by Janet Dailey
“No hobbies?” His eyes glinted with something between admiration and amusement.
“You are relentless,” Kelly declared, stunned that her factual recitation hadn’t brought an end to the probing personal questions.
“Curious,” Sam corrected, his mouth curving in a crooked smile. “It’s obvious that you are a very private person. And as expert as any politician at dodging questions.” He straightened from the window glass. “No offense intended.”
“None taken.” But she was shaken that he had so easily recognized her evasive answers for what they were.
“Good.” He continued to regard her steadily. “I imagine privacy is important to someone in the public eye the way you are.”
“It is.”
His smile widened a little. “So what are your hobbies? You still haven’t told me.”
Bothered by the way he was looking at her – and the way she was reacting – Kelly hesitated an instant. “I don’t know whether this qualifies as a hobby, but I like to restore and refinish old furniture, take something that’s scarred and battered, strip it down to bare wood, then sand away all its scratches and gouges, give it a fresh coat of stain, and make it look all shiny and new again.” As she warmed to the subject, she gradually lost that initial self-conscious quality. “It started out as a way to fill the unfurnished apartment I rented when I moved to St. Louis. Now it’s something I just enjoy doing. In fact, I’m in the middle of restoring a gorgeous old turtle-top center table I found at a thrift shop just a few blocks from where I live in Gramercy Park. It’s made out of mahogany. So far, I have managed to strip off the old paint and stain it, but it needs two or three coats of wax yet. Hand-rubbed, of course.”
“Of course.” His answering smile was quick and warm, a look of understanding in his eyes that Kelly hadn’t expected. It drew her, even as she recognized the danger of it, and the attraction she felt.
“What can I say? Doing it gives me a lot of pleasure and satisfaction.” She tried to sound offhand, without success.
“That’s obvious.” He paused and reached out to take her right hand, turning it palm up as the fingers of his other hand tactilely examined its smoothness. “It’s also obvious that you wear gloves while you’re doing all this stripping and sanding and staining.”
The caressing brush of his fingers took her breath and sent little tingles rushing up her arm and down her spine. No man’s touch had ever made her feel breathless before. It wasn’t fair that it should belong to Sam Rutledge. And it wasn’t fair that she saw the same awareness flickering in his eyes.
“As a matter of fact, I do wear gloves.” Kelly drew her hand free and tried bodily to pull back from this trembling edge of tension.
“Funny,” he murmured.
“What is?” She slipped a hand onto her evening bag, clutching it a little tighter than necessary while searching through her mind for some casual way to end this conversation.
“I like old things, too. Only in my case, it’s planes.”
“Planes,” Kelly blurted in surprise. “You fly?”
He nodded. “When I can get away, which isn’t often, unfortunately. I own a vintage Cub.” Seeing her blank look, Sam explained. “That’s an old, two-seater biplane, with open cockpit.”
“A biplane. Like the kind Snoopy flies when he’s out looking for the Red Baron in his Sopwith Camel?” she asked, referring to the character from the “Peanuts” cartoon strip, unable to keep a smile from breaking across her face.
Sam grinned back. “My little Cub is nowhere near as old as the Sopwith, but there are similarities. Mine was built about forty years ago, designed for aerobatics. It was in pretty bad shape when I bought it. It took me almost two, years, working in my spare time, to get it back in flying condition.”
“It must have been quite a thrill the first time you took her up.” Remembering the way she felt each time she viewed a piece of furniture she had restored, Kelly could readily imagine the immense feeling of pride and satisfaction Sam must have known.
“It was,” he agreed.
She studied him thoughtfully. “Flying isn’t a sport I would have associated with you. If you had asked, I probably would have picked racquetball or tennis or polo.” All choices that were physically and mentally demanding, and suitable for someone from the vintner set. “I suppose there is a great sense of freedom when you are up there in your plane.”
He nodded in agreement. “Freedom, power. But more than that, a sense of total control. That’s something you learn to savor when you work with the land, always at the mercy of Mother Nature’s whims.”
“I guess it is.” A burst of laughter came from the living room. Kelly glanced at the doorway. “Someone’s having fun.”
“Sounds like it.”
She saw her opening and took it. “I think it’s time I slipped back and rejoined the others.”
“Katherine is probably wondering where I am. Maybe it’s time we both went back.”
It wasn’t the kind of remark that required a verbal response. Turning, Kelly started toward the door, uncomfortably aware that Sam was directly behind her. The instant she set foot in the living room, she gave him an over-the-shoulder smile and parting nod, and headed toward the closest cluster of guests.
Hugh intercepted her before she reached them.
“Kelly. I was beginning to think you had already left.”
“Truthfully I was on my way to look for you, to let you know I’d be leaving soon.” Very soon.
“Considering the full day you’ve put in, I expected that.” His eyes were gentle with understanding. She could have hugged him. “I’ll call you a cab. At this hour it might be hard to find one.”
“There’s no need for a cab.” Sam Rutledge was still there. He hadn’t moved off as she’d expected, as she had hoped. “We have a car waiting outside. I can give Miss Douglas a lift home.”
