The waiter shook his head.
“Oh, well…”
Reese opened his wallet and, removing a bill, pressed it into the waiter’s hand. “I’ll have the same. And find some apple pie.”
“That was very nice of you,” Faith told him. “I haven’t had apple pie in a very long time.”
Her compliment made him uncomfortable. “I didn’t do it for you,” Reese told her. “I did it for me. I have a taste for apple pie, too.”
“Oh.”
“How long?”
“What?” Faith was confused by the abrupt question.
“How long since you had apple pie?”
“Since the end of the war.” It had probably been longer than that, Faith realized. The apple trees on the plantation had been blasted to perdition by mortar shells sometime shortly after the fall of Petersburg and now that the war was over, apples were a luxury she couldn’t afford.
“Your drawl is southern,” Reese commented. “Washington, Virginia, or Maryland?”
“Virginia. Richmond.”
“You’re a long way from home, Miss…”
“Collins. Faith Collins.”
“Reese Jordan.” He extended his hand across the table.
Faith placed her hand in his. She had removed her gloves and the feel of his skin against hers jolted her. His hand was big and warm, the knuckles sprinkled with coarse, black, hair; his palm, callused in several places. Seeing her hand engulfed in his made her aware of the difference in their coloring. His skin was bronzed by exposure to the sun; hers was smoother, softer, pale in comparison.
Reese, too, was struck by the difference. He felt her shiver and a vivid mental picture of Faith Collins lying naked beneath him, her smooth pale skin covered by his hard, bronzed body, flashed in his brain. He abruptly withdrew his hand and cleared his throat. “Tell me about yourself. Why were you walking alone after dark?”
“I was on my way to the train depot. Headed home.”
“To Richmond?” He arched his right eyebrow. “What brought you to Washington?”
Faith looked up at him. You know why I came to Washington. You saw me. “I came to apply for a job. At the Madison Hotel.” Her words were sharper than she intended.
“Why?” He wanted to know.
“Why does anyone apply for a job?” Faith countered, “I want to work.
“Interesting,” he commented.
“What’s so interesting about that? People apply for jobs every day.” Her temper was beginning to assert itself.
“You mention work,” Reese reminded her, “but you don’t say anything about needing money. It leads to some very interesting possibilities.” He lowered his voice to a husky rumble.
“Do you think I’d apply for a job if I didn’t need money?”
“You might. It would depend on the job.”
If he could pretend not to recognize her from this afternoon, she could do the same. “What’s your interest, Mr. Jordan? Does it matter to you what my reasons are?”
“I understood that the applicants for that particular position would be returning tomorrow.” He sounded nonchalant.
“I won’t.”