Tempest in Eden

If her days seemed long, her nights seemed endless. As she had feared, once Ian had been in her tiny apartment, it had undergone a metamorphosis. It now seemed mammoth and hollow. She roamed the rooms, searching out projects, anything to occupy her mind with something else besides Ian.

She was obsessed with him. She saw him standing in the window, his face serious and grave. She saw him sitting on her sofa, his expression earnest and intense. She saw him lounging in the chair at her kitchen table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He was everywhere, but he wasn't there. And more than she wanted to admit, she wanted him to be with her.

Before their troubles began, she and Anson had enjoyed a healthy and active sexual relationship. Their lovemaking had been frequent and lusty. But it had been the lovemaking of two children suddenly granted the privilege. It had been rowdy and playful, frequently hurried, and a trifle selfish for both of them.

Ian's passionate kisses bothered her in shocking, wonderful ways. She sensed that beneath his austere bearing there beat the heart of a fierce and tender lover. It was an exciting prospect, but one she mustn't dwell on. She might be crushingly disappointed if they ever overcame their differences and actually became lovers.

But she was wasting her time speculating on what kind of lover Ian would be. Much as she wanted to deny it, she knew the situation was impossible. She was convinced of his dedication to his calling. Had he not been so dedicated, he couldn't have left the other night with their desires unsatisfied.

Dead end. She'd never had an affair. Ian Douglas was the one man who could interest her in one. That they shared a sexual attraction was undeniable. But he wouldn't compromise his convictions. He would stand firm on all matters relating to morality. He wouldn't sleep with a woman unless he were married to her.

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That was an absurd notion!

So, why is your heart pounding and why are your palms perspiring? she asked herself as she negotiated the choking Friday afternoon traffic into Manhattan. Why did you ever agree to meet him in the first place? She remembered their last kiss at the door of her apartment and knew that hell or high water couldn't have kept her from seeing him tonight.

She was thankful that most everyone else was leaving the city, heading in the opposite direction. Still, by the time she found a parking garage and walked down Seventh Avenue toward Penn Station, she felt as if she'd run a long race. The train station was like a macabre carnival, with harried commuters pushing and shoving to make their trains.

She saw Ian before he saw her. He was standing in front of the newsstand where they had agreed to meet, his eyes scanning the crowd. Shay was pleased and proud that he didn't go unnoticed by the women rushing by. More than a few turned their heads for another look after they had passed him.

They would be fools not to. He was dressed in a sportscoat and tie. His shirt was baby blue and enhanced the brilliance of his eyes. His black trousers were impeccably tailored to his muscled thighs. As always, his hair was carelessly, irresistibly disarrayed.

Moistening her dry lips, Shay walked into his field of vision. His searching eyes darted past her, skidded to a stop, and sprang back as though on an elastic band. He drank in the sight of her. When he smiled, his face lit up with warmth and happiness. Three long strides brought him to her. Closing his fingers around her elbow, he moved her against the wall out of the flow of traffic.

"Hi," he said. "You made it."

"Am I late?"

"I was early," he confessed.

For a long minute they didn't say any more, only indulged their selfish eyes by gazing at each other.

"You look beautiful," he said at last.

Her challis dress was a soft gold, a perfect color and weight for the transition into the fall season. She'd chosen it to accent the wheat color of her hair and her warm skin tones. The fabric made velvety mysteries out of her eyes as she looked up at the man staring so greedily down at her.

"Thank you."

He seemed to pull himself physically out of the beckoning depths of those eyes and brought forth a magazine he'd been holding. It was a copy of Glamour. "I saw a model in this and wondered if it was you."

He opened the magazine to an earmarked page. On it was an ad for a soap and sponge combination imported from France that promised to smooth away unsightly cellulite when used daily. It featured a woman in a shower. It was a three-quarter shot of the woman's back. One raised arm revealed the sloping curve of a breast. It was a black and white photograph, but the woman's hair was pulled into a loose topknot as Shay often wore hers.

"No," she said, shaking her head. She looked up at him, then across to the newsstand where he'd obviously purchased the magazine. "Have you been looking for pictures of me?" she asked, her eyes swinging back to him.

"No, no," he hastened to assure her. "I was just thumbing through this while I was waiting for you, and I thought I recognized… I mean it resembled your … uh … back. Are you hungry?"

He spliced the two sentences together, obviously hoping Shay would forget the first and hear only the second. She was merciful, though she had a strong desire to ask him what about the picture had looked familiar. "Yes. I haven't eaten all day."

"Celia wouldn't like that."

"Promise you won't tell her."

"Only if you'll agree to eat in one of my favorite Italian restaurants. It's only two blocks from here."

"Do they have crusty bread and fettuccine Alfredo?" She tilted her head at a charming angle.

"Gobs of both."