LITMIR.BIZ

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that the best defense was offense.

      His mouth dry, Slade said, “You look very beautiful.”

      Infinitesimally Cory relaxed: the mask was working. The maitre d’ arrived and led them to a corner table under a collection of old hunting prints, where, as they waited for their cocktails, they talked about the latest developments in their project. Then Slade raised his glass. “To parks and gardens—long may they flourish.”

      Solemnly they clinked their glasses. With mutual determination they proceeded to discuss the menu, the changes on the city council and the drop in the Canadian dollar. They ate mussels and smoked salmon and drank white wine. Then Slade said, “Dance, Cory?”

      The music was lively and because she didn’t have to touch him—and was therefore safe—Cory danced her heart out; she had always loved to move to music. The fact that her fiery energy and evident pleasure might be as seductive as actual touching didn’t occur to her. Nor could she possibly have known that some of her movements would recall, with uncanny accuracy, portions of her partner’s dreams. As the final chord sounded she said exuberantly, “That was fun! Thanks, Slade.”

      He nodded, his jaw a tight line, and followed her back to the table. But the medallions of pork and julienne vegetables they had ordered were cooked to perfection and slowly the level sank in a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon. Then the small band started a waltz. “Let’s try this one,” Slade said.

      Normally Cory avoided what she called contact dances. But she’d had rather a lot to drink and more than once Slade had made her laugh until she cried. Confidently she threaded her way through the tables.

      At the edge of the parquet floor Slade took her in his arms. Because she was wearing high heels, her chin nearly came to his shoulder; he dropped his head so that his cheek rested against hers. Curving an arm around her waist, he drew her closer, ignoring her slight resistance.

      Dream and reality fused. The woman in his arms was the woman who had haunted his sleep for the last eight nights.

      But Cory was suddenly and distressingly sober. As she automatically followed Slade’s lead, she was attacked by a host of conflicting sensations.

      One of the buttons on his jacket was digging into her ribs. He smelted nice. Although she was almost sure he wasn’t wearing cologne, a faint scent of lemons overlaid the more earthy scent of clean male skin. She was enclosed in his embrace as a garden was enclosed, safe from the buffeting of wind and storm; yet, simultaneously, she felt as smothered as an evergreen wrapped in plastic, as constricted as a tree trunk girdled too tightly. So tightly that her lifeblood was cut off, she thought, trying to control her uneven breathing.

      It was one of her unspoken policies to keep her distance—literally—from men. Because claustrophobia, of the emotional variety, had been Rick’s parting—and lasting—legacy to her.

      Then the hand that rested on her waist moved lower, splaying itself over her hip and drawing her still closer. Against her groin she felt the involuntary hardening of Slade’s body, that indisputable and uncontrollable signal that he wanted her. Panic sliced through her illusive sense of safety; she froze, stumbling over his foot. Raising her head, she muttered, “Slade, I’m not—”

      Cursing himself for betraying his need, Slade rested one finger on the softness of her lips and eased away from her. “I didn’t do a very good job of hiding that, did I? Sorry. I want you—sure I do. But this is a public place and you’re quite safe.”

      She pulled free, and even in the dim lighting he saw that the emotion tightening her features was fear. Turning away from him, she hurried back to their table, pulled up her chair and buried her face in the dessert menu. Slade sat down across from her. “Come on, Cory. This is the twentieth century, and I’m obviously not the first man you’ve dated. Take it as a compliment, why don’t you?”

      “Fine,” she said tautly. “I’ve been complimented. I’m not sure I want dessert; perhaps I’ll just have coffee.”

      Nonplussed, because she was acting more like a Victorian virgin than the capable and confident woman he knew her to be, Slade drained his glass of wine. “So are we going to pretend that nothing happened out there? That I wasn’t entirely ready to make love to you?”

      The menu slipped from Cory’s fingers. Her eyes widened and for a full five seconds she gaped at him as though she had never seen him before. Make love to you, make love, make love... The words echoed in her brain as all the pain and longing of the last week coalesced into an idea so simple and so outrageous that she was struck dumb.

      “Now what’s wrong?”

      She grabbed her wine glass and tossed back the contents. Then she blurted, “Are you married, Slade? Or engaged? Or living with someone?”

      “No, no and no. What about you?”

      His answer sank in; his question scarcely registered. It was a crazy idea. Crazy. She should be committed for even thinking it. “This wine is really excellent, isn’t it?” she gabbled. “Just a hint of oak and that glorious rubyred.”

      Slade leaned forward. “Why did you ask about my marital status?”

      “I was just wondering,” she said weakly, “that’s all.”

      “Why don’t you try telling me the truth? You’re a lousy liar.”

      “My mother used to shut me up in a cupboard if I lied to her—that’s probably why. Slade, I had an idea. But it was a totally insane idea and I want to forget about it—please. Let’s talk about anything from horticulture to horoscopes, and maybe I will have dessert. I adore key lime pie.”

      Storing in the back of his mind the image of a small, chestnut-haired girl being confined in the dark, Slade said implacably, “Tell me about your idea. Because it’s something to do with me, isn’t it?”

      “Oh, yes,” she said wildly. “Very definitely.”

      “When you first arrived, I thought you looked tired. That’s not considered much of an opener for impressing your dinner date, so I didn’t mention it. What’s up, Cory?”

      So much for mascara. “I don’t have to tell you,” she said defiantly. “In fact, I’m not going to tell you.”

      “The restaurant doesn’t close until midnight and it’s only nine-thirty. I can wait. I could even order another bottle of the wine you so much admired.” He gave her a charming smile. “I’d enjoy having to carry you out.”

      He’d do it, too. She knew he would. And if she kept the idea to herself certainly nothing would come of it.

      With the sense that she was embarking on a very flimsy bridge across an extremely deep gorge, Cory said, “All right—you asked for it.”

      Who knows? she thought. He might even say yes.

      CHAPTER THREE

      CORY held out her glass to Slade for a refill, shadows dancing over her features from the candle that flickered on their table; she was rather proud to see that her hand was entirely steady.

      “I want to have a baby,” she said, and heard the words coming from a distance, as though someone else were saying them. “I’d like you to be the father. But I don’t want to get married or live with you or even see you again once I’m pregnant.”

      There was a moment of silence, a silence so charged with tension that Cory frantically wished her request unsaid. Then Slade bit out a single word. “No!” His voice was raw with pain, and she watched as wine sloshed over the edge of her glass.

      The stain on the cloth looked like blood. With a superstitious shiver, Cory looked up. The same pain had scored deep lines in his face; his eyes looked like those of a man in hell. She felt as though, rough-handed, she’d ripped a dressing from a wound not yet healed. Yet she’d had no inkling of the presence of the wound, and no idea as to its source or meaning.

      Appalled,

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