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“Well, if you’re so sure of yourself,” he baited, “slide over here.”
“I read the story of ‘Little Red Riding Hood,’” she told him solemnly, careful to maintain a straight face.
“Are you calling me a wolf?”
She was, she realized—and though he probably didn’t deserve it, she refused to recant. “You used that word. I didn’t. But I bet you’d be right at home in a wilderness.” Or most other places, she thought.
She controlled the urge to lean into him, when his long fingers stroked the back of her neck. “Don’t you know that men tend to behave the way women expect them to? Huh? Be careful, Melissa. I can howl with the best of them.” Tremors of excitement streaked through her. What would he be like if he dropped his starched facade?
“What does it take to get you started?” she asked idly, voicing a private thought.
“One spark of encouragement from you.” He flicked his thumb and forefinger. “Just that much, honey.” She couldn’t muffle the gasp that betrayed her.
“Move over here,” he taunted. “Come on. See for yourself.” Tempting. Seductive. Enticing her. The words dripping off of his smooth tongue in an invitation to madness. She clutched the door handle and prayed that he wouldn’t touch her.
“Melissa.”
She clasped her forearms tightly. “I’m happy right where I am.” Her heart skittered at his suggestive, rippling laughter.
“You’d be a lot happier,” he mocked, “if you closed this space between us.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“Believe me, honey,” he purred, “I’m doing exactly that.” If she didn’t control the impulse, her fingers would find his and cling.
He took her key to open her door for her and held it as though weighing the consequences of alternative courses of action. After a few minutes during which he said nothing and she was forced to look into his mesmeric eyes while she fought rising desire, she had the impulse to tell him to do whatever he wanted—just get on with it. But seemingly against his will, as if he pulled it out of himself, he spoke.
“I’d like to spend some time with you, Melissa. I don’t have loose strings in my personal life nor in my business affairs. I need to see whether our friendship, or whatever it is that prevents our staying away from each other, will lead anywhere. I’m not asking for a commitment, and I’m not giving one. But there’s something special going on between us, and you know it, too. What do you say?”
“We’ll see.” Even if she hadn’t already learned a lesson, she had good cause to stay away from Adam. The most optimistic person wouldn’t give a romance between them a chance of maturing, because no matter how they felt about each other, their families’ reactions would count for more. So that settled it—she wouldn’t see him except with regard to business. But how could she be content not knowing what he’d be like if she let herself go and succumbed to whatever it was that dragged her toward him? Oh, Lord! Was she losing sight of the storm that awaited her when Rafer Grant learned of her passion for Adam Roundtree?
* * *
Adam awakened early the next morning after a sound and refreshing sleep. He’d made up his mind about Melissa, and as usual he didn’t fight a war with himself about his decision. That was behind him. He suspected that given the chance, she’d wrestle with it as any thinking person in her circumstances would, but he didn’t plan to give her much of a chance.
He scrambled out of bed as the first streaks of red and blue signaled the breaking dawn, showered, poured coffee from his automatic coffee maker, got a banana, and settled down to work. He liked Saturday mornings, because he was free to work on his charities, the projects whose success gave him the most pleasure. The Refuge, as the Rachel Hood Hayes Center for Women that was situated in Frederick was commonly known, had become overcrowded. He had to find a way to enlarge it and expand its services. His dilemma was whether to continue financing it himself or seek collaborative funds. If it were located in New York City or even Baltimore rather than Frederick, raising the money would be fairly simple, but corporations wouldn’t get substantial returns from humanitarian investments in Frederick, and he couldn’t count on their support.
He looked out of the window across Broadway and toward the Hudson River, knowing that he wouldn’t see Melissa’s building. He had had years of impersonal relationships and loveless sex, and he had long since tired of it. After the humiliation of that one innocent adolescent attachment, he’d sworn never to be vulnerable to another woman. The lovers he’d had as a man had wanted to be linked with Adam Roundtree and regarded intimacy as a part of that. They hadn’t attempted to know or understand him. Hadn’t cared whether he could hurt or be disappointed. Hadn’t dreamed that a hole within him cried out for a woman’s love and caring. But Melissa was different. He sensed it. He knew it. He pondered what his mother would think of Melissa. She’d probably find reasons to shun her, he mused, and none of them would have anything to do with Melissa herself. Mary Hayes Roundtree was bitterly opposed to the Morris/Grant people for having vilified her family’s name without cause. And he suspected that Melissa’s fair complexion might bother her, too—his mother liked to trace her roots back to Africa, and she ignored all the evidence of miscegenation that he could see in the Hayes family. A muscle twitched in his jaw. He couldn’t and wouldn’t allow his mother’s preferences and prejudices to influence his life.
He spent an hour on his personal accounts, then lifted the receiver and dialed her number.
“Hi. I mean, hello.”
He could barely understand the mumbled words. “Hi. Sorry to wake you, but I’ve been up for hours. Want to go bike riding?”
“Biking?” The sound resembled a lusty purr, and he could almost see her stretching languorously, seductively. “Call me back in a couple of days.”
