Against All Odds. Gwynne Forster
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.”
“If I get lost, it will be deliberate.”
“I’ll bet,” he shot back. His arm around her shoulder held her close to him as they walked through Grand Central Station. The eyes of an old woman who pushed a shopping cart of useless artifacts beseeched him prayerfully. Melissa thought that he would give the woman a dollar and continue walking. Instead, he stopped to talk with her.
“What do you want with the money?” The woman seemed to panic at the question. “What are you going to do with it?”
“Well, I need some food for myself....” She paused, as though uncertain. “And for my cats, please.”
“Where are you cats?”
“In my room on Eleventh Avenue.” The woman looked into her hand and gasped at the bills he’d placed there. He bade the woman goodbye, and within a few paces a man asked him for money.
“Are you planning to buy a drink?” Adam asked him.
“No, sir,” the man replied. “I’ll take groceries. Anything, so long as I can feed my kids. You wouldn’t have a job, would you?” Melissa’s heart opened to Adam, and she didn’t fight it, couldn’t fight it, as she watched him write down the man’s name and address before giving him money. It made an indelible impression on her that he didn’t ignore the outstretched hand of a single beggar, and she couldn’t dismiss the thought that he might not be as harsh and exacting as he often appeared. She was unable to avoid comparing Adam’s response to people in need with her father’s behavior when accosted by beggars, whom he despised.
“You’re quite a woman, Melissa,” Adam told her as they walked to her apartment door. Her eyebrows shot upward. “You’re straightforward,” he went on. “No roughness around the edges. A man knows where he stands with you. And you’re not a flirt.” A smile creased his handsome cheeks. “At least not with me. And I like that. I like it a lot.” His gaze roamed over her upturned face, as if he searched for clues as to what she felt. He pushed a few strands of hair from her forehead and then squeezed both of her shoulders, letting her know that he wanted more than he was asking for.
“You’re not entirely immune to me, though,” he told her in a near whisper, “and I like that, too. Good night, Melissa.”
Melissa upbraided herself for having spent the day with Adam. She couldn’t fault his decorum, though: no cheap shots, no attempt at intimacy in spite of the almost unbearable sexual tension. He could brighten her life. Oh, he could, if he chose to do so. But he wasn’t for her, and she intended to make sure that, in the future, Adam Roundtree would be just a business acquaintance. She sighed, remembering having made that resolution on two previous occasions.
* * *
After leaving Melissa, Adam strode quickly up Sixty-sixth Street to Broadway, crossed the street, and entered his building. Melissa was beginning to tax his self-restraint. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. Aching want settled in his loins when he thought of her high firm breasts, her rounded hips, and those long, tapered legs. He stopped undressing. It was one thing to desire an attractive woman, but it was quite another to be captivated by her because she was special, because she had an allure like none other. It bore watching, he decided, pulling off his shorts and getting into bed. Careful watching.
But she was there when he closed his eyes. Deeply troubled, he sat up in bed and turned on the bedside lamp, fighting a feeling he hadn’t had for years. For all his wealth, his phenomenal success as a realtor, and his meteoric rise in the corporate world, his life lacked something. An emptiness lurked in him, a void that begged to be filled with the sweet nectar of a woman’s love.
* * *
Three evenings later Melissa rushed to find her seat before the concert began. She hated being late and had been tempted not to renew her subscription to the museum’s summer concert series, because it meant fighting the rush hour traffic in order to be on time. She shivered from the air conditioning and rubbed her bare arms as she realized belatedly that she’d left her sweater in her office. It would be a long, uncomfortable evening. As she weighed the idea of leaving, a garment fell over her shoulders, and large hands smoothed it around her arms. She looked down at the beige linen jacket that warmed her, felt the gentle squeeze of masculine hands on her shoulders, and fought not to turn around. But she couldn’t resist leaning back, and when his hand rested softly on her shoulder, she tapped it lightly to thank him. So much for her resolve to avoid a personal relationship with him.
They left the concert together, stopped for coffee at a little café on Columbus Avenue, and though there was no discussion of it, she knew he’d walk her home. Maybe this time he wouldn’t leave her without taking her in his arms. But when they entered the lobby of her building, she shuddered at the sight that greeted her. Wasn’t it like her father to appear unexpectedly, giving himself every advantage? Rafer Grant rose from a leather lounge chair and walked toward them. He stopped, gazed at Adam, and fear ripped through her as his mouth twisted the minute he recognized the man whose family he detested.
“What is he doing here with you? Is this why you can’t come home and look after your mother?” He didn’t give her a chance to reply. “How could you consort with this...this man after what he and his kin did to our family? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” Adam’s arm steadied her.
Her voice held no emotion. “Hello, Father. I needn’t say that I’m surprised to see you. There’s no reason for you to be displeased. Adam—”
He interrupted. “Adam, is it? I’m shocked and disappointed at your bringing this man here to your home. It’s disloyal, and I won’t stand for it.”
Adam pulled her closer to him, possessively and defiantly. “How are you planning to prevent it? This isn’t the Middle Ages when you could have her shackled to the foot of her bed. She’s an adult, and she can do as she pleases.”
“It’s alright, Adam.” She was used to her father’s harangues, having endured his reproofs and censure for as long as she could remember, but until now no one had called him to task for it—not her mother nor her brother. She needed her father’s approval—it seemed that for most of her life she’d striven for it. Yet