The atmosphere of the office itself seemed strangely charged, but Ann reproached herself for having too much imagination. After all, she had dealt with many high-powered lawyers and speculators in the past few years, so why should this one be any different? And the name Ann Coulter was one to be reckoned with in real estate circles, wasn’t it? Still, something about this office made her take a firmer grip on her briefcase when she walked up to the receptionist.
“Mr. Gayne will be with you in a few minutes,” the woman murmured. “If you would care to take a seat?”
Ann had barely sat down and unlocked her briefcase when a door opened and a tall, lean, athletic-looking man impeccably dressed in a navy blue three-piece suit strode up to her, his hand extended.
Ann was so dumbfounded that she stumbled a little when she got up to shake hands. This was Adam Gayne? She took in the handsome features, the thick, wavy black hair with just a hint of silver at the temples, and the riveting black eyes.
“Mrs. Coulter … I’m happy to meet you at last,” he said with a disarming smile.
“Mr. Gayne …”Ann managed to say as she pulled herself together.
“Shall we step into my office?” Gayne said softly.
Ann was very aware of his nearness as she walked past him and took a chair.
He seated himself at the large ebony desk opposite her and smiled. “Shall we get down to business? I trust you have the copies of the agreement I mailed you.”
His neutral, businesslike tone and the familiarity of the legal documents allowed Ann to order her thoughts. She retrieved the relevant papers from her carefully organized case and began: “Mr. Gayne—I have a number of questions regarding page seven….”
From then on, it was all business, Gayne explaining the ins and outs of the syndication in question with such lucidity that Ann could immediately see why he was considered one of the foremost experts in the field. They got into the details of a particularly thorny tax question, and before Ann knew it, the afternoon was half gone. They had been talking for over two hours.
Glancing at her watch, she exclaimed, “Oh, my—it’s nearly two o’clock. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, tossing the papers aside. “I wanted to make sure you were all clear on the various ramifications.”
“In any case,” Ann announced, more abruptly than she had intended, “I guess we’re about finished. I won’t keep you.”
“You’re not keeping me,” he murmured.
Barely hearing him, Ann shuffled her papers into her briefcase any which way, and began to get up.
“Mrs. Coulter—haven’t you missed lunch?”
She looked at him inquiringly. He seemed amused.
“No,” she said hesitantly.
“You have other plans?”
Ann flashed him a rueful smile. “Actually, I have no plans at all.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
In front of the building, Adam hailed a cab. “Russian Tea Room,” he said before recalling himself and asking, “Is that all right with you?”
“Fine,” Ann answered coolly. Now it was her turn to feel amused. Plainly, Mr. Adam Gayne was not in the habit of consulting anyone’s wishes save his own, although he covered it adroitly with that graceful manner of his.
He was the perfect escort. Doors flew open, he was given a well-positioned table, waiters scurried to do his bidding. And all the while his attention to Ann never wavered. He asked her about her life in San Francisco—how she had gotten started in the business, what pitfalls she had encountered.
Occasionally he offered entertaining comments and asides, and Ann found herself laughing more than she had in years. They finished their Strawberries Romanoff and sat over cups of Viennese coffee until Ann said, a trifle anxiously, “I’m afraid I’m keeping you from something.”
“Nothing,” he assured her. “I had nothing scheduled this afternoon, and if I did it would be too late. It’s already five. Time for cocktails, don’t you think?” There was a twinkle in his dark eyes.
Two very dry martinis later, Ann gave up worrying about what she suspected were Adam Gayne’s neglected afternoon appointments. She just let herself enjoy his company and his wit until Adam startled her by suggesting dinner.
“Goodness—didn’t we just finish lunch?”
“Several hours ago,” he laughed.
Ann had never known time to pass so quickly.
“Perhaps you’d like to go back to your hotel and change?” he asked.
“I really should say no …”
“Why?”
Ann reflected for a minute. Am I feeling guilty just because I’m having such a good time? Does the fact that I’m married—happily married—mean I can’t spend an evening with a business acquaintance—even an unquestionably attractive one?
