Moonlight and Shadows (9 page)

She swiveled her desk chair around at the
sound of his voice, and he wondered anew at the sheer delicacy and
beauty of her face. He’d never seen skin so pretty, like cream
blushed with rose petals, and he knew she’d be like that all over.
It was enough to drive him crazy in the dark hours of the night. He
wanted to do all the things to her men did to women who made them
feel the way she made him feel.

“About your offer,” he explained at her
expectant look.

“You mean the reading?” she asked, and he
swore he heard hope and anticipation in her voice.

“Yes. I’ve thought it over, and if we can
agree on a couple of ground rules, I think reading lessons would be
a good idea.” His sister, Karen, would have shot him for saying
such a thing. Even after all these years, he hated to think of the
many sacrifices she’d made trying to beat the difference between
b
and
d
into his brain, the missed parties, the
canceled dates, the homework she hadn’t had time to finish for her
own classes because doing his had taken them half the night. She’d
taught him how to read by a hundred methods he hoped Lila had never
heard of. Being an older sister, she hadn’t been above a little
physical torture to get his attention back after it had wandered
off in confusion. She’d pinched his arm so many times, he’d been
afraid he’d never have a decent muscle, and she’d promised him
she’d make sure he didn’t if he didn’t learn how to spell
muscle
.

Muscle. One of those words that made no
phonetic sense whatsoever. What pinching hadn’t accomplished, the
fear of growing up to be a ninety-eight-pound weakling had. He’d
learned how to spell
muscle
, and Karen had rewarded him with
a set of garage sale weights.

She’d been good at rewards. There had always
been brownies and cookies for his lunch, and every Sunday before
church she’d fixed him and his dad a big pancake breakfast to make
up for all the cold cereal during the week. He hadn’t missed his
mom very often, not as much as his dad, of course, or his sister,
who’d had a chance to really know her before she died. Karen had
made sure he felt the loss as little as possible. Once, she’d even
skipped school to be a “homeroom mother” and bring cupcakes to his
fifth-grade class.

And he’d just implied to Lila Singer that he
didn’t know how to read. He hadn’t denied it before because she’d
angered him with her Mother Goose book, and because she obviously
hadn’t believed him when he’d told her the only reason he’d had a
problem with her letter was because of her handwriting. Then when
she’d asked about hobbies, he hadn’t been able to resist telling
her what he was really interested in.

It had only been later that he’d come up
with his plan. She wanted to teach him how to read, and he wanted
to spend time with her. It was practically a natural—except for two
tiny problems: He already knew how to read, and the time he wanted
to spend with her wasn’t with their noses stuck in a book of
nursery rhymes.

“Ground rules?” she asked, and he took a
deep breath, readying himself for his long shot.

“I pick all the reading material, and to
keep this from being a charity case, I think it’s important for you
to let me pay you for your services.”

“My services?” she repeated, looking as
surprised as she sounded.

“Okay,” he said quickly, lifting a hand and
verbally backing off. “I know you didn’t offer to help me for
money, but if you won’t take payment, you have to let me make it up
to you somehow, maybe with dinner, like the other night.”

Lila’s first instinct was to say no. She
wasn’t helping him for any personal gain, except for that bit about
demystifying his appeal, putting him in a controllable category.
She’d already offended him once, though, and she didn’t dare do it
again, not if they were going to get their student-teacher
relationship off to a good start.

“The pizza was nice,” she said slowly. “I
think we can do that every now and then to keep things even.”

“It won’t always be pizza,” he warned, and
she nodded her assent.

“I’m flexible when it comes to food,” she
said.

In truth, since Danny’s death she’d become
extremely flexible. She’d eat anything she didn’t have to cook
first, anything the frozen food companies wanted to throw at her,
anything the fast food joints could dream up.

“Great.” A smile spread across his face,
deepening the creases in his cheeks and lighting his eyes, and
suddenly she was flustered. “I’m going to go finish the second coat
of paint,” he continued. “I’ll get back to you later in the week
about the particulars for our first lesson.”

