A Memorable Man. Joan Hohl
afternoon, Master Robert,” she called, grinning back.
Watching the boy, Adam’s mind homed in on one point in particular about the intriguing woman.
“You’re name is Daze?”
“Hmm,” she murmured, turning to face him.
“Like...in a daze?”
“No.” She shook her head. “D-A-S-E.” She spelled the name aloud.
“Oh.” He frowned, thinking she was as forthcoming as the proverbial clam. “And do you have a first name?”
“Of course. Do you?”
Nudged into remembering common courtesy, he extended his hand. “Adam,” he said. “Adam Grainger.”
“How do you do, Adam Grainger,” she returned in tones of deceptive formality, sliding her hand into his.
The touch of her palm against his, the slight friction of skin on skin, caused an electrifying sensation inside Adam unlike anything he had ever before experienced and way out of proportion to the minimal contact. The thought burst in his mind of what effect he might feel should he touch her lips, her breasts, her...
“Sunshine.” Her one spoken word scattered his erotically galloping thoughts.
Adam blinked, then frowned. “What?”
“My given name,” she explained.
“Sunshine?” He shook his head—an action he seemed to be repeating frequently since encountering her. “Sunshine Dase?” he asked in patent disbelief. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope.” Now she shook her head. “That’s it.” She grinned. “My parents were repressed flowerchildren wannabes. But most folks call me Sunny.”
Sunny Dase. Oh, Lord. Adam felt torn between a desire to laugh and an urge to groan. “I can’t imagine what kind of teasing you must have endured growing up,” he murmured in understanding and commiseration.
“It was a challenge,” she said, shrugging. “But, as you can see, I survived.”
“Very nicely,” he commended, skimming a glance over her caped form, feeling his body clench in the process. Nice barely described her appearance, but... Adam wondered if perhaps the trials and tribulations of her former years had been a contributing factor in her strange behavior.
“Thank you, kind sir,” she responded, dipping into another quick curtsy. “Actually, I’ve grown to like the name,” she confided. “It’s different.”
“It is that,” he agreed, drolly.
Sunny laughed. And when Sunny laughed like that, easy and spontaneously, the sound literally stole the breath from Adam’s body. He had to see her again.
The realization brought sharp awareness of time and place. The late autumn sun was swimming on the horizon, casting a soft golden glow on the surroundings, in the highlights streaking her hair, on her lovely face.
Adam was struck by a sudden overwhelming need to taste the ripe fullness of her lips.
“What are you so deep in thought about?” Sunny’s green gaze knowingly probed his eyes, as if reading his mind, discerning his intentions.
Adam had never before met a woman—anyone—with such expressive eyes. The perception in those green depths danced along his nervous system.
Naturally, he couldn’t reveal to her what he had been thinking, the desire heating his blood. An eerie intuition telling him she knew the truth of his thoughts, he blurted out, “I was contemplating my chances of success at convincing you to have dinner with me this evening.”
“Excellent.”
Her prompt response stopped his mental process cold. “Huh?” he said, sounding like a dullard, in all likelihood, because he felt extremely dull and slow-witted. Adam didn’t appreciate the feeling. He betrayed himself by stiffening.
Her soft smile smoothed his ruffled feathers. “Your chances of having me accept your invitation to have dinner with you are excellent,” she explained.
Astounded by the feelings of elation her acceptance gave him, Adam stared at her a long moment, assimilating the glittering facets of the sensation.
“Where?”
He frowned. “Where what?”
Her laughing eyes mocked him. “Where do you want me to meet you for dinner?” she said precisely.
“Oh. Oh.” Adam felt like an idiot, or worse, an awkward hormonally confused teenager. “You don’t have to meet me. I’ll come for you. If you’ll give me directions to...”
“Where are you staying?” she interrupted him to ask, the expression in her eyes softening.
“The Patrick Henry.” Adam indicated the upper end of Duke of Gloucester Street with a flick of his hand. “It’s across from the restored area, right along Route 60.”
“I know where it is.” Her expression grew pensive. “Look,” she went on after a thoughtful moment, “I’m located close by, right on the fringes of the area. Depending on where you want to have dinner, it would probably be simpler for me to meet you there.” She arched her eyebrows. “Did you have a particular place in mind?”
“Well... no,” Adam admitted, shrugging. “Actually, although I have made reservations later in the week for several places that were recommended to me by friends, since I only arrived early this afternoon, I was planning to eat at the motel restaurant tonight.”
“Then why change your plans?” she said reasonably. “I’ve eaten there—the food’s good. I’ll meet you in the lobby at... What time?”
Adam was shaking his head before she’d finished. “Not necessary,” he insisted. “I’ve got a rental car. I can pick you up. It’ll be dark. You shouldn’t—do not—have to make your own way to the motel.”
“I’m a big girl, I can find my way,” she said wryly. “It’s no hassle for me to hop onto the bus that circles the area. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
Adam opened his mouth to argue, then immediately shut it again. Her chiding expression said volumes more than her spoken assurances. Advising himself to quit while he was ahead and before she changed her mind, he sighed in defeat.
“Okay, in the lobby at...say, six-thirty?”
“What time is it now?”
He glanced at his watch. “Four thirty-two.”
“Suppose we say six,” she suggested, her smile enticing. “I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I’m famished.”
“Six is fine.” He offered her a teasing smile. “I’d hate to see you waste away to a shadow of your former self.”
“Terrific. See you then.” Laughing, she turned away, then slanted a look at him over her shoulder and softly called, “By the way, my former self was little more than a shadow.”
Not again. A sinking sensation mingling with the anticipation perking inside him, Adam watched her stride away, the long cape swirling around her trim ankles.
Two
“Damn.”
Washing the trickle of blood from the razor nick on his jaw, Adam dug a styptic pencil out of his shaving kit and grimaced as he applied it to the minor wound. The grimace wasn’t in reaction to the sting of the pencil, but to the visible tremor in his fingers.
Ridiculous, Adam decided, flinging the towel aside and striding into the bedroom.
He was always cool, collected and logical. He ran a far-ranging family-owned corporation. He never lost his composure, maintaining his vaunted, steel-edged control through