The Night Remembers (6 page)

She laid her mesh purse on the table, her eyes skimming over the dimly lit lounge as the cocktail waitress headed back to the bar. The room was small and intimate with a gleaming mahogany bar and smoked, beveled mirrors. The bar stools were upholstered in burgundy leather and the small round cocktail tables were covered in rose linen and decorated with fat white candles in hurricane lamps. There was no room for a dance floor and no place for a band, but a baby grand sat on a raised platform at one end of the room. A woman in a long black dress was playing soft sad love songs with a muted touch.

"This is nice," she said to Adam. "Cozy and quiet."

"Think we'll be safe here?"

Daphne's forehead wrinkled in a frown. "Safe from what?"

"From one very lovely redheaded rat." Adam leaned an elbow on the table, cupping his chin in his hand, and grinned at her over the flickering candle flame. "She'll go crazy wondering where we've gone," he said with satisfaction.

Daphne laughed delightedly. "Oh, God, she will, won't she? Well, it serves her right. I swear, I could have
killed
her when I looked out into the audience tonight and saw..." Her voice trailed off as she caught his eye. "Oh, dear, that doesn't sound very gracious, does it? I just meant—" she waved one hand distractedly "—that, well, it was a surprise, that's all and..."

"Hey, it's okay. I understand. It was a complete surprise for me, too, you know. You could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw you walk out onto that stage." He fell silent as the cocktail waitress approached with their drinks, leaning back in his chair so that she could set them down on the tiny table. "Biggest damn surprise of my life," he continued when she had gone again. He picked up his drink.

"Well, here's to old times." He paused for just a heartbeat, his glance catching Daphne's over the rim of the glass. "And to new ones," he added softly. His eyes held hers, telling her exactly what he hoped those new times would involve.
I want you,
they said, more clearly, more eloquently, than mere words ever could.

Daphne sucked in her breath. There it was again, she thought. That change in him. That utterly devastating directness that was so... so utterly devastating. She wondered briefly how many women it had taken to make him so sure of himself—and hated every single one of them.

"To new ones," she said diffidently, feeling suddenly like a girl on her very first date. She stared down into her glass for a moment, calling herself six kinds of a fool for letting him rattle her so easily. All it had taken was a hot glance from those blue eyes and a veiled innuendo to make her go all hot and shivery. No other man in eleven years had ever rattled her so.

But then, she thought wryly, no other man was Adam.

She looked up and caught his gaze across the table. "So," she said briskly, determined to break the spell that held her. "Tell me what you've been doing for the past eleven years."

Adam eyed her for a brief moment, a considering look on his face, and then he lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug and let her lead him away from the topic that was on both their minds. "Studying," he said. "Working."

"Be more specific," Daphne ordered. She lifted her drink and took a small sip, relishing the cold bite of the chilled vodka. "What did you do after you graduated from med school?"

"Took my state boards."

"And then?" she prodded, amused by the return to his usual laconism. Apparently, he hadn't changed as much as she'd first thought. Getting Adam to talk about himself had always been about as easy as getting blood from a stone.

"And then there were two years of rotating internship, three years of residency in general surgery, a year in orthopedics, and then, finally, another two years residency in plastic surgery," he said, summarizing eight years of hard work and sacrifice into one sentence.

"All at the same hospital in L.A.?"

"Yes, how did you know?"

Daphne smiled sweetly, "A little rat told me."

"Busy little rat, isn't she? What else did she tell you?" he said, reaching for his drink.

"Not much." Daphne shrugged and the neckline of her silk dress slid downward, revealing an equally silky shoulder. "Just that you had moved to L.A., is... all," she finished softly, caught by the look in Adam's eyes.

He was caught, too, his drink held halfway to his mouth, his eyes following the slide of her dress. Then he blinked, as if trying to free himself, and brought the glass to his lips. But he still watched her, his lambent gaze caressing her bare shoulder as he took a sip.

Daphne's breath seemed to catch somewhere in her throat. Her tongue snaked out, licking suddenly dry lips. "So." She fingered her sleeve, nudging it upward. "How long have you been back in San Francisco?"

"Almost six months now." His voice sounded hoarse, and he paused to clear it. "A position opened up here on the staff of Children's, Brian McCorkle recommended me and—" he smiled suddenly, lifting his glass as if to make another toast "—here I am, back in my old hometown."

"And loving it."

"Yes," he admitted, watching intently as she lifted her glass to her mouth. "There's no place quite like the City by the Bay."

"Hmm," Daphne agreed. She lifted her drink to her lips again for another small sip. Adam's eyes followed the movement. "I've heard San Francisco's become a mecca for bachelors," she said then, trying for some sort of cool, some sort of distance, some sort of
anything
to diffuse the heat that was building in his eyes.

"So I've heard," he said, giving her his slow sleepy smile. She wondered if he knew he was doing it. Or if he knew what that smile did to her insides. They were quivering madly, like a soft tower of jello being shaken on a plate. And Adam was doing the shaking.

"Only heard? Aren't women chasing you all over the hospital?" Her tone, meant to be teasing, came out breathless and intimate instead. And inquiring, as if she had a burning interest in his answer.

But Adam didn't answer her question. "Why don't we talk about you now?" he suggested. "What does it take to become a success as a fashion designer?"

"Work, work and more work." She strove to make her voice less breathy, more casual and matter-of-fact. "In that order."

"Well, it's obviously paid off," he complimented her. "From what I saw tonight, it looks as if you've become a raging success—"

"Only fair to middlin'," Daphne interrupted, waggling her left hand in the air in a so-so gesture.

"—just like you always said you would," he finished. His long fingers idly twisted his glass in small circles on the rose-colored tablecloth. "You didn't stay with that department store very long."