She looked up to see one of his eyebrows lifted in a look of amused inquiry. Embarrassed now by her inhibitions, she laughed and said, “Why not? Just give me an hour or two to get ready.”
“Great. We’ll go to Lutèce.”
Ann returned to the Plaza filled with a delicious sense of anticipation. No matter how many times she told herself not to be so silly, she couldn’t calm down. New York is exciting—that’s it, she had told herself several times. The electricity that seemed to be coursing through her was due to her having finally arrived in America’s financial capital….
Glancing at the bedside clock, she remembered that she had only an hour and a half until Adam picked her up.
What in the world am I going to wear? Going over to the closet, she realized she had only brought two very businesslike dresses and a pale blue knit dress she had thrown in because it didn’t wrinkle. She eyed it with disfavor. It looked so dowdy. She was about to take it off the hanger when an image of a very chic looking shop right in the Plaza flashed through her head. She had glimpsed a stunning black dress there. On an impulse, she dialed the operator and asked for the shop. An elegantly nasal female voice answered: “Maison Mendessolle. May I help you?”
“Yes, please. Would it be possible for you to send up three or four cocktail dresses, size eight, up to my room? I need something for tonight and I just don’t have time to come down.”
Ten minutes later, the intimidatingly chic owner of the nasal voice appeared, bearing an armful of cocktail dresses. Without ceremony, Ann held them up to choose. There was a sea-green one with paillettes, a little too glittery; a white one that would have been appropriate for a dance; a red one that was entirely too vivid; and finally the black one Ann had seen in the window.
It was the last one she tried on, an elegantly draped black silk crepe with a slender bodice and a dropped waist. There was just the right amount of black jet beading at the neckline, and the shirred skirt swirled excitingly about her legs.
She poked her head out of the bathroom. “I’ll take the black. Can you please add it to my hotel tab?”
“With pleasure, madam,” said the saleslady, secretly wondering why her customer was so shy about emerging from the bathroom. It looked as if she had a lovely figure.
Ann had never felt so reckless, but at least she would be decently dressed. From a business point of view, it wouldn’t do to let Adam Gayne think that she was either too poor or too provincial to dress appropriately for dinner.
Quickly, she ran a tub, throwing in a packet of bath salts thoughtfully provided by the hotel, and lowered herself into the deliciously scented hot water. She closed her eyes and lay back, letting the soothing warmth relax her tired muscles. When she took up the thick cake of soap to wash herself with her usual efficiency, she found her movements had become drugged, languorous. Experimentally, she ran her hand over her shoulders, feeling the satiny texture of her skin. She let her hand travel down over her breasts, almost caressingly. They’re still as firm as a young girl’s, she thought, surprised. She tried to make herself hurry, but her brain seemed strangely slow to respond. Her body, by contrast, felt unusually alive
. That’s enough, she told herself. Adam will be here in half an hour. You can’t be in the tub when he arrives! She rinsed quickly, first hot and then cold, and stepped out of the tub.
Donning a lacy, clinging slip, Ann applied a little more makeup than usual, accenting her violet eyes with a smoky charcoal shadow and mascara that Evie had given her on her birthday. Ann had brought it along principally to avoid hurting Evie’s feelings, but tonight it was going to come in handy. Her hair was still up from her bath, and Ann looked in the mirror. Swept off her neck, it showed off the line of her throat. No, she was being absurd. She never wore her hair up. Perhaps if she just swept it back a bit with two combs….
She tugged on sheer black nylons; black, high-heeled shoes; and then slid into her new dress. When she turned back to the mirror, she was astonished. An elegant stranger stared back at her, a luminous creature with silky dark curls, sparkling eyes, and a wild-rose color in her cheeks. Her dress clung seductively to her breasts and hips, and the short skirt made her legs seem very long and slim.
She was just stuffing her wallet into a small black leather clutch when a knock sounded on the door.
