Counsel (Counsel #1) (26 page)

"The production was fantastic, but you, you really are a sublime dancer, and an equally talented choreographer. Mom explained that you’re also responsible for the classical choreography," I tell her when we’re finally alone. Her cheeks turn a delicate shade of pink, a reaction I’ve truly come to love.

"The credit should really go to Jeanette for being open to experimentation."

"Would you tell me about learning to dance… if it's not too painful?" I add, realizing that I might have touched on an upsetting subject.

She smiles reassuringly before telling me about her introduction to ballet, her dance mistress who’d been like an older sister to her, and finally, about her debut in Leipzig. She's animated when describing the long, tiring rehearsals and smiles nostalgically when describing how a disparate group of dancers from around the world had been melded into a cohesive company through a sense of camaraderie and the skill and dedication of their instructors. The excitement suddenly dies from her eyes. "And well, you know what happened after that," she finishes awkwardly.

"I've read some of the reviews; you were lauded as the next big thing, you and your boyfriend."

"You
did
?"

"Jon uncovered it as part of his investigations," I admit to the half-truth.

"Are you still in contact with Luke Grantham?" I can't help asking.

"I haven't seen or spoken to Luke since leaving Germany." A pang of jealousy hits me at her expression of regret, but she smiles reassuringly as if sensing my reaction.

"He's living up to predictions of his success and was dating his new dance partner, last I read. I'm happy for him," she says, steadily holding my gaze.

"I'm glad," I readily confess. We're so caught up in our private bubble that we're both startled when Mom announces their departure.

"I should be going too," Angelique says once they’ve left.

"Did you drive," I ask.

"No, Sarah picked me up," she replies, to my relief.

"Allow me to drive you home, please?"

"I'd like that." She smiles shyly before excusing herself to gather her things and returns holding a duffle bag in one hand and her flowers in the other. She stops at a small group, and I recognize both Amy Sanders and Sarah Warne.

Amy waves at me excitedly before turning back to Angelique with a cheeky grin. "The hot ass?" she questions. Angelique blushes a deep red and without responding, turns to speak to the rest of the small group. I rush over to meet her when she walks away and take the large bag from her hand.

"Hot ass?" I ask in the car.

She turns, her eyes wide with astonishment. "You should know that I lip-read, Miss Bain," I inform her lightly.

"I'll remember that, Mr. Thorne; and for the record,
I
called you an ass. Amy’s the one who added the descriptor." She giggles, and how I love that sound.

"I
was
an ass," I apologize.

"A hot one apparently." She’s still smiling as she turns her head to stare out of the window.

"Thank you, Adam," Angelique says at her door. I bend down and place my mouth as close to hers as possible without actually touching her lips. She inhales sharply but doesn’t withdraw. I do; reluctantly. It takes every ounce of self-control to step back.

"It's been my very great pleasure," I say, watching as her, thick long lashes slowly sweep open to reveal her eyes. I wonder whether it’s my befuddled brain that’s tricked me into seeing longing in her eyes; the same yearning she must surely see reflected in mine.

I place a soft kiss on her forehead. "I’ll pick you up at around twelve-fifteen. Please don’t forget to bolt the door," I remind her before tearing myself away to relive an almost perfect night.

Angelique, thank you for the most perfect night. I'm counting down the hours until tomorrow. Wear something comfortable.

Adam.

I hit send. I agonized for nearly half an hour about the wording for a simple text message, which is ridiculous. I'm a grown man, and I've been with many women, but every experience with Angelique, no matter how mundane, seems new and different…more intense, somehow. And now that I'm beginning to believe that I might have a chance with her, all I can think about is how much
more
I want.

.

.

I knock, anticipation curling in my gut as I wait for her to open the door. When she does, she stares up at me with softly flushed cheeks. Wearing almost no makeup, her ivory skin appears flawless, and with her hair pulled up high into a ponytail and eyes shining with warmth, holding me spellbound as always, I find her utterly irresistible. And those lips… I groan inwardly. How the fuck am I supposed control myself?

"Hi," I say, my voice sounding hoarse.

"Hi," she replies, and then tears her eyes from mine to cast an uncertain glance down her body. "Umm, I wasn't sure what to wear," she says, giving me the opportunity to unashamedly stare.

"You're perfect."

"Just let me get my bag," she murmurs shyly before hurrying away.

"Where are we going?" Angelique asks about five minutes into our drive.

"Larz Anderson Park, do you know it?" I turn my head to glance at her.

"I don't. Does it have a restaurant?"

"I don't think so," I say, suppressing a smile at her adorable confusion. "We're having a picnic."

"
Really
?"

I laugh because she looks and sounds like an excited teenager, but also in relief that my worrying has been in vain. I wanted to avoid a recurrence of what happened on our last outing, but I'm also determined not to skulk around, so the idea of a picnic appealed. We'd be out in public, but sufficiently isolated to not have her easily recognized or made to feel uncomfortable, I rationalized. Since waking, though, I've been agonizing about whether I made the right choice and whether she even likes picnics.

