Just His Type (Part One) (11 page)

She snapped her fingers, the sound echoed loudly in the dead silence which lay between us all. "Relationship shipwreck. Most of us never see it coming."

I let my exhaustion pool into weary tears which I couldn't stem. Rhiannon sat in awkward silence, Adele in comforting sympathy.

"Don't mourn what never was," Rhiannon offered after a time. "Don't play the 'what-if' game with yourself. If you can't handle this - move on." There was a sharp edge to her voice which years of experience taught me she didn't intend. Emotional conversations just weren't Rhi's thing. Dear God, how I loved her for it, because at that moment I felt emotional enough for the three of us.

"Call him," Adele prompted gently. "He's a nice guy; he deserves a chance to explain."

"Explain what? Assault with a deadly weapon, Adele! What is there to explain?" My hands trembled against the cold, hard surface of the table. "He beat a guy up badly enough to go to jail for it! What the hell sort of person do you have to be to do that?"

"You like him, don't you?" Rhi interrupted before Adele could speak. "He made you happy, didn't he? If you think he's worth the fight, the grief, then call him. If you don't care enough to let him explain it to you, then now's the time to cut your losses and move on."

Everything seemed so blunt in Rhiannon's terms. My own brain didn't allow for such black and white explanations of things, but I had to admit her idea had merit. It wouldn't hurt me much more to hear his side of the story. He'd put up with a lot from me and my family over the past weekend, I could grudgingly admit that perhaps I owed him the opportunity to be honest.

********

The doorman at
La Langoustine Fâchée
was all smiles, although it was difficult for me to tell whether that was because he worked at the most exclusive restaurant on the Island or because of what I was wearing.

Rhiannon had dressed me, and everything from my lace bustier and matching garters to my ridiculously low-cut gown and killer stilettos were jet black. Manicured, pedicured, waxed, and stylishly coiffed, I'd never had so many aestheticians fuss over me in my life, never mind at one time. It took more than three hours of preparation before Rhi declared me suitably outfitted for my fateful date.

Upon parting with Adam the day before we'd agreed to meet at the restaurant. Rhiannon and Adele had argued so loud and long about which of them was going to drop me off that eventually I'd stepped in and suggested they both do it, which is how I found myself standing on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant with the maitre d' grinning at me and my two best friends loudly giving me suggestions from Adele's car.

"Give him a chance to explain," Adele said first in her most encouraging tone. "I'm sure it's not as bad as it sounds."

I wasn't sure how assault with a deadly weapon could be anything less than "bad", but I was determined to hide my hurt and try to be as open-minded as possible.

"Be fabulous," Rhi chimed in. "When he sees you in that dress he'll gladly crawl across burning coals for you. Make him sweat, Honey! Make him beg for forgiveness."

I laughed. Trust Rhi's advice to not really be advice. I didn't know how being perfectly made up and sexily dressed was going to accomplish anything, but I knew Rhiannon well enough to trust her. After all, she had more experience with men than all of my other girl friends put together.

I took a deep breath, waved goodbye at Adele and Rhiannon, and climbed the steps to the restaurant, smiling broadly at the maitre d' the entire time, hoping I looked more calm and confident than I felt.

"Ms. Tanner," he drawled smoothly as he held the door open for me. I swept inside before turning back to him, intrigued.

"How did you know my name?" I asked. Did I know the handsome young man? He was too young to be an acquaintance of mine or an old high school friend. He was closer to Violet's age than my own. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

His smile was eager and flirtatious as he helped me off with my coat. His eyes almost popped from his head as the rest of the dress was revealed. It didn't hide much and I'd been nervous to wear it, but oddly the appreciative glance of the young maitre d' made me feel more self-assured, sexy.

He whistled lowly, dropping the professional demeanor altogether. "No Ms. Tanner, you don't, although I wish you did. But Mr. Brooks said you'd be the prettiest little redhead I've ever seen, so I took a guess. He wasn't lying." His smile widened as I thanked him.

"You and Mr. Brooks are dining the conservatory tonight," he said with a shake of his head as if to clear it. I grinned. "Right this way."

"The conservatory?" I echoed. I'd never been to
La Langoustine
before and every sight was new. The floors were dark and gleaming hardwood, the chandelier in the entranceway positively dripped with crystals.

"Our private dining room," he explained as he led the way.

It was obvious that at one point the building had been a residence, more than likely of some disgustingly wealthy turn-of-the-century shipping magnate. Little had changed when it was converted to a restaurant. I couldn't help but feel as if I were walking into someone's home, except that instead of a traditionally furnished living room, dining room, and parlor at the front of the building, each room was filled with intimate, exquisitely set tables. Portraits of long dead Islanders covered the walls, and a quick glimpse into each room as we passed revealed them to be decorated in sumptuous color schemes: rich reds, deep greens, blue so dark it was almost black. Everywhere china and crystal gleamed on the tables, seated around which were the most well-dressed and attractive people I'd ever seen in my life. It all seemed too much to take in, and I couldn't help but feel like I was a little out-of-place.

"Right through here, Ms. Tanner," the maitre d' said softly. We'd reached a richly burnished mahogany door. "Mr. Brooks will be along shortly, he's just supervising the finishing details on your dinner."