“Hello,” she said tremulously, opening it.
For an instant his glance flickered over her body, and his eyes widened. But when he spoke, his voice was composed. “Ann … you look lovely.”
“Shall we go?” Ann asked abruptly. She didn’t feel up to coping with his compliments.
“May I get your coat first? It’s winter, you know, and that charming silk dress isn’t going to keep you very warm.”
All Ann had was her black coat—too casual, but thank God it was black.
Lutèce lived up to its reputation.
“You’ve never been here?” Adam asked.
“No. I’ve never been to New York before. And I suppose you find my provinciality shocking.”
“Not at all.” He said. “No one is as provincial as the average New Yorker. But I hope I’m not that bad. As a matter of fact, San Francisco’s one of my favorite cities.”
“You go there often?” Ann asked, then flushed, afraid he would think she was taking too personal an interest in his comings and goings.
“I’ve begun making business trips every couple of months. Maybe they’ll be more frequent now that I have more connections there.”
Without taking his eyes from her, he asked the waiter for Dom Pérignon—two fluted glasses were placed before them and the waiter poured the clear, straw-colored fluid.
Adam Gayne raised his glass and touched it to Ann’s. He started to say something, then seemed to change his mind. When he spoke he just said, “To a successful partnership.”
As Ann slowly relaxed, she found that, just as at lunch, there were a thousand things to talk about. She scarcely noticed what he ordered for the two of them, although later she retained a confused memory of Escargots Endive, Roast Quail, exotic imported wines that added to her impression that she was dreaming. Nothing seemed real, not the incredible food and decor or the man sitting across from her—least of all herself. Every time she shifted her position in her chair, she could feel silk caressing her skin, reminding her of her unfamiliar glamour. Even though their conversation occasionally touched on business topics, Ann felt nothing like her customary clear-thinking, efficient self. After she had finished the last spoonful of a succulent Coupe aux Framboises, Adam insisted on ordering Armagnac.
The rare brandy came in gently warmed balloon snifters. Ann took a deep breath and looked up delightedly. “It’s lovely! Like Cognac, isn’t it?”
“Different region of France,” Adam commented, smiling at her enthusiasm.
Ann took a sip and felt an odd, melting sensation. Deciding she had better not drink too much, she put her glass back on the table. When she looked up, she caught Adam’s eyes on her.
“You are beautiful,” he said abruptly, watching the rise and fall of her full breasts under the thin black silk. Her eyes avoided his admiring gaze.
“Mr. Gayne—”
“Adam. Call me Adam.”
“Adam—I …”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to make you uncomfortable. You are beautiful though—a hundred men must have told you that before.”
Ann shook her head.
“No? Then maybe San Francisco males need glasses.”
Ann laughed. She looked at his strong, tanned hand resting on the tablecloth and fought an inexplicable urge to grasp it. What in the world was happening to her? She should really go home and get some sleep—this evening’s madness would wear off by daylight.
“Shall we go?” Adam echoed her thoughts.
As he helped her with her coat, his hand brushed her neck and she could feel the electricity.
She flinched, and Adam moved away instantly.
The night was bitterly cold as they waited for a taxi. Ann sat stiffly in her corner, more aware than she wanted to be of his arm on the top of the seat behind her. Her hotel was only a short ride, and when they arrived, Adam got out of the cab without comment and walked her up the steps of the Plaza.
As she turned to say goodnight, Ann saw that the gleam of amusement had returned to his dark eyes, and as they stood at the door, she half feared, half expected, that he would kiss her. But instead he drew her hand from her coat pocket, bent his head, and she felt the light touch of his lips on her fingers.
“It’s been lovely, Ann. Good night.”
“Good night, Adam,” Ann returned in a high voice completely unlike her own.
Then she turned and fled into the safety of the crowded, brightly lit lobby.
Adam turned back to the waiting taxi. Suddenly he changed his mind and, handing the cabbie a five-dollar bill, waved him away. It was a long hike, but he would walk home. Perhaps the icy air would chase away the spell Ann Coulter seemed to have cast over him.