“Thank you, but it really isn’t necessary,” Kelly insisted, turning to him.
“If it isn’t a necessity, then try considering it a pleasure,” he suggested smoothly.
“Take his advice,” Hugh said. “The last time I took a taxi, it reeked from the last drunk who had ridden in it.”
“But if Katherine should decide to leave -“ Kelly began.
“Why would I decide to leave?” Katherine Rutledge joined them, showing not the slightest trace of fatigue. “To go where?”
“Back to the Plaza,” Sam replied.
“Why would I want to do that? No one else is leaving,” she reasoned calmly.
“Miss Douglas is,” he explained. “And I offered to take her in our car, but she was concerned that you might want to leave before I got back.”
“That was very thoughtful of you, Miss Douglas, but you need not trouble yourself over that. I am enjoying myself too much to leave anytime soon. I insist that Jonathon take you home.”
“Jonathon?” Kelly frowned. “Don’t you mean Sam?”
“Did I say Jonathon?” Momentarily nonplussed, Katherine dismissed the mistake with a careless wave of her hand. “Naturally I meant Sam. He will take you.”
Without choice in the matter, Kelly thanked her, collected her coat, and left, with Sam at her side. Exiting the building’s air-conditioned cool, they stepped out into the steamy summer night. Sam scanned the handful of cars ranged along the curb outside and gestured to one.
“Our car is over here.” He lifted a hand to the driver, who hurried to open the rear passenger door.
Kelly slid onto the seat and arranged the folds of her satin coat around her. Any hope that she’d make the ride alone died when Sam folded his length onto the seat next to her. She gave the driver her address and settled back.
“You didn’t need to come too.” She had to say it, if nothing else just to release some of the tension inside.
“Probably not,” he agreed e
asily enough. “But I wanted to make sure you got home safely. As you pointed out earlier, city streets can be dangerous after dark.”
“Hazardous,” she corrected. It was an ingrained habit for any quote to be accurate.
“Hazardous.” He conceded the point.
Kelly leaned back, suddenly wanting to relax and refusing to let his presence stop her. She released a long, cleansing breath and closed her eyes, the corners of her mouth turning up for the briefest of instants.
“I admit this is better,” she said. “The taxis in New York are not exactly the cleanest or the most comfortable vehicles to ride in.”
“Or the safest.”
She glanced sideways, meeting his half smile. “True.”
The car sped in and out of the pools of light cast by the street lamps. Sam was silent a moment, watching the play of light and shadow, light and shadow on her face. She was attractive in both, her features strong, the lines clean, her hair like fire one minute and midnight the next.
“Will you be at the wine auction tomorrow evening?”
“No.” Her head moved against the seat back in a slight negative gesture. “I’m anchoring the weekend edition of the nightly news tomorrow night. It’s part of the network’s campaign to give me more national exposure. From now on, I’ll be sitting in once a month until the new show airs in mid-season, after all the bowl games are over.”
“You’ll be busy.”
“Very. Especially when we actually go into production and start taping segments. Hugh can be a slave driver.”
“Have you known him long?” Sam found himself wondering about their relationship. Not that he cared.
“We’ve been friends for over two years.”
Friends. The casual way she used the word gave him no reason to suspect there was anything more than that between them.
The car slowed and came to a stop in front of the turn-of-the-century red brick building that housed Kelly’s apartment. The driver stepped out and opened Kelly’s door. As she climbed out, she heard the slam of the opposite car door. Her gaze tracked Sam’s dark shape moving toward her.
Suddenly it hit her. A Rutledge had brought her home. A Rutledge was walking her to the front door. She felt the delicious irony of it, a sense of triumph and the heady feeling of power that accompanied both.
He signaled the driver to wait and cupped his hand under her elbow, guiding her up the short flight of steps to the building’s arched entrance. A pair of old cast-iron coach lanterns lighted the entry. The door key was in her hand. She surrendered it to him when he reached for it. He held it, making no move to insert it in the security lock.
“Thanks for the ride home,” she said, unable to keep the secretly pleased smile from curving her lips.
“Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”
“Maybe.” She doubted it.
Sam didn’t think it was likely either. He unlocked the door and opened it for her. Halfway through the doorway, she paused and turned back for the key, one hand moving to hold the door open. He gave it to her.
Then, on impulse, Sam slid his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head as he lowered his mouth to hers. She went still at the contact, but her lips were soft beneath his. He explored that softness and the warm curves, felt them heat and move against his with returning pressure.
He drew her closer, wanting to discover more, to taste more. She was all lace and soft scent and long limbs, strong and pliant, warm and willing. A kiss wasn’t enough. He wanted to wrap himself in her, lose himself in her. Even as he felt the need build, Sam drew back from it. He had one failed marriage behind him, the result of one of those clichéd-but-true whirlwind courtships, based solely in passion. He wasn’t about to be swept into another.
“Good night, Kelly.” Sam stepped away from her carefully, like a man retreating from the edge of a very sheer cliff.
