.” She wiggled out of his arm. “Go ahead. Move if you want to. You still know I’m here.” She reached up and pulled his ear, delighting him with the knowledge that she needed to touch him.

“Feel better?”

“About what?”

“About giving in to your desire to have your hands on me?” From the corner of his eye, he saw her frown dissolve into a smile, and he stopped, grasped both of her hands in his, and stared down at her.

“You’re delightful, even when you’re trying to be difficult.” Her eyes narrowed in a squint, and she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue in a move that he now realized as unconscious. His breath quickened. “You make my blood boil.” She parted her lips as though to speak but said nothing, and his passion escalated as she merely looked down the tree-lined street, escaping the honesty of his gaze. He held her hand as they walked to the train.

“Somehow I can’t picture you with a close personal friend like Flower,” she said as they seated themselves on the train. “You belong to the modern era—she doesn’t.”

“She does,” he corrected. “Winterflower is her tribal name. She is Dr. Gale Falcon, a history professor, but she manages to stay close to her origins. My uncle, Bill Henry, introduced me to her. She and I can sit on her deck for hours at night without saying a word, yet we’re together. I value her friendship.”

“She’s clairvoyant.”

“Oh, yes,” he confirmed, “but that stuff works only if you believe in it.”

“And you don’t?”

His cynical laugh challenged her to accept his premise. “It implies that life is guided by fate, that whatever happens to you is preordained. I can’t accept that. Life is what you make it.”

His hand covered hers to assist her as they left the train, and her inquiring look drew a grudging half smile and an unnecessary explanation. “I don’t want you to get lost.”

“If I get lost, it will be deliberate.”

“I’ll bet,” he shot back. His arm around her shoulder held her close to him as they walked through Grand Central Station. The eyes of an old woman who pushed a shopping cart of useless artifacts beseeched him prayerfully. Melissa thought that he would give the woman a dollar and continue walking. Instead, he stopped to talk with her.

“What do you want with the money?” The woman seemed to panic at the question. “What are you going to do with it?”

“Well, I need some food for myself....” She paused, as though uncertain. “And for my cats, please.”

“Where are you cats?”

“In my room on Eleventh Avenue.” The woman looked into her hand and gasped at the bills he’d placed there. He bade the woman goodbye, and within a few paces a man asked him for money.

“Are you planning to buy a drink?” Adam asked him.

“No, sir,” the man replied. “I’ll take groceries. Anything, so long as I can feed my kids. You wouldn’t have a job, would you?” Melissa’s heart opened to Adam, and she didn’t fight it, couldn’t fight it, as she watched him write down the man’s name and address before giving him money. It made an indelible impression on her that he didn’t ignore the outstretched hand of a single beggar, and she couldn’t dismiss the thought that he might not be as harsh and exacting as he often appeared. She was unable to avoid comparing Adam’s response to people in need with her father’s behavior when accosted by beggars, whom he despised.

“You’re quite a woman, Melissa,” Adam told her as they walked to her apartment door. Her eyebrows shot upward. “You’re straightforward,” he went on. “No roughness around the edges. A man knows where he stands with you. And you’re not a flirt.” A smile creased his handsome cheeks. “At least not with me. And I like that. I like it a lot.” His gaze roamed over her upturned face, as if he searched for clues as to what she felt. He pushed a few strands of hair from her forehead and then squeezed both of her shoulders, letting her know that he wanted more than he was asking for.

“You’re not entirely immune to me, though,” he told her in a near whisper, “and I like that, too. Good night, Melissa.”

Melissa upbraided herself for having spent the day with Adam. She couldn’t fault his decorum, though: no cheap shots, no attempt at intimacy in spite of the almost unbearable sexual tension. He could brighten her life. Oh, he could, if he chose to do so. But he wasn’t for her, and she intended to make sure that, in the future, Adam Roundtree would be just a business acquaintance. She sighed, remembering having made that resolution on two previous occasions.