"Really," I return, elated by her enthusiastic response.

"Do you go there often?"

"I haven't been in over ten years, but my parents used to take us all the time as kids."

"I remember Mom and Dad taking me to Central Park once, but I've never had a real picnic. I read about it as a child, though, and I always dreamed about picnics with three-legged and egg and spoon races," she remarks wistfully.

"I can't promise you either of those, but I'll do my best to make sure you enjoy the experience," I promise. She smiles warmly before returning to watch the passing landscape.

.

.

"It's beautiful here," Angelique says, looking around. We’re in a lightly shaded area within view of passers-by and other potential picnickers, yet sufficiently secluded to prevent us from being stared at or overheard.

"Wait until you see some of the other areas. We could go for a walk later if you like, but I have something much better in mind."

"What?" she asks, her expression a mix of excitement and apprehension.

"It's a surprise; don't worry, I'm
almost
certain you'll love it," I say avoiding her curiosity. "I hope you don't mind the blanket. I thought about hiring a table and chairs but felt this would be more authentic."

"There were no tables at the picnics in my dreams," she says, with a contented smile.

"Can I get you a drink? Alcohol isn’t allowed in the park, but I have apple juice, tonic with a slice of lime or sparkling mineral water."

"Lime?" She peeks into the open basket. "You have lime in there?"

"Yes, I have lime. Tonic and lime is your preferred drink."

"You didn't have to go to that much trouble…."

"Nothing would be too much trouble," I cut her off gently. "What would you like?"

"Just sparkling mineral water for now, please. With lime," she adds, giving me an appreciative smile.

"Coming right up." I remove two spiked glass holders and sink one into the lawn within easy reach of her.

"Crystal glasses?" she questions as I hand over her drink.

"Only the best," I answer, reaching over to clink glasses. "To picnics."

It's a sunny, breezy day, but we're sheltered as we comfortably lean back and chat about last night's performance. People stroll the paths, and a couple of picnickers have settled within sight but not close enough to disturb us.

"Hungry?" I ask.

"Famished, actually. I didn't have breakfast."

"Don't you eat breakfast?"

"I usually have a slice of toast and some fruit, but I skipped this morning… too nervous," she admits sheepishly.

"So was I," I confess. "Let's see what we have."

"Can I help?" Angelique offers as I start unpacking the basket.

"You could help to serve," I suggest, spreading the white tablecloth out between us before handing her plates and silverware wrapped in napkins. I find two elegantly printed menu cards that I hadn’t expected to see. I ordered the lunch from my favorite French bistro where I've come to know Maurice, the chef and owner, pretty well. I simply told him I was taking someone special on a picnic. The only specification I made was for the drinks and the inclusion of a selection of tea. He must have had these specially typed and printed. I knew the food would be good, but he's surpassed my expectations. I hand Angelique one before I peruse the other.

Thorne Picnic

May 18, 2014.

Chicken Ballotine with spinach and porcini mushrooms

Asparagus served with balsamic vinaigrette

Green salad

Fresh Fruit

Selection of Petits Fours

Choice of English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Earl Grey, Darjeeling or Jasmine tea

Coffee

"Oh!" she exclaims, her eyes widening as she reads.

"I didn't know what kind of tea you'd prefer," I blurt out, not knowing what to say.

"It's perfect." She smiles tremulously.

"I'm not terribly domesticated," I confess as I unwrap and place the platter of chicken, the bowl containing salad and serving spoons in the center of the cloth. Angelique serves while I freshen our drinks.

"You’re doing well…is this okay?" she asks, holding out a plate for my inspection.

"It's great."

"This is absolutely delicious," Angelique enthuses as we eat. I tell her about Maurice and his bistro, then. "I'll take you some time. You'll love it," I promise.

"I'd like that," she replies unhesitatingly, and I smile like a Cheshire cat at the thought of yet another date.

Conversation is easy and entertaining, the food delicious; every course has been thoughtfully chosen, and when it’s time for dessert, Angelique gasps at sight of the petits fours I produce.

"I’ve never seen these on his menu; Maurice must have made them specially." I make a mental note to tell him how much she loved his treat and to do something nice for him in return.

I ask whether she's spoken to her mother and friends about her performance, and Angelique tells me she called late last night. "Mom always stays awake to hear from me," she says. When I ask how often they see each other, she tells me she tries to make monthly visits. I can tell by the note of longing in her voice just how much she misses her mother.

She asks about what's happening in my life, and I update her on Eleanor’s Place and promise a visit to the premises as soon as we gain access. I don't ask or push her about a decision on the job offer; I want that to remain a matter between her and Mom. Then, as we repack the basket, she hesitantly asks me about work.

"I don't want to upset you by raising things you'd rather forget or that could potentially spoil things between us, Angelique. I'm not sure we should discuss my work until after the Cordi cases," I say worriedly.

"We can't keep avoiding it… not if we want to truly be friends; and you should be able to talk about your work day without worrying about upsetting me."