“Come on, sleepyhead, get up. Life’s passing you by.”
“Hmm. Who is this?” He had a sudden urge to be there, leaning over her, watching her relaxed and inviting, seeing her soft and yielding without her defenses. Her deep sigh warned him that she was about to drop the receiver.
“This is Adam.” He heard her feet hit the floor as she jumped up.
“Who? Adam? Bicycle?” A long pause ensued. “Adam, who would have thought you were sadistic?”
“I didn’t know I was. Want to ride with me? Come on. Meet me at the bike shop in an hour.”
“Where is it?”
“Not far from you. Broadway at Sixty-fifth Street. Eat something.”
“Okay.”
They rode leisurely around Central Park, greeting the few bikers and joggers they encountered in the still cool morning. Melissa knew a rare release, an unfamiliar absence of concerns. It was as if she had shed an outer skin that she hadn’t known to be confining but the loss of which had gained her a welcomed freedom. She looked over at the man who rode beside her, at his dark muscular legs and thighs glistening with faint perspiration from their hour’s ride and at the powerful arms that guided the bike with such ease. From her limited experience, she had always believed that it was the man who wanted and who asked. She shook her head, wondering whether she was strange, decided that she wasn’t, and let a grin crease her cheeks. Self-revelation could be pleasant.
* * *
“Let me in on it. What’s funny?”
“Me.” She replied and refused to elaborate, watching him from the corner of her right eye. He slowed their pace and headed them toward the lake. At the shed he locked and stored their bikes and rented a canoe for them. He rowed near the edge of the lake. The ducks made place for them amidst the water lilies, and some swam alongside the canoe, quacking, seemingly happy to provide entertainment. Melissa looked around them and saw that, except for the birds, they were alone. The cool, fresh morning breeze pressed her shirt to her skin, and she lowered her head in embarrassment when she realized he could see the pointed tips of her breasts. Her restless squirming seemed to intensify his fixation with her, and she had to employ enormous self-control to resist covering her breasts with her arm.
“Don’t be shy,” he soothed, “let me look at you. I’ve never before seen you so relaxed, so carefree.”
“If you saw it all the time, you’d soon be fed up with it,” she jested in embarrassment. “And maybe worse. One Latin poet, I believe his name was Plautus, said that anything in excess brings trouble.”
His half smile quickened the twinkle of his eyes, and her hands clutched her chest as frissons of heat raced through her. “I prefer Mae West’s philosophy,” he taunted. “She said too much of a good thing is wonderful. You stick with Mister What’s-his-name’s view.” Melissa stared at him. Did he know what he’d just done to her?
His eyes caressed her while she squirmed, rubbed her arms, and moistened her lips. As though enchanted, he dropped anchor and let the boat idle.
“You’re too far away from me. If I wasn’t sure this thing would capsize, I’d go down there and get you.”
“And do what?” she challenged. Heat seemed to radiate from him, and she shivered in excited anticipation.
“When I finished, you’d never think of another man. You know you’re playing with fire, don’t you?” She wrinkled her nose in disdain.
“Keep it up,” he growled, “and I’ll go down there to you even if this thing sinks.” The air crackled and sizzled around them, and she fought the feminine heat that stirred in her loins. Sweat poured down her face as his hot gaze singed her, but she struggled to summon a posture of indifference. Nose tilted upward and chin thrust forward, she teased him, her voice unsteady.
“Planning to rock the boat, are you? Well, if you let me drown, the Morrises and Grants will have your head.”
She thrilled from head to toe as his laughter washed over her, exciting her. “I’m scared to death, Melissa. I’m shaking in my Reeboks.” Her right hand dipped into the lake as a duck swam by, and she brought up enough water to wet the front of his shirt.
“Lady, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Cooling you off.” She hoped she’d made him give her some room. She hadn’t. He looked at her steadily and spoke without a trace of humor.
“If you think I’m hot now, Melissa, you’re in for a big surprise.”
* * *
Adam watched as her eyes widened and knew she was at a loss as to how to handle him. He regretted that—he wanted her to handle him and to enjoy doing it. He pulled up the anchor and began rowing. The trees heavy with green leaves and the quiet water provided the perfect background against which he could appreciate her beguiling loveliness. His fingers itched to replace the breeze that gently lifted her hair from her shoulders and neck, and his lips burned with the impulse to taste her throat, to... They had the lake to themselves. If he dared... He raised his gaze from the water surrounding them and caught the naked passion unsheltered in her eyes. Watched, flabbergasted, as she licked her lips. Desire sliced through him, and he had to fight to rein in his rampant passion.
He rowed back to the shed, surrendered their boat, and retrieved their bikes. He was in control, he assured himself. He could stop the relationship, walk away from it anytime he chose. Or he could have until he’d seen the heat in her eyes and the quivering of her lips—for him.
* * *
He stood in front of the building in which she lived, looking down at her, trying to keep his hands to himself. She squinted at him and licked her lips. Did she want him to...? He ran his fingers over his short hair in frustration.
“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.”