He had expected an officious, frumpy, middle-aged virago in a badly fitting pants suit. Well, Ann Coulter certainly wasn’t that. She was beautiful, sexy, utterly charming. She could have easily exploited those qualities if she had chosen to, but there was no trace of that in her manner. Maybe that was what really set her apart—her sincerity and honesty. He had heard rumors that Coulter was one of the most respectable in the business. And smart, too. Obviously. He had been impressed by her quickness. She could instantly grasp the essentials of a deal and pinpoint the weak links. No one was going to put anything over her.
As he continued to walk along Fifty-seventh Street, past the glittering shop windows, he tried to talk himself out of his fascination: So she’s beautiful and brainy. She is also happily married and lives clear across the country on the West Coast.
But the memory of the sparkling, violet eyes; the rueful, sweet smile; the mercurial sense of humor refused to dim. Lost in thought, he almost walked past his building.
The doorman, noticing him, waved wildly, then opened the door and called out, “Mr. Gayne. Where are you going?”
“Don’t ask, Freddy,” Adam said rather sheepishly as he turned back and walked inside.
Usually Adam felt a sense of peace and comfort whenever he entered his apartment, but tonight he couldn’t shake off his nervous excitement. When he glanced out the window, the lights of Manhattan seemed dimmer than when they had framed Ann’s head at Lutèce.
In his bedroom, his silk robe lay folded on the polished mahogany bed, the sheets turned down, while a decanter and glasses stood ready on the table near the fireplace. Faithful Gaston—what a treasure. “Better than a wife,” he murmured to himself, but as he climbed into bed he wondered what Ann Coulter would look like with her dark hair tumbled on that pillow, her slender body bare.
Good God! he thought savagely. Am I going to fantasize all night about a woman I hardly know? Yet the image persisted.
This is ridiculous. It was late and he had to get some rest. He had all those appointments he’d put off from today. Throwing back the covers, he got up and poured himself a stiff brandy. After downing it in two gulps, he we
nt back to bed and drifted off into a restless sleep.
When he woke, his first conscious thought was of Ann. He had overslept. In his unsettled state of mind, he had forgotten to set the alarm or leave a note for Gaston. Even though he was late, he thought of calling her at the Plaza. Then he remembered that she had mentioned a nine o’clock flight. Even now, she must be at the airport, waiting for takeoff.
Irritably, he called out for coffee and turned on the shower. San Francisco had never seemed so far away.
Chapter Thirty-Five
ANN, ON THE OTHER hand, was grateful for every one of the three thousand miles that separated her from Adam. She forced herself to plunge back into work and tried to spend her free time planning expeditions with Evie. But her daughter was busy now with her own friends, and weekends when Ann was alone with Phillip she couldn’t help remembering the electric tension she had felt with Adam. Safe at home, she was able to label it truthfully as desire. She had wanted Adam Gayne even though she knew she couldn’t have him. From time to time they spoke on the phone about business, but Ann kept the calls short. Time passed, and Ann began to feel as if she once again were in full control of her emotions.
Then, almost a year later, Adam unexpectedly called to announce that he had put together another syndicate. Was she free to come to New York to discuss the details with the developers?
Ann had temporized, saying that she would call him back. But in spite of her conflicting emotions, she couldn’t bring herself to ignore the opportunity. The first syndication had been highly profitable for all concerned, and perhaps this one would be, too. In any case, a woman in her forties should be well past the age of schoolgirl crushes, so there was no real danger.
She had her secretary leave word with Gayne’s office that she would be there. Then she reserved a suite at the Plaza. Seized with a feeling of recklessness, she decided to be in New York a day early and do some shopping. Apart from the black cocktail dress she had bought on her last trip, Ann owned only clothing necessary for her work, casual attire to wear around the house, and two modest dresses for occasional business socializing. Why not indulge myself? she thought. God knows I can afford it.
Seasons of the Heart Page 22