"No," she answered, wondering how he had known that. Sunny, probably, she decided. "Those quilted jackets I was doing for Bloomie's were only a flash in the pan. In one season." She snapped her fingers. "Out the next."

"So what happened?"

"Oh, I got a job with a small design house where I learned more in one month than I had in the whole two years of fashion college. In less than a year my boss decided I was ready to do a few designs on my own—under the house name, of course. I did that for almost three years. And then—" she hesitated and then plunged ahead "—then Miles and I decided to go into business for ourselves and, well, the rest is history."

Adam's smile disappeared. "Miles," he said and flashed her a quick look she couldn't quite read. "He was your husband."

"Yes," she said softly and then fell silent for a moment, gazing absently into her drink as if suddenly lost in thought. Her eyes grew a bit misty. "Poor Miles," she said softly.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up." Adam's voice was tight, as if it hurt him to say the words. "It upsets you to talk about it."

"No, I—" she began, and then stopped. It didn't upset her to talk about it, not the way Adam meant. It was just that she had never really loved Miles, not in the way she had loved—still loved—Adam. The thought always made her feel a little guilty, a little ashamed of herself, and a little sorry for Miles because, as her husband, he should've had all the love she had to give. It was regret, not pain, that made her eyes grow misty. And sitting here with Adam, wanting him the way she did, only made that regret all the more poignant. Her only consolation was that Miles had probably never known that she had any more love to give and, so, was content with what little she offered.

"No, it doesn't upset me to talk about him. Really," she assured Adam. "It's been almost three years since the accident."

"How did it happen?" he asked quietly.

"Miles was driving up to a friend's place in Connecticut," she told him, her husky voice soft and even. "It was a Friday night, very late, and he was hit head-on by a drunk driver."

"Daphne, I'm sorry. Sorry, and terribly ashamed."

"Ashamed?" A slight frown wrinkled her smooth brow for a moment. "Why?"

"For that crack I made backstage. I had no right dismissing another man's death so callously. Even if—" his fingers showed white where they gripped his glass "—
especially
if it would give me something I wanted."

It took her a minute to comprehend what he was saying. Then it hit her.
"I should say I'm sorry, shouldn't I?"
he'd said.
"But I'd be lying. I make it a rule never to have sex with married women. And I've suddenly discovered that I want, very much, to have sex with you."

If he should be ashamed for saying it, then
she
should be ashamed for the thrill his words had given her. And she wasn't.

She reached across the table, covering his hand with hers. "Please, Adam, don't. I know you didn't mean it."

"Ah, but I did." His lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile. "Oh, not quite the way it sounded. I'm not really glad another man is dead." He reversed the position of their hands so that hers was lying under his and his thumb rubbed, ever so lightly, across the back of her wrist as he spoke. His eyes were lowered as he watched the movement. "But I am glad that he isn't standing between us."

"So am I," Daphne whispered.
Oh, so am I!

He looked up at that, and his hand tightened on hers. She couldn't quite read the message in his eyes. Desire, of course. That had never been far from the surface between them. But there was something else there, too. Relief? Understanding? Need? Uncertainty? Yes, all those, she thought, but something else, too. Something she couldn't quite put her finger on.

He stood, pulling her to her feet. "Why don't we go have that dance now? It's time."

Yes
,
Daphne thought.
More than time.

She picked up her purse and waited quietly, patiently, while Adam took out his wallet and dropped a couple of folded bills to the table. Then, silently, hand-in-hand, they walked back toward the ballroom.

Just as they reached the threshold, the orchestra began a slow, sweet number, and without a pause Adam swung her onto the crowded dance floor. His right hand settled on the small of her back, pulling her close to his body. His left hand reached for hers, intending to twine her fingers with his, but she held her purse in that hand.

"Here, let me take that," Adam said, his warm breath tickling the wispy curls at her temple as he spoke.

He took the tiny mesh purse from her fingers and slipped it into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket, then reached for her hand again. Their fingers linked, palms touching, and he brought her hand to his chest, turning her wrist slightly so that it was resting snugly against the black satin lapels of his jacket.

She moved more fully into Adam's embrace, settling into him without even thinking about it, her body seeming to know, to remember, the way they had always danced together. Her head nestled beneath his chin, her left hand unconsciously seeking the soft, short hairs at the nape of his neck. The movement caused the wide neckline of her dress to slide down again, baring the opposite shoulder, but Daphne didn't notice. She relaxed against him, feeling utterly at home in his arms.

Sighing, his eyes closed, Adam lowered his head to rest his cheek against her hair. The back of his hand pressed against the top of her breast as they swayed to the slow, soft music.

Daphne's eyes closed, too, and her heart began to beat a little faster. She had to make a conscious effort to keep her breathing even. She needn't have bothered. Adam's breath was just as uneven, his heart was beating just as fast—and he was making no effort to hide it at all.

"See what you do to me," he said shakily, turning her hand between their bodies so that it lay flat against his chest. His heart thudded into her palm.

"Me, too," she whispered. She moved his hand, placing it over the curve of her silk-covered breast, letting him feel the rapid pounding of her own heart. He drew a sharp breath and his fingers curled for a moment, caressing her. Then his hand slid up to the slim column of her neck and he tilted her head back, the ball of his thumb under her chin, his fingers on her sensitive nape. It was a move she remembered from times past. He'd done exactly the same thing the first time he'd kissed her. She let her head fall back into his cradling hand and closed her eyes, silently inviting his kiss.

"Daphne." The word was a caress. A curse. A prayer. A question. "Daphne, look at me." His voice was low and taut, intense with emotion.