LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

      ANGIE DID THE worst possible thing. Even though she had instigated this, even though she knew Jefferson had asked her to dance because he felt sorry for her that Harry had been such a boob on the subject, even though she knew it was moving them toward uncharted territory, she put her hand in Jefferson’s.

      She let him lead her into the house. With the doors of the living room folded open to the night, they swayed together to the hopelessly romantic music. She gazed upon the face she had become so fond of and contemplated what she had revealed, not just to Jefferson, but to herself, about the nature of her and Harry’s relationship.

      She hadn’t loved Harry. She had picked him as the most likely to give her the life she had wanted ever since her father had walked out the door with hardly a glance back.

      She knew that now. She had not known it then.

      She thought about why she knew it now when she had not known it then. Because now she had eaten ice cream during a storm. Now she had chased a man with a spider, the air ringing with their laughter. Now, she had stood under a waterfall. And squealed as a slippery fish had landed in their boat. Now she had watched Wreck and Me under the stars.

      Now, she was dancing in an empty room with no one watching.

      She stared up at Jefferson and drank in the face that had become so familiar to her. She felt the heat of his body and the strength of it where it was pressed into her.

      It occurred to Angie exactly why she knew now that she had not fallen in love with Harry when she had not known it before, even when he left her.

      She stopped dancing.

      Jefferson stopped dancing.

      “Would you like to come to a real dance with me?” he asked. “The town is having a fund-raiser in Hailey’s memory.”

      She knew it would be craziness to say yes.

      “It’s going to be very hard for me to go alone.”

      Which made it impossible to say no.

      “It’s called A Black Tie Affair.”

      There was her excuse. She did not have a single thing to wear to a function called A Black Tie Affair.

      She started to say it and then snapped her mouth shut.

      That was the Angie she had been, before. Before she had driven down that long and winding road and knocked on the door that had led her to this man. To Jefferson.

      That was the Angie who had been afraid of everything. Even before she had been stalked she had played it safe, tried to arrange a life that would make her feel comfortable and secure.

      Playing it safe, she realized, had not gotten her one single thing that she wanted. The exact opposite was probably true.

      “I’d love to go to the dance with you,” she said.

      “It’s on Saturday.”

      “What day is it today?”

      “I have to think about it,” he said wryly. “I’ve lost track of time. Tuesday. Today’s Tuesday.”

      She broke away from him. “That’s only four days away. And the photographer from the magazine is coming on Monday. I have a great deal to do.”

      Not being swayed by the bemusement in his eyes, she fled from Jefferson and went up the stairs to her room.

      She knew she should say no to going to the dance, but she could not. She sat down and did a sketch, and stared at it.

      It was even more beautiful than the wedding dress she had designed. It had a strap over one shoulder, the other shoulder bare. The upper portion of the dress, bodice to waist, was fitted. And then it flared out in a cloud of whimsy. She had only a few days.

      It occurred to her she really did only have a few days. It had been their agreement that she would leave after the photographer came. Her job here would be done. Her time here.

      But she felt as she had lying on the sun-warmed stone by the waterfall.

       I want to stay here forever.

      She reminded herself that Jefferson had broken that spell. That Jefferson broke all the spells. She wanted things to deepen between them. He did not.

      And that was good. It was a good thing that one of them could be pragmatic when the storm was building all around them, threatening to pull them right into its vortex of power.

      She looked at the dress again. If ever a dress could challenge a man’s best intentions, it would be this one. Is that what she wanted to do?

      It was what she wanted to do. She did not want to be safe anymore. She wanted to fling herself into the storm, to put herself at the mercy of love.

       Love.

      She looked at her drawing again and let that word wash over her, felt the power of the feeling that accompanied it. Could she really pull this off?

      She thought with longing of the woman she had been, ever so briefly, when that storm was over.

       Fearless.

      She wanted that again. She wanted to be fearless.

      What about getting his house ready for the photographers? She was going to have to do both. She was going to have to be fearless and pragmatic.

      Well, anyone who could coax cookies and a sewing project out of thirty reluctant teenagers could most certainly handle the pragmatic aspects of the assignment she had given herself.

      She got up from her desk. She went over to those cubbies filled with fabric and sorted through them. They were swatches. It was almost as if they had been put here for show—to add splashes of bright color to the room—rather than to be of use. Angie had managed to scavenge her bathing suit cover from these, but the dress in the sketch was another matter.

      She went to the window and stared out at the darkened lake. The breeze lifted a curtain and it caught her eye.

      Angie laughed out loud. It was pure white silk. She caressed it with her fingers. She couldn’t use his curtains for a dress, could she?

      The old Angie might not have been able to. The new Angie got on a chair and tugged the draperies down off their hooks.

      * * *

      Jefferson would not admit how much he missed Angie. Since that night they had danced in the living room, and in a moment of weakness when he had wanted to give her everything she wanted, and had invited her to a real dance, he had barely seen her.

      She was a flurry of motion—racing through the house, cleaning crazily, organizing for the photo shoot and then disappearing up the stairs to her room.

      She was making meals—in the middle of the night?—and leaving him notes on how to cook them, but he missed her. He was glad they were going to have a whole evening together to just enjoy each other.

      On Saturday evening, he came out of his room. He and Hailey had often gone to events that required this kind of garb—the opera, plays, fund-raising balls. He had not dressed like this for a long time. He had never felt like this about it, either. Strangely awkward, almost shy. Standing in the hall, he put a finger between his collar and his neck, trying for a bit of breathing space.

      He heard a sound on the stairs that led to Angie’s room.

      He turned slowly. He dropped his finger from his collar. It was hopeless. He was never going to be able to breathe. Every thought of the impression he was going to make on her fled him as the sight of her—the impression she was making on him—filled his every sense and stole his breath away.

      Could this woman be Angie?

      Even

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