These Arms of Mine. Judy Lynn Hubbard

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СКАЧАТЬ time, a genuine smile tilted the corners of his frowning mouth.

       “My mother always told me I love a challenge, and you certainly are that.” Cam picked up his briefcase and prepared to leave.

       “Are we done?”

       “Yes, we’re done. I’ll try to sell you on getting a wife later.”

       “Oh, joy.” Derrick rose to shake his hand.

       “Do you have anything else you need to talk to me about?”

       “No, please go.” Derrick reclaimed his seat behind the desk.

       “See you tonight at seven sharp.”

       As Cam walked toward the door, Derrick grimaced at the thought of another political dinner/debate—he loved the debates, but he detested sitting around with strangers, making senseless small talk over steak or chicken that tasted like rubber and vegetables that had much in common with plastic.

       “How could I forget?”

       “Just be there, and on time.”

       “Anything else, Mom?”

       “As a matter of fact, yes. But I don’t have the strength to discuss it with you right now.” He ran a hand over his bald head. “I used to have hair before you and I became friends.”

       “Later, Cameron.” Derrick’s sigh turned into a chuckle at the exasperated look he received before his friend left with a decisive click of the door.

       Alone at last, he laughed out loud and ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. He enjoyed needling Cam, almost as much as he enjoyed his newfound career in politics. Best friends since law school, Derrick and Cam looked like brothers—each sharing the same dark coloring, height and build. They had been friendly rivals who had quickly developed a deep, lasting friendship.

       Another chuckle escaped from his lips. Cam was right—Derrick could always count on him to say what others dared not to. He supposed that was one of the reasons he liked him so much. That and the fact that he had always been intensely loyal and dependable—two attributes Derrick valued greatly.

       Picking up from his desktop a manila folder containing information on his running mate, he reclined in his plush black-leather chair as he began to leaf through the pages carefully, familiarizing himself with every detail—it was always best to know one’s opponent better than oneself.

       Curious as raised voices wafted through the closed door to his assistant’s office, Derrick wondered what had prompted the argument. Seconds later, the door abruptly swung open to admit a woman he thought he would never see again—Alesha Robinson. Automatically, he stood and his icy eyes locked with her uneasy ones.

       “It’s all right, Dorothy. I’ll see Miss Robinson.”

       He broke eye contact and nodded curtly in his assistant’s direction. The woman glanced angrily at Alesha before firmly closing the door as she left.

       He felt as if he had been punched hard in the gut, and it wasn’t a pleasant feeling. Alesha Robinson was here, standing a few feet away from him, looking as beautiful as he remembered. Damn her! Damn himself for wanting to quickly close the distance between them, crush her in his arms and fuse his starving mouth with hers.

       “What brings you to my door, Alesha?” He silently blessed his voice for sounding coolly controlled, when he felt anything but.

       She looked lovelier than he remembered, dressed in a plain white sweater and black slacks. That silky light brown skin of hers begged to be caressed. His fingers itched to oblige. Her thick black hair was pulled back from her face, held in a clasp at her nape. He knew from experience that her hair was soft—softer than anything else this world had to offer. To keep from walking over to her he sat back down in his chair. His eyes then went to her left hand and he wasn’t sure whether he was relieved or angered that no engagement or wedding ring rested there.

       He continued to survey her hungrily. His eyes drank in every aspect of her face, afraid she was a mirage he had to memorize before she quickly disappeared. He had sometimes wondered if the predicament her brother had gotten himself into would force them to see each other again. He couldn’t decide if he was glad or angry that outside pressure had precipitated her return to his life, instead of her own desire.

       Her steps faltered as her eyes refamiliarized themselves with Derrick’s extremely handsome face—she had almost forgotten the effect the mere sight of him had on her. Since their first chance meeting when they had both stopped to help out at the scene of a multicar accident, he had done strange things to her equilibrium. Although currently his face was hard and foreboding, she remembered how his infectious smile could send her heart racing frantically. He sat before her after all this time like a statue—a beautiful bronze statue, she amended. She recalled how unbending his body had been against the yielding softness of hers—they had been the perfect complement for each other in so many ways. That is, until everything had fallen apart by her own hands.

       Her stomach churned queasily and her heart began beating faster and louder in her ears as she stopped just in front of the mahogany desk behind which he sat. Her heart leaped in her chest, but was it from anxiety or happiness at seeing him again? Anxiety, definitely. She was here for business—to ask him for a monumental favor—and for no other reason.

       “Mr. Chandler, I need to speak with you.” She was pleased with the steadiness of her precise and crisply articulated sentence.

       “Why so formal, Alesha?”

       “I’m here to discuss business, Mr. Chandler.”

       She made her voice curt, hoping the tone would end his unnerving inspection of her, which was causing every nerve ending in her body to silently cry out for what she knew from experience was his masterful touch.

       He had an almost irrepressible desire to trace his fingers down that silky skin of hers—it couldn’t possibly be as soft as he remembered. Yet, instinctively, he knew it was. And her full, faintly tinted brown lips—would kissing her still feel like exquisite torture? Pure heaven, that was how he remembered feeling with her in his arms, and he was sure that observation was still accurate.

       She waited uneasily for him to say something, anything. He seemed content to just stare at her. Piercing eyes traveled leisurely over her. What was he thinking? Instinctively, she knew she didn’t want to know. Was he as disconcerted by seeing her again as she was at seeing him? She couldn’t tell—he seemed cold, almost frigid. She felt like fleeing. Why didn’t he say or do something?

       “Mr. Chandler?”

       “I’m busy.”

       He was annoyed at himself for behaving like a moonstruck idiot. With great effort, he tore his eyes away from her lovely face and angrily picked up a piece of paper from his desk. It took all his self-restraint to totally ignore her.

       She bit back the angry retort that sprang to her lips at his callous actions. One thing she didn’t need was to put him on the defensive. She had come to him for help, after all—help that she really didn’t deserve.

       “Surely you can spare me a few moments.” Her tone indicated she would accept nothing less.

       He returned the paper to his desk and reluctantly looked at her once again. He mentally СКАЧАТЬ