Against All Odds. Gwynne Forster

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      “I should think so. If you were the type to allow yourself to be steamrollered, you’d be less interesting.”

      They stepped out of the great stone building, J. Pierpont Morgan’s grand gift to the city, and into the sweltering night. Several men removed their jackets, but not Adam. Her glance shifted to him, cool and apparently unaffected. She wondered how he did it. She had the impression that he didn’t allow anything, including the weather, to interfere with his adherence to the standards he’d set for himself.

      The swaying trees along the edge of Central Park provided a welcomed, if warm, breeze as they walked down Fifth Avenue, but as though they had slipped into private worlds, neither spoke until they reached the corner and waited for the light to change.

      “It’s early yet,” Adam observed. “Let’s stop somewhere for a drink.” If he hadn’t been staring down at her, she reasoned, saying no would have been easier. But a smile played around his lips almost as if he harbored a delicious secret—she didn’t doubt that he did—and the twinkle in his eyes dared her to be reckless.

      She voiced a thought that tempered her momentary foolhardiness. “Adam, if anybody in Beaver Ridge or Frederick saw us walking together, they’d be certain the world was coming to an end.”

      “Why?” he asked, taking her arm as they crossed the street, “we’re not holding hands.” She was grateful that he wasn’t looking at her and couldn’t see her embarrassment, but she needn’t have worried, she realized, because his thoughts were elsewhere.

      “Melissa, why did you agree to find a manager for me if you knew who I was?”

      “What happened between our grandfathers was unfortunate, Adam, and it is one legacy that I don’t intend to pass on to my children. I’ve never been able to hate anyone, and I’m glad, because hatred is as crippling as any disease. Believe me—I’ve seen enough of it. Anyway, why shouldn’t I have taken your business?” she hedged, unwilling to lie. His large retainer had been her salvation. “I operate a service that you needed and for which you were willing to pay.” She looked up at him and added, “It’s tempting to walk through the park, but that wouldn’t be safe even with you. How much over six feet are you, Adam?”

      “Four inches. How much under it are you?”

      “Four inches.”

      He stopped walking and looked down at her. “How much under thirty are you?”

      “Two years.” Her lips curled into a smile. “How much over it are you?”

      “Four years.” He grasped her hand and threaded her fingers with his own.

      Each time she was with him, he exposed a little more of himself, she realized. His wry wit and unexpected teasing appealed to her—she liked him a lot. Pure feminine satisfaction enveloped her. Here was a man who was strong and self-reliant, sure of himself, who didn’t need to blame others for his failures, if he had any. She shook her head as though to clear it. Adam Roundtree could easily become an addiction. And she knew that part of his appeal was his contrast with her father. Adam was direct, fair, but her father tended to be manipulative, at least with her. Adam was a defender, but for all his accomplishments, Rafer Grant was a user.

      “Where are we going for this drink? We’re walking toward my place, but we could go over to Madison and find a café or bar. There’s no reason to go further out of your way.”

      “Stop worrying, Melissa. I recognize your status as my equal—well, almost.” A glance up at him told her that the twinkle carried humor. “We are walking my way. I live on Broadway just across from Lincoln Center.” When she showed surprise, he slowed his steps.

      “Where do you live, Melissa?”

      She laughed. “Four blocks from you, in Lincoln Towers.”

      They took the bus across Central Park, stopped at a coffeehouse on Broadway, and idled away three-quarters of an hour.

      “How long have you lived away from home?” he asked between sips of espresso.

      “Since I left for college. A little over ten years.”

      “Do you miss it?”

      She thought for minute. “No. I guess not. Our home life was less than ideal.” Hot little needles shimmied through her veins when his hand reached across the tiny table and clasped hers, reassuring her. She knew right then that he’d protect her if she let him.

      “I’m sorry.” His words were soft. Soothing. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such gentleness. “That must have been difficult for you,” he added.

      “Oh, it wasn’t all bad. From time to time, I got lovely surprises that brightened my life.”

      “Like what?”

      “Let’s see. The occasional rose that I’d find on my dresser. The little crystal bowl of lavender potpourri that would appear in my bathroom. Books of poetry under my pillow. I remember I was so happy to find ‘The Song of Hiawatha’ there that I read it and cried with joy half the night.”

      His strong fingers squeezed hers in a gentle caress. “Who was this silent angel?”

      “My mother.”

      His perplexed expression didn’t surprise her, but she was glad that he didn’t question her further. He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head as though dismayed. “Ready to go?”

      She nodded. As they left, he took her hand, intensifying her wariness of him and of what she sensed growing between them.

      “Walk you home?” he asked her. She wanted to prolong the time with him but thought of the consequences and tried to extricate her fingers from his, but he held on and then squeezed affectionately. Warmth flowed through her, a warmth that strengthened her, invigorated her, and enhanced her sense of self. She noticed couples, young and old, among the late evening strollers, some of whom were obviously lovers, enraptured, in their own world. Some seemed to argue, to be ill at ease in their relationship. Others appeared to have been together so long that complacency best described them, but they all held hands. Like small children clutching their security blankets, she mused. When they reached the building in which she lived, Adam assumed a casual air and looked down at her, silently awaiting a signal for his next move. What a cautious man, she thought as she prepared to head off any gesture of intimacy on his part. Though wary of the guaranteed effect of his touch, she extended her hand.

      “It’s been nice, Adam. Since we’ve just had coffee, I won’t invite you for more. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

      His displeasure wasn’t concealed by the dancing light in his eyes, she noted. “Are you always so cut and dried?” When I’m nervous, yes, she thought. Without waiting for her answer, he went on. “Your tendency to dismiss people could be taken as rudeness. Why are you so concerned with protecting yourself? Trust me, Melissa. I can read a woman the way fortune-tellers read tea leaves. You’d like this evening to continue, but you’ve convinced yourself that it wouldn’t be in your best interest, and you have the fortitude necessary to terminate it right now. I like that.”

      He grinned. She hadn’t seen him do that before, and she couldn’t decide what to make of it. Why didn’t he leave? She didn’t want to stand there with heat sizzling between them. Tension СКАЧАТЬ