"Are you sure? Because my work, right now, revolves solely around the Cordi case, and I don’t want to resurrect the events of Justin’s trial…"

"We have to talk about it, Adam," she almost pleads.

"Okay," I say, still feeling concerned. I take a deep breath before starting. "As a prelude, I think you should know that I schooled myself from a very early age to mask my feelings and later, as a prosecutor, I learned to successfully compartmentalize my work, to push back my personal feelings and concentrate solely on the legal aspects of a case."

"You do it very well," she responds quietly, and I hear the hurt in her voice.

"Angelique, I'm so very sorry for the way I treated you. You have no idea about the battle that raged in me. I've never felt as conflicted about having to question a witness as I was with you."

"I didn't really help myself as Samuel so bluntly pointed out. You were just doing your job, so please, let's stop apologizing to each other."

I lean in, wanting her to see how deeply apologetic I truly am. "I've already told you that much of it was because of my own past. When I first found out about your association with Justin and Joseph, I'm ashamed to admit that it influenced the way I treated you."

"It's understandable," she says, but I still detect a trace of hurt. So I decide to tell her everything. I start with the man who came demanding the rent money, how Eleanor held me as we hid behind the sofa, waiting for him to leave, how he later returned with another man. I relate how that man intimidated me and how afraid of him I felt Eleanor was. I confess how abandoned I felt when she sent me to my room when he visited. I tell how I only recently accepted that her actions were borne from a desire to protect me. I tell about the many other men. Tears spill from her eyes as I relate how I listened to what was happening in the next room, about how I heard them hurt her. I explain the anger I felt toward Eleanor for letting them into our life, letting them do those things to her. I tell her how hurt and abandoned I felt at her neglect, at her drinking and drug taking.

I try to explain the fury I felt toward myself for not being able to stop what was happening. I describe how my once beautiful, loving and vivacious mother turned into an alcohol and drug induced zombie. I tell of meeting Emma Thorne, and how she and Mrs. Doyle, our neighbor, cared for me. I don't stop until she knows about Eleanor’s death, how I came to be adopted by the Thornes. I tell her about Adam Winston, how he abandoned my mother and me, their unborn child, I tell her about the fortune he left me seventeen years later, the anger I felt, the fights I got into because of that anger; how I hated him then and despise him now, and why I decided to become a prosecutor.

"It's no excuse for the way I treated you, but I want you to know so you can, perhaps, better understand."

"I…I'm sorry that you had to go through that, Adam. It explains so much about your feeling toward prostitutes." Her moist eyes cloud with shame.

"Stop beating yourself up about your past," I gently reprimand.

"You didn't treat Amy and Sarah, probably not even Natasha, with the same disdain…. Why?" she suddenly asks.

"I wasn't attracted to them. No woman has ever affected me in quite the way you did…
do
. I was determined to not let it influence my prosecution of the case. A large part of my despicable behavior was because of my internal struggle," I explain.

She averts her head to stare into the distance, and I wonder what she’s thinking, fearing I may have said too much too soon…or perhaps not enough.

"Why?" She faces me, her eyes wide and glistening with tears.

"Why what?" I ask, confused.

"Why are you here with me? What do you
really
want from me, Adam?"

I reach for her hand, grateful that she doesn't pull away. "I've already told you why. I realize that you're not ready, and that's fine; but you should know that I really
do
care for you…more than you probably want me to. I want to be friends, yes, but I'd also like more, Angelique… when you're ready,
if
you're willing," I add at her look of near panic.

"I… you …confuse me. You could have any woman, why would you want to be involved with me? You know my history."

"And you now know mine; doesn't
that
tell you why? For most of my life, I've lived with the misconception that I hated Eleanor. I believed she couldn't possibly have loved me. Why else would she have chosen to prostitute herself and not think about the impact on me? But this case,
you
…you made me realize she’d been a victim. I’ve finally accepted what my therapist told me all those years ago; that I allowed my anger and hatred for what she became to bury and deny my pain. You’ve been victimized by the men who’ve used you too; why would I hold it against you after my realization about Eleanor?"

She cries freely now, her head averted once more. I turn her body gently, so we’re sitting cross-legged and facing each other. I cup her face in my hands and wipe away her tears with my thumbs. "I'm sorry, it wasn't my intention for us to discuss this today. I wanted to make you happy."

"I'm not unhappy, Adam. I'm emotional and ashamed …and relieved. I'm many things, but I'm not unhappy." She smiles wanly.

"Come on, I have something special planned. Interested?" I get up and extend my hand.

"More surprises, Mr. Thorne?" she asks, valiantly attempting to match my light tone. I pull her up, resisting the overwhelming need to embrace her.

"I have plenty more in store for you, Miss Bain," I say as I start packing up.

"Well, I hope it's good," she playfully challenges.

"Oh, I think you'll like it."

"What
is
it?"

"Wait and see," I reply, and with the blanket and basket in one hand, I hold out the other in invitation. I smile when she unhesitatingly clasps it.

.

.