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A slight smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “I love politics, but not that much.”
He wondered at her seeming reluctance to tell him where she worked. “As long as you raise money for good causes, I’d say that’s a good thing.” If she didn’t want to open up, he’d find out what he wanted to know some other way.
“Where do your folks live, Denise?” he said, figuring the innocuous question would help continue their conversation. He had to get used to her name, since he wasn’t sure that it really suited her. She had an almost aristocratic air about her that he didn’t especially like, and women like that weren’t usually named Denise, but rather something like Caroline, Amanda or Allison.
Maybe he’d been away from African-American women too long. He told himself to stop trying to figure her out, that if she was interested in him, she’d open up.
She hadn’t answered him, so he decided to change tactics.
“Would you have dinner with me?” he said.
She looked him in the eye. “When did you have in mind?”
The heat from her fiery brown eyes seared through him. But if she could eyeball him, he could certainly do the same. “Friday, and as many times as you’d like thereafter.”
“You’re a bold man.”
He gave a quick shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t remember ever getting anything or anywhere in life by being timid, Denise. It’s not my style.”
“I certainly never imagined you were a man who passively accepted whatever circumstances he encountered,” she replied candidly.
He stared at her, mulling over the situation. “Where will you be next Friday between five-thirty and seven?” She gave him her address in Frederick, Maryland. “I’ll be there at six-thirty in jacket and tie.” The brilliant smile that covered her face surged through him like an electrical charge. The woman was beautiful.
“I’m looking forward to Friday.”
“So am I,” he said truthfully, while hoping and praying that he wasn’t shooting himself in the foot.
Chapter 2
Denise brushed her long, silky black hair until it shimmered. She curled it, brushed out the curls and let them fall softly around her shoulders. “At least it’s mine and not a weave,” she said to herself with a note of pride. She had inherited both her hair and her dark complexion from her maternal grandmother, who was a Shinnecock. Her father’s family had been mixed since slavery.
She didn’t want to overdress, but she wanted to look good. Scott Galloway was a strikingly handsome man, and she wanted to make an impression. When she’d looked into those dreamy grayish-brown eyes, half-hidden by long lashes that curled slightly at the ends, she’d felt as if a bolt of lightning had shot through her body. Leaning against a tree as if he didn’t have a care in the world, he’d taken her breath away. But she didn’t believe for one minute that he was as nonchalant as he appeared. The first time she’d met him, two years ago at a reception, they’d been sitting near each other at a round table. She couldn’t see much more than his profile. And he’d been so thoroughly peeved with her that he barely spared her a glance, or so it seemed.
She had always been attracted to very dark-skinned men. But Scott’s complexion, which was the color of shelled walnuts, gave him a polished, masculine look that got to her. And what a physique!
“Get your head on straight, sister,” she told herself.
“Those looks don’t mean a thing if that’s all there is to him.”
The thought amused her. Of course, he was a man of substance and, she imagined, had plenty of it. He seemed to have it all. Nevertheless, she wondered what his Achilles’ heel was. She had yet to meet a man who didn’t have one.
When the doorbell rang, she was wearing a short silk chiffon dinner dress that was a goldenrod color with insets that began where the hip stopped, and a rounded bodice that revealed no cleavage. Diamond stud earrings, black patent-leather pumps, a black silk purse and a dab of perfume completed her attire.
“How do I look, Priscilla?” she asked her housekeeper. Priscilla Mallory lived in Frederick, Maryland, but she commuted to D.C. when Denise was staying in Washington.
“Like you ever look anything but great. If he isn’t blind, he’s gonna be when he sees you in that getup. Real sweet, ma’am.”
Denise opened the door and thanked God for self-control.
“Hi. You’re punctual. I like that,” he said as he handed her a dozen yellow roses.
“Hi. You’re both punctual and a gentleman. Thank you. You chose the right color roses. I love yellow, and I adore yellow roses. Have a seat in the living room while I put these in a vase.”
She headed for the kitchen to find a vase. Decked out in a khaki-colored suit, a light shirt and burnt-orange tie, Scott Galloway was something to look at. “Go into the living room, Priscilla, and introduce yourself to Ambassador Scott Galloway,” Denise said to her housekeeper.
Priscilla’s eyes bulged and her lower jaw sagged. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, indeedy.”
Now, when did that happen? thought Denise. She entered the living room in time to see Priscilla putting a tray with two glasses of white wine and cheese sticks on the coffee table in front of Scott, who stood and extended his hand to shake hers.
“Ambassador Galloway, this is Mrs. Priscilla Mallory. She keeps thing in order around here.”
“I’m her housekeeper, Mr. Ambassador, and I take care of her like she was my own child.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Mallory. Thank you for the wine and cheese sticks. If you have any club soda, I’d like to add it to my wine. I’m driving.”
