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Authors: Patricia Kay
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of silky hair surrounding her face, the rosy lips tipped into a sweet smile. His heartbeat quickened as their eyes met. Very slowly, her smile faded, and he sensed the acceleration in her breathing. The moment of awareness stretched, and he wondered if the expression in his eyes had given away his desire to kiss her.
No,
he told himself.
It would be a grave tactical error to give in to this urge.
"Good-night, Claire," he said softly, taking her hands in his and pressing gently. "I enjoyed it, too." He let go of her hands and backed up a step. "Pamper yourself in the morning. Order a room-service breakfast."
"Okay." The pink on her cheeks had deepened and her eyes held a faint trace of bewilderment.
"Let's plan to meet downstairs in the lobby at eight-thirty. My first meeting is at nine."
Deep in thought, he walked slowly back to the elevator.
* * *
The meetings had been interesting but tiring, Claire decided late the next afternoon, but they had certainly accomplished one goal: she hadn't thought about her problem all day. Now that she was back in her suite at the hotel, though, her mind inevitably turned to Kitty. She decided to call Pinehaven and check on her mother.
After calling and being assured that Kitty was doing fine, Claire once more prepared for an evening with Nick. She decided the black wool suit she'd worn that day would have to do. She'd only brought one dress and she'd already worn it once. She could, however, change into a dressier top. So, instead of the plain white crepe blouse she'd worn earlier, she donned a pale blue sweater trimmed in tiny pearls.
She grinned wryly as she looked at herself in the cheval-glass mirror. So far, she'd been on this assignment for less than a week and already she'd worn just about everything in her wardrobe at least once. Claire loved clothes and she wished she had a larger selection, but she'd learned she was better off to buy fewer but more expensive, well-made garments. They looked better and lasted longer, and in the business world they made a statement about the kind of person you were.
A snob, that's what,
she told herself, but knew down deep that wasn't true. If she had a real choice, she'd wear blue jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts every day of the week, with only an occasional pretty dress thrown in as a special treat.
Nick was taking her to Commander's Palace for dinner, he'd said, and Claire had read up on the famous restaurant. She was looking forward to eating there; eating out was an indulgence she could rarely afford.
Once again, the evening was perfect. Claire loved the restaurant, especially the view of the Garden District through the plate-glass windows, and Nick was the perfect host. He looked great, as usual, in his dark pin-striped suit and beautiful shirt. Claire noticed how the eyes of the women followed him as they moved through the diners to their table. No wonder. He was a man any woman would enjoy being seen with. And he was her escort.
The only incident marring the evening came about halfway through their dinner when a well-dressed couple who looked to be in their late thirties entered the restaurant with an older woman in a wheelchair. The man pushed the wheelchair, and his wife, who Claire decided was the woman's daughter, led the way to their table. They were seated only a few tables away, in a perfect position for Claire to watch them, and when she saw how solicitous the man was both to his wife and the older woman, Claire had to swallow against the lump in her throat. She had a sudden, vivid picture of what it might be like to have someone like this man in her life who cared not only for her but for Kitty— someone she could lean on during the bad times.
Bad times like now.
After that incident, Claire's spirits drooped and no matter how hard she tried to be a charming dinner companion, she knew she wasn't doing a very good job of it. She was sure of it when, after dinner, Nick said, "I think I'd better get you back to
No,
he told himself.
It would be a grave tactical error to give in to this urge.
"Good-night, Claire," he said softly, taking her hands in his and pressing gently. "I enjoyed it, too." He let go of her hands and backed up a step. "Pamper yourself in the morning. Order a room-service breakfast."
"Okay." The pink on her cheeks had deepened and her eyes held a faint trace of bewilderment.
"Let's plan to meet downstairs in the lobby at eight-thirty. My first meeting is at nine."
Deep in thought, he walked slowly back to the elevator.
* * *
The meetings had been interesting but tiring, Claire decided late the next afternoon, but they had certainly accomplished one goal: she hadn't thought about her problem all day. Now that she was back in her suite at the hotel, though, her mind inevitably turned to Kitty. She decided to call Pinehaven and check on her mother.
After calling and being assured that Kitty was doing fine, Claire once more prepared for an evening with Nick. She decided the black wool suit she'd worn that day would have to do. She'd only brought one dress and she'd already worn it once. She could, however, change into a dressier top. So, instead of the plain white crepe blouse she'd worn earlier, she donned a pale blue sweater trimmed in tiny pearls.
She grinned wryly as she looked at herself in the cheval-glass mirror. So far, she'd been on this assignment for less than a week and already she'd worn just about everything in her wardrobe at least once. Claire loved clothes and she wished she had a larger selection, but she'd learned she was better off to buy fewer but more expensive, well-made garments. They looked better and lasted longer, and in the business world they made a statement about the kind of person you were.
A snob, that's what,
she told herself, but knew down deep that wasn't true. If she had a real choice, she'd wear blue jeans and T-shirts or sweatshirts every day of the week, with only an occasional pretty dress thrown in as a special treat.
Nick was taking her to Commander's Palace for dinner, he'd said, and Claire had read up on the famous restaurant. She was looking forward to eating there; eating out was an indulgence she could rarely afford.
Once again, the evening was perfect. Claire loved the restaurant, especially the view of the Garden District through the plate-glass windows, and Nick was the perfect host. He looked great, as usual, in his dark pin-striped suit and beautiful shirt. Claire noticed how the eyes of the women followed him as they moved through the diners to their table. No wonder. He was a man any woman would enjoy being seen with. And he was her escort.
The only incident marring the evening came about halfway through their dinner when a well-dressed couple who looked to be in their late thirties entered the restaurant with an older woman in a wheelchair. The man pushed the wheelchair, and his wife, who Claire decided was the woman's daughter, led the way to their table. They were seated only a few tables away, in a perfect position for Claire to watch them, and when she saw how solicitous the man was both to his wife and the older woman, Claire had to swallow against the lump in her throat. She had a sudden, vivid picture of what it might be like to have someone like this man in her life who cared not only for her but for Kitty— someone she could lean on during the bad times.
Bad times like now.
After that incident, Claire's spirits drooped and no matter how hard she tried to be a charming dinner companion, she knew she wasn't doing a very good job of it. She was sure of it when, after dinner, Nick said, "I think I'd better get you back to
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