“Sure, fine.” She busied herself with
tidying the papers on her desk, piling Greek gods on top of Brontë
sisters. “Whatever you come up with will be fine, I’m sure.”

Jack knew he should be ashamed of himself,
blatantly manipulating her into dinner like that—but he wasn’t.

* * *

She should have been stronger, more
forceful, less malleable, Lila thought. She should have stood her
ground, demanded her rights, spoken up for herself.

She should have worn her black dress.

She looked around the dining room of the
Cove Garden restaurant and realized it was still too close to the
holidays for people to have settled back into their normal, casual
attire. Nope. Women wanted one more reason to wear their finest,
and in the university town that meant dinner at either the Cove
Garden or Shirewood’s. Jack had picked her favorite of the two, the
Cove Garden with its non-nouvelle cuisine. The chef at the Cove had
never stopped believing in cream and butter.

She wished he’d told her where they were
going. His “let’s go into town and grab a bite” fell far short of
describing most excursions to the Cove. She could have worn her
black dress and her mink coat. Darn him, she thought, burying her
nose in the menu. She could have worn her pearls and her black
suede heels. The opportunity arose so seldom in her life. If she’d
only known, she wouldn’t have missed this one.

He must have known, though. The place was
packed, probably requiring reservations made a week ago. A week
ago? She lowered her menu a scant inch, far enough to stare at him
over the top.

“You’re cheating,” she said without
preamble.

Jack glanced up from his own menu, wondering
how he’d given up the game so quickly. “I’m not reading the menu,
honest.”

“Of course you’re not reading the menu,” she
said sotto voce, so as not to embarrass him. “If you could read the
menu, we wouldn’t be here. I mean the restaurant.”

“What about the restaurant?”

“People don’t ‘grab a bite to eat’ at the
Cove Garden.”

“They don’t?”

“No, they don’t. You ‘grab a bite’ at Ruffs.
You ‘dine’ at the Cove. Knowing the correct usage of words to
impart your true meaning is almost as important as knowing how to
read.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed.” She stuck her nose back in the
menu. “Would you like poultry or beef?”

“Beef.”

“Okay.” She drew the word out on a long
breath, shifting her attention to the right-hand page. “They have
steak au poivre, which has crushed peppercorns in it, very tasty;
filet mignon wrapped in bacon; tournedos with bearnaise sauce; beef
Wellington loaded with pâté de foie gras and duxelles, or, if you
prefer, filet de boeuf en croute; prime rib; and the last surviving
chateaubriand west of the Mississippi.”

Jack listened attentively, though he knew
the menu by heart. He liked the way she pronounced the French
words. He liked the way her mouth moved. He liked remembering the
way her mouth had moved under his.

He sat up straighter in his chair and forced
his gaze back to the leather-bound menu. “What killed off all the
other chateaubriands?”

Lila glanced up, giving him a blank look.
Then she bubbled into disbelieving laughter.

“Women’s lib, Jack,” she told him between
chuckles. “Women’s lib killed off the chateaubriands.” He was
crazy, and funny, and quick, and she liked him. As a matter of
fact, she liked him a lot.

“Well, I’m all for the liberation of women,”
he said, “so I guess we’d better save this one for posterity. I’m
going to have prime rib. How about you?”

“Filet de boeuf en croute,” she said,
looking over the menu again. Then she quickly glanced up. “Beef
Wellington. Sorry. I took a minor in French as an undergrad.”

“I flunked a semester of Spanish in high
school.”

There it was again, she thought. They had
absolutely nothing in common, nothing except astounding kisses and
liking each other. It wasn’t enough, and it was time she made the
point clear.

“I graduated summa cum laude from the
University of Denver, and—and my husband was a Rhodes scholar.” She
rushed through the last part, unable to meet his gaze.

“He was a great photographer too,” Jack
said, sounding completely unimpressed by her information. “When did
he die?”

“Three years ago.” She picked up her napkin
and concentrated on smoothing it out on her lap.

“That’s a long time to be alone.”

“I—I wasn’t alone all the time.”

If her voice had been any softer, Jack
wouldn’t have heard her. Truth be known, he wished he hadn’t.