“Oh. You want a spritzer?” Priscilla asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Denise hadn’t planned for them to spend time alone at her house, but it wasn’t a bad idea. She had learned more about Scott since he’d come through the door than in all the time she’d spent with him the previous Sunday at Judson and Heather’s barbecue. Good manners and a lack of ego came naturally to him, she surmised. She sat beside him and lifted her glass.
“Welcome to my home, Scott. Do you like these?” She pointed to the cheese sticks. “Priscilla makes them, and the house would be full of them if I encouraged her.”
“I love these things. I used to buy them at Dean & DeLuca. These are the first I’ve had since I got back. Mrs. Mallory must have some special recipe.”
“I’ll tell her you enjoyed them”
“We ought to leave soon. Our reservation is for seven-thirty, and we are driving to Washington. It took me about forty minutes to get here. Do you mind if I tell Mrs. Mallory good-night?”
“Of course not.”
He headed for the kitchen. “Thank you for these wonderful cheese sticks, Mrs. Mallory. I’ve always loved them. Good evening.”
“You’re welcome, and you come back soon. I’ve always got plenty of cheese sticks baked nice and fresh.”
As if he had always done so, he grabbed Denise’s hand and they left. “When did you have time to buy a car?” she asked him as he opened the door to a new luxury car
“I’m leasing it, but I’ll probably end up buying it after I settle in. I’ve decided to live in Washington and avoid that daily commute that I had when I lived in Baltimore.”
“Have you found a place yet?”
“Not yet. I have three or four places to check out.”
By the time they reached Washington, he knew she liked classic jazz—the Louis Armstrong–Duke Ellington variety. She loved Mozart and disliked Wagner. She adored Italian Renaissance art, disliked contemporary art and loved Aretha Franklin and Luther Vandross.
“I’d like a duplex apartment,” Scott said, “because I like the idea of having separate levels for entertaining and my bedroom and private quarters.”
“You don’t want a house?” she asked.
“No. I’d have to hire a live-in housekeeper to maintain the place, and I don’t want that.”
At the restaurant, the maître d’ seated them and beckoned the sommelier. She and Scott decided not to order cocktails.
“We’ll choose the wine after we order our meal,” Scott said to the sommelier. They both ordered the arugula salad, shrimp diablo, saffron rice and spinach. And for dessert, they ordered raspberries with kirsch and ice cream.
“Did you order this because I did?” he asked her.
“No. As a matter of fact, I order this every time I come here. It’s one of my favorite restaurants.”
Scott’s eyebrow arched a bit at her comment, and she wondered what his reaction was to her preference in restaurants. She appreciated that he didn’t probe, and the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.
Scott looked at the woman seated across from him. She had the elegance of a finely tuned Stradivarius, but she was, nonetheless, very approachable. He wondered how much of the latter was real and how much was for effect. They had much more in common than he would have imagined, and he found himself wanting to know her better. But something held him back, and it puzzled him. Always a man to keep his own counsel, he let his instincts guide him.
“Where did you grow up?” he asked her, opting for a safe topic of conversation.
“Waverly, Texas. My father’s folks have been Texans for generations, one of the first families of African-American ranchers in the state.”
“Ranchers? And did you attend one of the exclusive Seven Sisters colleges?”
“What an interesting question,” Denise said, genuinely surprised. “My parents wanted me to go to Bryn Mawr, but when I found out the ratio of female to male students, I balked and went to Princeton.”
He leaned forward and hoped that his anxiety didn’t show. “How’d that work out?”
“That’s where I developed my intolerance for snobs.”
He couldn’t help laughing. “Did you fall in love with or marry any of them?”
“No to both. But while I was getting my degree, I had a great time.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me? I can imagine that whatever the ratio of men to women at Princeton, you probably had your pick.”
She lowered her gaze. “You’re too kind.”
Sarcasm or humility? He wasn’t certain which. The waiter brought their food, saving him the need to reply.
“You’re driving, and I know you don’t want to drink,” she said thoughtfully when Scott offered to order a bottle of wine. “I wouldn’t enjoy it if you couldn’t have any. By the way,” Denise said, changing the subject, “I belong to a group that’s putting on a big fundraiser in Philadelphia, and Velma Harrington is catering it. She’s incredible.”
“Yes,” he said, as something played around in the back of his mind. He knew it was important, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
They eventually finished the meal with espresso, and as they left the restaurant, he tried to remember what her mention of Velma Harrington had triggered. He shook his head in frustration.
During the drive back to Frederick, she hummed along with the songs that played on the radio. She didn’t seem compelled to fill the time with idle talk, for which he was grateful. He had very little patience for meaningless chatter. He also liked the fact that, during the entire evening, she hadn’t once tried to flaunt her sex appeal. And he especially appreciated that the neckline of her dress wasn’t an advertisement for the milk industry.