“Good night.” She avoided his eyes, turning and pulling the door closed behind her.
Listening to the solid click of the night lock, Kelly felt none of that earlier sense of power. She felt shaken and vulnerable, forcibly reminded of too many half-forgotten needs that were suddenly impossible to deny. It scared her.
Chapter Seven
From his post by the antique clock, the centerpiece of the Waldorf’s richly tinted lobby, Clay Rutledge saw the baroness the instant she stepped from the elevator. She wore a large-brimmed hat of red straw and a swingy summer dress of white silk, lightly splashed with irregular dots of red, royal blue, and green. The look was both saucy and sophisticated, very chic and very French, and very easy to spot in a crowd.
She hesitated briefly, then turned and made her way toward the hotel’s Park Avenue entrance. Clay waited several beats, then followed at an unhurried pace.
Her slim heels clicked across the floor’s patterned mosaic, then down the short flight of steps to the revolving door at street level. She pushed through it, then paused again. A doorman came into view.
Clay lingered at the top of the steps and observed the exchange between the two, watching as the doorman pointed to the right, obviously giving directions. Clay smiled when he saw the city guidebook Natalie Fougere held against her narrow red clutch purse. Smiling her thanks, she moved off in the direction the doorman had indicated. Again he waited until she was out of sight before following.
Outside he saw her again as she crossed the street and walked along East Fiftieth, heading toward Fifth Avenue. If it had been any other woman, Clay would have suspected she was on her way to explore the exclusive shops on Fifth Avenue. But the guidebook she carried and the inquiring turn of her head, which suggested an eagerness to discover the many sights and sounds of the city, negated that thought. Clay strolled after her, trying to anticipate her destination. Perhaps the plaza at Rockefeller Center. Or the Museum of Modern Art.
All the while he continued his appraisal of her. After last night, there was no doubt in his mind that she was a lonely woman with unspent emotions, ready for the excitement of an illicit affair.
A moment later she surprised him when she turned onto Fifth Avenue. He quickened his steps, reaching the corner as she climbed the steps to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Maintaining a careful distance, Clay entered the ornate stone-and-white-marble structure.
A few worshipers sat in the gleaming pews while others, tourists mainly, wandered about the sanctuary, admiring the stained-glass windows and the religious statuary, conversing in hushed murmurs. From the back of the church, Clay scanned the scattering of people and finally spied the distinctive red straw hat the baroness wore. She was at one of the alcoves surrounding the nave. He watched as she lit a candle and knelt to pray, the gleam of a rosary in her hand.
He watched her thoughtfully for a moment, then withdrew, crossing to the opposite side of the avenue. While he waited for her to come out, he made a few minor revisions in his original assessment of Natalie Fougere: she was not the type to casually flirt with a man for the diversion; no doubt she truly cared for her husband, wanting to please him and struggling against the unhappiness she felt in her marriage. None of which changed the fact she was lonely and ripe for an affair. It meant only a slight altering of his approach.
Clay faced one of the most photographed views in New York: the white gleam of the cathedral’s Gothic spires against the black glass of the Olympic Tower rising behind it; but his gaze was fixed on the bronze doors. When Natalie Fougere walked out of them, luck and Saturday were on his side – there was no traffic on the street.
He reached the opposite side of the crosswalk as she came off the last step. He showed surprise and pleasure at seeing her, before quickly veiling the latter.
“Baroness. Good morning.”
“Good morning, Monsieur Rutledge.”
She had dark brown eyes, the rich color of bittersweet chocolate. He noticed the glow that came and went quickly in thei
r depths, reflecting his own look of repressed pleasure. Just as closely he observed the slight change around her lips. It was these small, barely discernible shifts in a woman’s expression, the differing sounds of a woman’s voice, little gestures, or sentences left unfinished that told him the things he needed to know. Just as her expression told him now that his sudden appearance had had an effect on her.
He glanced past her, toward the cathedral entrance. “Where is Emile? Isn’t he with you?” he asked as if he didn’t know.
“He had a meeting to attend.”
He brought his glance back to her face, examining it. With her he would play the man of honor, fighting the strong attraction he felt and displaying that emotional restraint in his every look, his every gesture, his every word.
He smiled with politeness. “Then, may I walk you back to the hotel?”
“Thank you, but...I thought I would view some of the sights of New York.” A little self-consciously she indicated the guidebook in her hand.
“Alone?” Clay gave her a look of alarmed concern, then masked it with a smile. “Let me show you New York. The experience is much more enjoyable when it’s shared.”
She hesitated, her eyes rushing over his face. “I have no wish to inconvenience you.”
“It would be a pleasure, Baroness.”
“Natalie, please.”
He caught the faint movement of teeth sinking into her lower lip, a signal that she questioned the wisdom of inviting a further familiarity.
Clay inclined his head with a courteous reserve that promised he wouldn’t take advantage of it. “Only if you will call me Clay.”
“As you wish,” she acknowledged with equal reserve.
“We are very close to the plaza of Rockefeller Center,” he said, raising a hand to indicate the direction.