The ritual of ordering dinner dragged on,
taking longer than usual because Jack had a hard time paying
attention to the waiter’s questions. He had too many questions of
his own running around in his brain. Questions like, If she hadn’t
been alone since her husband’s death, who had she been with? What
had happened? And where was the mystery man now?

He felt as if he’d had the rug jerked around
beneath his feet, just enough to throw him off balance. He’d
reconciled the facts of her marriage and widowhood with his
feelings for her, and he’d staked his claim the night he’d muscled
old Trey out of her house. Now there was this new guy, and from the
tone of her voice he had the status of being part of a “past.” Jack
was curious as all get out, his mind working overtime with
possibilities, and he wanted to ask questions, lots of questions.
Trouble was, she’d decided to monopolize the conversation with
questions of her own—although she didn’t seem to be giving them her
full attention.

“Have you had the prime rib here before?”
she asked, not quite meeting his eyes.

“Yes, a couple of times.” He paused for the
buildup to his first question, but she beat him to the punch.

“Have you ever ordered the beef
Wellington?”

“A couple of times. I—”

“I’ve always wondered how they cooked them.
You know, getting the pastry and the filet to come out at the same
time.”

“I think they cook the filet first, then
finish it off in the oven with the pastry, and I was wondering
about—”

“So you’re a believer in women’s
liberation?” she interrupted, fiddling with her napkin again, her
gaze directed at her lap.

He sighed. “In theory.”

Her head came up, and a spark of indignation
flashed in her eyes, assuring him he’d finally gotten her
attention. “What do you mean, in theory?”

“Liberation is great for anyone, but like
everything else, it comes with a price. In some areas, I don’t
think liberation has been such a good deal for women.”

“And what areas are those?” Lila asked,
pressing him for an answer that she was sure would plummet him to
the depths of her regard, which was the safest place for him. She
didn’t know what in the world had compelled her to say such a
stupid thing as “I wasn’t alone all the time.” What was wrong with
her? Did she need her head examined? She never talked about that
period in her life. Never. Not with anyone.

Not until Jack Hudson had looked at her with
what she considered to be a very disturbing mixture of compassion
and desire. He never should have kissed her. Not the first time,
the second time, or the third time, if the third time could even be
called a kiss. The memory of his mouth on her cheek, her neck, her
ear, still sent shivers down her spine. He definitely had a way
about him.

Well, that settled it, she thought, stifling
a groan and casting her eyes heavenward.
A way about him
. .
. She did need her head examined.

“Well, I think it’s great that women have a
chance at any career they want.” With effort, Lila refocused her
attention on what he was saying. “And I don’t know how long it will
be before they get equal pay for equal work, but I think what they
need just as much is an increase in appreciation for their
traditional roles.”

“I see.” At least she thought she saw his
point. She might have missed a word or two, but the parts she’d
caught didn’t amount to a male chauvinist jerk’s opinion.

“How about you? What do you think?” he
asked.

“Me?”

“Yes. What do you think of traditional roles
for women?”

“I don’t know,” she said, rearranging her
napkin yet again. “I never had one.”

“You were a wife.”

“Well, yes, but being the wife of Danny
Singer had more to do with style than roles. He was not a
traditional man.”

“What kind of man was he?”

The question hung in the air, unacknowledged
and unanswered. She creased the damask napkin one way and then the
other, running her buffed nail across the folds in the white cloth
while she debated the wisdom of opening up yet another subject for
discussion with Jack. Not that she had anything to hide. Her
marriage had been good, very good, something she was proud of. In
truth, if she could have gotten away with it, she’d have worn a
sign around her neck that said
I GOT MARRIAGE
RIGHT
, and to hell with grammar. It was love affairs where
she’d proven to be a dismal failure.

“Danny was a star, a bright, flaming star,”
she started to say slowly, looking up at Jack. “Living with him was
like living on a nonstop roller coaster fueled by excitement. He
did things with light and a camera no one else had ever dreamed of,
and the world made him rich and famous. He was no saint, but for
five years he was the man I loved. For five years he was the man
who loved me.”