Page 22 of Dangerous Lover
When she walked back into the dining room, he was already seated and had poured them both half a glass of wine. He stood immediately as soon as she crossed the threshold.
Caroline put down the roast beef and sat, noting that he didn’t sit down until she did. That rule had gone out with the dinosaurs, though apparently Jack Prescott hadn’t heard about it.
Jack’s dark gaze took in the table, then shifted to her. “This looks absolutely wonderful. Thank you. I didn’t dream when I landed that I’d be having such an elegant meal tonight. I thought I’d check into a hotel and try to find a diner somewhere.”
Caroline smiled, pleased, as she served him. Yes, she had set a good table. And tonight she’d outdone herself with the cooking. It was an old trick. When depressed—slap on more makeup, slip on your prettiest blouse, put on some great music. Just as long as it didn’t cost money she didn’t have, Caroline knew all the tricks.
The dining room was beautiful in its own right. When her parents had been alive, it had been painted a light canary yellow that went wonderfully well with the warm cherry wood Art Deco dining set. A year after the accident, on one of the few occasions he’d actually managed to stand upright, Toby had slipped and banged his head against the sharp corner of the buffet then against the wall, leaving a bright red track of blood.
Caroline had been so appalled and heart-broken atseeing her brother’s blood on the wall, the next weekend she’d painted the walls an uninspiring, flat mint green that was just one shade off hospital khaki. It had been the only color on sale the day she’d stopped by the local hardware store.
Other than that, the room was as it had been in its heyday, when the Lakes entertained senators and judges and famous writers and artists. So far, she hadn’t had the heart to sell off the dining room set, though if Toby had lived much longer, the dining room set would have had to have gone, together with the last of the artwork and, eventually, the house.
The cherry wood table was polished to a high gloss. The candle flames were reflected deep into the wood, as were the crystal glasses, almost as sharply as if the table top were a mirror.
The candle flames were reflected in Jack’s dark eyes, too, tiny flickers of light in darkness. There was another kind of light in his eyes, too, unmistakable.
There was no doubt that he was appreciating more than the dinner. He hadn’t said an untoward word, but the male interest was evident and potent. He didn’t do anything as crass as look her up and down—his eyes remained riveted on her face—but Caroline had been on the receiving end of enough male attention to know quite well when it was directed at her. Jack Prescott was definitely interested.
She was looking good, she knew that. She’d showered and taken special care with her make-up and had put her hair up, with a few tendrils left down to caress her shoulders.
She had on one of her mother’s Armanis. There was no way on this earth she could afford a cocktail gown like the one shehad on, never in a million years. But she still had her mother’s wardrobe, and a rich and varied one it was, too. Monica Lake had had excellent taste, with a wealthy and indulgent husband who loved to shower her with gifts and show her off.
In an effort to raise her spirits, Caroline had decided to dress up for the evening. Damn it, it was Christmas Eve and instead of spending it alone in a cold house, she was spending it with a very attractive man and—wonder of wonders—the boiler hadn’t broke down yet so she could wear the black off-the-shoulder cocktail gown without feeling like an idiot.
It almost felt like a date.
When was the last time she had been on a date? Long before Toby’s last collapse. September, maybe?
She’d gone to Jenna’s bank to pick her up for lunch and Jenna had introduced her to the new vice president, George Bowen. He was blond, handsome, thirtysomething, and he was immediately smitten. He got her number from Jenna and called that very evening for a date.
George took her to an upscale Japanese restaurant, cool and elegant. It was a wonderful September evening, warm and ripe with promise. George was smart, funny, romantic. Charming company. Sexy in a low-key way. Caroline was seriously thinking of sleeping with him after a couple of dates, wondering how it would be, when her cellphone rang. Toby’s nurse. Toby was having an attack.
George insisted on accompanying her home and watched, horrified, as she dealt with Toby.
She never heard from George again. She never evensawhim again. It was embarrassing the way he avoided her.
He managed never to be around when she picked Jenna up for lunch and he never responded to the one message she left on his answering machine. Caroline didn’t need to be hit over the head to understand that he didn’t want to be part of her life in any way. Her life was way too harsh for him.
After that, she and Jenna had lunch at First Page, taking turns paying for the Chinese takeout. It was easier on everyone that way.
Jack put down his fork and took a sip of wine. “Wow. I can’t remember a better meal. Actually I can’t remember my last good meal at all. It was definitely before Pakistan.”
Caroline watched Jack eating. He had excellent table manners, though she quavered every time he picked up his wine glass. His hands were large and rough-looking. They were capable of delicacy, though. His movements were precise and controlled. Maybe her wine glass was safe, after all.
George had had small, soft, white hands. She tried to imagine him as a soldier in Pakistan and failed miserably.
“What exactly were you doing in Pakistan?” she asked, piling more food on Jack’s plate and smiling inwardly at his grateful nod.
“I went twice, once for the government, once for the company. The first time was a six month rotation right after I got my Ranger Tab. We were on winter patrol. The second time was after I resigned my commission to help my Dad run his company. We landed the contract to protect Hamid Munib. I just got back a couple of weeks ago.”
Caroline blinked, fork halfway to her mouth. “Hamid Munib? Isn’t he—heavens, isn’t he the new President of Pakistan?” A brutal fundamentalist rebel army had taken over the country but more modern forces were fighting back. A recent election had put Hamid Munib, a Western-trained engineer, in the Presidential Palace.
“Yeah. Sort of. That’s the theory, anyway.” Jack’s hard mouth lifted in a half smile. It didn’t soften his features but it softened her a little. “Truth is, Hamid isn’t President of much these days beyond the Presidential Palace and about a ten block radius around it. Any warlord up in the mountains has more real power—and certainly more firepower—than Hamid does. And every tribal leader in the country—and believe me there’s a lot of them—is gunning for him. Keeping him alive is … a challenge. We managed mainly by creating the sandbag capital of the world around him.”
She’d seen photographs of Jack! She must have. Hamid Munib was often in the news and the pictures showed him surrounded by his American body-guards. Big beefy guys, mostly, with beards and sunglasses, cradling alarmingly large black guns. She’d imagined them to be US officers, but apparently they weren’t.
“Did you enjoy the challenge?”