A Lasting Love (5 page)

"Cold, darling? Would you like Chablis? Loren?"

She nodded absently. "Chablis sounds fine."

They toasted their impending wedding and
exchanged
small talk, but mostly spent the time gazing
out the win
dow admiring the view on the Potomac. A
foghorn penetrated the silence
between them, and Loren
jerked her head up, startled, the
sound recreating a
memory.

They sipped the oyster stew,
and
Loren smiled to herself as she pushed "those things"
around in the bowl, remembering
Reid’s
dislike of seafood
and the subsequent
teasing.
Oh, dear God, I've got to stop
this.
She gulped her wine and immediately a
white-coated
waiter appeared to refill her glass. She
turned her gaze
across the room, waiting.

And there . . . there he was.
Their eyes locked for a long
second that seemed
like a lifetime before she turned away. Her thoughts were wild and
jumbled as her blood pumped
furiously through her
veins. I
must be seeing things. I thought it was him.
But, it just couldn't be. Not after all this time. Six years of
trying to forget. And now I think I
see him again. How
much wine did I have? Only one glass?
Why do I feel so
crazy?

With a shaky hand she lifted the glass to her
lips and
drank boldly. Then her eyes, drawn like a
magnet, sought
that same table where he sat with two
other men. His
profile was in her line of vision now,
and she examined the
man carefully, curiously, oh, God
... afraid.

This man was
different, mature,
but somehow the same. Dark, unruly hair, pene
trating,
almost black eyes, his squared shoulders were
crammed
into a suede jacket, and
he looked as if he
would
like to slip out of his clothes at any
minute.
The man's appearance was
very
rugged. And those boots.
The same godawful
scuffy
cowboy boots. The
mustache was
what made his face look
different. The man turned and
watched her again, his eyes
catching hers. And she
knew.
She knew!
It was all Loren
could do to keep from spilling her wine. With jerky
mo
tions she set it on the table and scooted her chair
back.

"Excuse me, please, Mark."

"Certainly, darling. Are you all right? You
look a bit
pale."

She nodded and tried to smile. "I'll be right
back."
Loren carefully avoided the dark stare from
across the
room as she made her way quickly to the
ladies' room.

Once inside, she slumped against the wall,
taking deep,
gulping breaths to try and calm her
heaving stomach.

A patron was drying her hands. "Are you all
right?"

Loren nodded mutely, and the woman left.

In the quiet, sanitarily fragrant room Loren
began to
laugh. Hysterically, wildly, incoherently,
even to herself,
until the laughter dissolved into
tears that flowed down
both cheeks. She grabbed a
paper towel and wet it, dab
bing at the smeared mascara
under her eyes. She gaped at
her reflection. Pale
cheeked, red-eyed, stricken, she
looked terrible.
Taking her time, Loren repaired her
makeup, hoping the
redness around her eyes would soon
go away.

Could that man actually be Reid?
Reid.
But he was, and
she knew it.
What was he doing here, so far away from Arizona? And why would he
come here, to this particular
restaurant, of all the
fabulous places to dine in D.C.? Why,
for that matter,
did she and Mark come here tonight? She
wished a
thousand times over she had never agreed to it!

Taking a deep breath, Loren smoothed her skirt
and
straightened her blazer. She still wore her
working
clothes, the tailored suit, so chic, yet
businesslike. She was in control and
could face Mark
now.

Stepping out into the dark hallway that led to
the ladies'
room, Loren blinked in the dimmed
light. A hand shot out and grasped her wrist, pulling
her
against a solid male body. Alarmed, she prepared
to
scream, but her throat closed and prevented any
sound but his voice.

"Loren, Loren—"

She gazed up, very close to the man's
face.
Reid
Meci
na!

Loren gasped audibly, then, with more composure
than
she could ever dream possible, muttered, "Excuse
me,
please." She tried to move away from
him.

But his hand did not loosen its grip. "Loren.
Loren,
thank God, it's you. I wasn't sure for a
minute."

Frantically she looked into his familiar eyes,
the eyes of
an intimate stranger. "Please, leave me
alone," she begged.

Anguish instantly shot across his face. "I
can't. Now
that I know it's really you, Loren, I must
talk to you."

"No! Please, Reid, don't do this to me."

His voice was tight. "Loren, I don't understand. Do
you mean that you don't want to see me? Don't you have any feelings
for us? I must know how you are... what you're doing."

Loren finally jerked her arm free from his firm
grasp.
"For all you care, I could be dead by now. Will
you please
move so I can pass?"

"I want to see you again, Loren. Do you still
live on
Prince?"

She turned her head away, trying not to give
him any
information . . . trying not to
care.

His voice was a low rumble, so familiar yet so
distant.
"Do you still live in the sea captain's house
where the
Hessian soldier made love to the captain's
wife? The house
where
we
made love, Loren? Surely you haven't
forgot
ten."

Unable to avoid his gaze, Loren turned back to
Reid's
sad eyes. "I haven't forgotten," she whispered
hoarsely.

"Can I see you there?"