He hated having to spend an evening with his mouth watering over a woman’s cleavage. Usually if he liked her, he was tempted to hurry the evening along so that he could indulge. If he didn’t like her, it invariably annoyed him.
He parked in front of the large brick house that she called home and walked her to the door. “May I have your key?” he asked. She handed it to him and stepped aside while he opened the door.
“Would you like me to see if everything is okay?” he asked her.
Her eyes widened. “Why, yes. Thank you,” she said calmly.
He walked in, closed the door, locked it and handed her the key. “Stay here,” he said.
It was a good-size house. Upstairs, he checked two bedrooms, a large office and three bathrooms, one of which had a big Jacuzzi and what seemed like endless closet space. He walked through the living, dining and breakfast rooms, then the kitchen and pantry, which revealed no surprises. He returned to the foyer and saw that she stood precisely where he had left her.
“Do you have a basement?”
“Yes, but do you think—”
“Denise, I never half do anything.”
After checking the basement, he bounded up the stairs and joined her in the foyer. “Thank you for a really wonderful evening. I’ve enjoyed being with you,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Good night.”
He didn’t laugh at her wide-eyed look of surprise. But controlling the impulse to smirk cost him plenty. However, Denise was poised, and she quickly recovered her aplomb. “This has been a wonderful evening, Scott. I’ve enjoyed every minute of it. Get home safely.”
He got into the car and shook as the laughter he had managed to control earlier spilled out. He drove three blocks and parked so that he could safely let out peals of laughter that had him practically bursting at the seams. He didn’t know what Denise had expected when he took her home. But having been celibate for so long, he’d decided to play it safe. Anything more than a peck on the cheek would have gotten him in deep trouble. He wanted her. He really did. But since he had managed this long, a few more weeks wouldn’t kill him.
After parking in the hotel garage, he decided against taking the elevator to his floor and took the escalator to the lobby instead. As he passed the reception desk, the odor of freshly baked oatmeal-raisin cookies that the manager placed on the desk every evening tantalized his nose. He turned back around, took a couple of cookies and bit into one. The taste made him think of the dessert that Velma brought to Heather’s and Judson’s barbecue. He snapped his fingers. She’d served that same dessert at the going-away party Judson had given for him a couple of years ago. Suddenly, he remembered Denise Miller, and what she had said to him at that reception.
By the time he reached his hotel room, he remembered their encounter clearly. She had self-righteously taken him to task for not making environmental issues a priority as ambassador to Lithuania. “The entire region is a major industrial polluter, and you have a platform to bring about change. I am disappointed that it’s not part of your mission,” she’d said.
At the time, he was sure everyone at the table could see the smoke billowing from his ears. He’d answered without looking in her direction. “Our government is not sending me there to lecture the Lithuanian government about clean air.” He had turned his back to her and not said another word to her until Sunday afternoon at the barbecue.
He also hadn’t forgiven her for it, now that he thought about it, and he meant to let her know. A frown spread across his face. He supposed he hadn’t remembered the incident because he didn’t associate such a strident voice with the Denise Miller he’d just met. This Denise was much softer, more feminine and lovely. He went to the minibar, put two cubes of ice in a glass and filled it with vodka. His immediate inclination was to telephone her right then and there, but a glance at his watch disabused him of the notion. It was a quarter to one in the morning. As furious as he was, his desire to get even didn’t override his sense of decency. He slept fitfully, anxious for the morning to come when he could telephone Denise Miller at last.
When his phone rang at a quarter to nine, he almost gave in to the urge to ignore it, but the ringing persisted. “Galloway speaking.”
“Hi, Scott. This is Heather. How did your date with Denise go?”
“She told you we had a date?”
“Yes. Her feet hardly touched the ground for a week in anticipation. She was so excited that we asked her why she was so eager.”
“Hmm. Well, I’ve got a few words for that woman.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Nothing,” he said. “Last night, I liked her. What pissed me off was what happened two years ago at the reception Judson gave for me. It took me a while, but I finally remembered how mad she made me with her self-righteous statements about environmental consciousness.”
“You mean it’s over before it even got started?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just need to get this off my chest. I would appreciate it, Heather, if you wouldn’t mention it.”
“You like her?”
“What man wouldn’t?”
After putting the receiver back in its cradle, Scott paced the length of his room and walked back to the telephone. He lifted the receiver and stood looking at it. His fingers brushed against his jawline, reminding him that he needed to shave. But he wasn’t thinking about shaving. He wanted to stop procrastinating and call Denise Miller. He dialed Drake Harrington’s number and asked Drake if he could get Denise’s number from Pamela, his wife. Pamela came to the telephone.