For some unknown, uncontrollable reason, she
nodded.
Her head moved of its own accord,
imperceptibly, yet
positively. No words were spoken
between them for long
seconds as each was caught in
the magic of the attraction
that still existed, after
all the years that had passed. In her
mind Loren knew
she shouldn't do this . . . knew she was betraying herself.
Again.
But she couldn't help it. She had
to see him again too. Just this once.

Reid's hand touched her shoulder, and the warmth
flooded through her, electrifying her senses. "I don't want to
disturb your evening any more than I already have, so please return
to your table. I won't interrupt and ask for an introduction. I'm
afraid I might punch the man in the nose."

She smiled for the first time since seeing him,
responding to his once familiar banter.

"I have to see you alone, Loren. When can I
come?"

She shrugged, her eyes saying a million things.

"Tonight?"

Loren nodded. "Give me a little time."
Why? Why was she doing this to herself?

"See you later." His promise was a whisper as Loren
slipped away from his overwhelming presence. She stumbled back to
the table where Mark sat, disturbed because she had been gone so
long.

"I almost sent the waitress in to see if you were all
right."

"Sorry, Mark. I—I ran into an old . . . friend."

"How nice," he remarked indifferently.

Loren took a sip of her wine, hoping it would calm
her jagged nerves. But her hand shook so that she had to steady it
on the table.

Mark motioned toward her plate. "Try your
crab
imperial
before it gets cold, dear."

Loren attempted to eat, but the creamy fare knotted
in her stomach with every bite. So she pushed it idly around on her
plate until Mark had finished his dinner. Every time she glanced up
and across the room, Reid's eyes were on her. Totally unnerved by
his presence, as well as his promise to see her later, Loren
claimed that she didn't feel well and was ready to leave.

Miffed by her strange behavior and abrupt
termination of their very elegant dinner, Mark whisked her home
in
a matter of minutes. He jammed the key into the
lock
and stood aside for her to enter before
him.

But Loren placed her hand on his arm and said,
"Don't
come in with me tonight, Mark. I don't feel
very . . .
sociable."

"Loren, are you sick?" Irritation was obvious
in his
tone.

She shook her head. "It's just a headache. I
have a lot
on my mind. It's . . . it's going to be
tough next week. I need
to do some work this
weekend."

“
You know I don’t like that, working on
weekends.” His hazel eyes snapped at her. "You and those
damn liberal cases. There's always one that has you over a
barrel. When are you going to get smart
and work for
some decent clients?"

Instantly Loren bristled. "These
are
decent clients. Just
because they don't have the money yours do—"

"Oh, Loren, you know what I mean. Some of these
women
seem to leave themselves open for the problems
they have. They keep going back to the same man who beats
them up month after month. Or return to the jackass
who
chased every skirt he saw. What do they
expect?"

"Expect? Like anyone else, Mark, they expect
decency."

"Oh, hell. They just keep going back—and they
deserve
what they get."

Loren was shaking with anger. "There's no
excuse for
what some of my clients have
endured."

His hands grasped her forearms. "I'm not
offering excuses. I'm trying to get you to see how futile your job
is.
These women ask for trouble, and you spend all
your time
bailing them out—for a pittance."

"In some of these cases I'm all they have.
Their last
resort." Loren sighed and lowered her
voice. "Look,
Mark, I'm not going to stand here on my
doorstep, de
fending my job. Nor will I argue women's
rights tonight."

Ruefully he backed down. "Sorry, darling.
You
know I'm as strong an advocate of women's rights
as
anyone. It's just that I see you working too hard
on these
causes. And I wanted you all to myself this
weekend. I'm
disappointed."

She touched his cheek. "I'm sorry, Mark. Not
tonight.
Please—"

He shrugged. "Okay, Loren. I won't press. But
I'll see
you tomorrow." He kissed her cold,
unresponsive lips,
murmuring, "Goodnight, my
love."

She waved as his car rumbled away over the
cobble
stones.

Loren walked slowly into her small home, lit
only by
the stained glass Tiffany lamp. She stared
numbly, not
bothering to turn on another light. The
house was cool, but she didn't even think to turn up the
thermostat. She just sat on the sofa, hugging the heavy
granny-square
afghan around her. She felt excited and
scared, sensitive
and paralyzed, all at
once.

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out
his new
image, his old memory. But the bold, dark
vision loomed in her mind, and Loren saw his profile close and felt
his
breath on her face and heard his low mumbling of
her
name. Reid looked older, more mature, with a
little gray
mingled with the dark hair at his temples.
Well, he must
be about thirty-four or five now. The
lines beside his
cheeks were deeper etched, and she
wondered about the
dimple that hid in his left cheek.
He was still lean and
wore his jacket as though he
were on the
verge of discarding it. Still, he cut a
hot, handsome figure. He even had that
western swagger
to his step.
And
now, a crazy
mustache
added character to his already interesting
face.

A car traveled the rough cobblestone street,
passing by
her house. What if he had forgotten where
she lived?

Where they had made love? No, that wouldn't
happen.
What if
...
he didn't
come? After all this mental anguish,
what if he didn't
show up? Just like six years ago, when he left and didn't
return.