"Thank you," I murmured as he held the door open for me and I stepped past him, but I didn't hear his response - I'd walked into a world of glass and twinkling lights, and the wonder of it all deafened me.

The conservatory was aptly named; octagonal, with floor-to-ceiling glass which rose to a point a good ten feet above my head, and a view of the softly lit and walled garden beyond. Candles flickered on the small, round table set for two, and the rest of the room was lit only by dangling strands of tiny, white lights which were suspended from the ceiling like stars.

The circumference of the glass room was ringed with beds of lush plants, bringing the garden inside; the circle of exotic greenery broken only by a small door to the terrace beyond. I crossed the room quickly to throw open the door. The darkness outside was cool and calm and it invited me to explore further. There must have been spring flowers blooming somewhere past the circle of light, I could smell them, but not see them as I stepped onto the terrace, leaving the soft light and warmth of the conservatory behind me. The darkness of the garden seemed to better suit my mood.

Beyond the garden wall I could hear and smell the sea, and guessed that in daylight the view must be breathtaking. In the dimness though all I could see were the topmost lights of the buildings across the harbor and their twinkling added to the magic of the place. It was like another world and it was all I could do to take it all in; I shivered. The maitre d' had taken my coat and the evening air was chilly. I glanced over my shoulder into the warmth and light of the conservatory but couldn't bring myself to go back inside.

My stomach churned with apprehension as I thought about facing Adam. What had he done? Why didn't he tell me about it? Of course he didn't tell me, I chided myself, I'd only known him one damn weekend. Why the hell would he feel like he should tell me? It's just that it had been an amazing weekend, and I thought we'd connected.

Connected
. I laughed sarcastically into the empty garden. What the hell did that mean anyway? 48 hours with a man and I thought I knew him? I felt like a fool and that wounded me as much as Adam's secret did. Joe had been right for once and admitting that made me blush and swear softly into the night.

After returning to the office from my lunch with Rhiannon and Adele I'd tried to find out more about him using every considerable and wide-ranged research tool available to me, but I didn't learn anything. What the hell good was a being a journalist if I couldn't find any information? Every where there had been road-blocks typical of government bureaucracy. No one knew anything, or could tell me anything, my contacts had been strangely tight-lipped. I'd scoured old online newspaper archives from Toronto, but without a specific date in mind it had been impossible to find anything. If it hadn't been for his name on that document and the fact he'd been with me all weekend, so much so that I could close my eyes and still taste his kisses, I could almost believe that Adam Reginald Brooks didn't exist.

I tried to replay what little I knew of Adam over and over in my head. If he could be believed about his time in Paris he wouldn't have been any older than 23 or 24 when he returned to Canada and he told me that he was now 32. That was a big window of time in between, and if he was currently on parole how much time had he served? Had he been working in restaurants before the arrest? Since his parole? What was he doing on the Island? How the hell did a parolee get a position at one of Canada's most prestigious restaurants?

The journalist in me told me he could be my story; the woman in me was afraid of what I might find. I didn't want to be hurt any more, was terrified of seeing him, of his reaction.

It just seemed easier to run away from the problem than to face it, and for a moment I considered fleeing, finding my coat and walking home through the darkness. I wouldn't have to see him, to talk to him, to see the hurt in his emerald eyes.

Still there was a little nagging voice in my head that wouldn't allow my feet to move. Maybe he had changed. Maybe there were extenuating circumstances. Maybe he was starting fresh and deserved a chance. And maybe I was just rationalizing, trying to find a way that I could still kiss him, touch him again, feel free and alive in his presence. He made me feel more like myself than any one ever had, and that was only in three days of knowing him. Losing that possibility was as frightening as knowing the truth.

I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn't hear him approach, so the warmth of his hand on my bare arm made me jump with surprise, but before I could turn around to face him, Adam snaked an arm around my waist and held me still. I couldn't help but melt back against the solid heat of his body.

My hair was pulled up, leaving my neck and shoulders bare, and he dropped a path of kisses to my ear. "You're beautiful," Adam whispered as I shivered against him. "I've never seen anything more beautiful in my life than you standing there, waiting."

I sighed his name, so wrapped up in the moment and the instant magnetism of his presence that for a moment I forgot everything I'd planned on saying, everything that he didn't know I knew.

"It's chilly out here though, and you're not wearing much." Adam reached his free hand around to dip into the low neckline of my borrowed gown. My nipples were hard beneath the silk and he found them easily and brushed against them with the lightest touch. I couldn't help but arch against him with a moan.

His chuckle was low in my ear; he nipped gently at the lobe, flicking it between his teeth and tongue. "Come see what I've cooked for you." My stomach rumbled mutinously against the churning of my brain and the racing of my heart.

Adam turned me gently to face him. The soft light from the glass conservatory behind him outlined his handsome features. He looked so happy, so pleased to be there standing with me, that when he reached for my hand I gave it. My chest ached at the sight of him and when he smiled his secret seemed not to exist.

He was wearing a dark suit, his tie was perfectly knotted, the shirt immaculately pressed, and he filled out the well-tailored jacket to perfection. My mouth went dry and my heart thudded rapidly in my chest. If it weren't for the glint of his pierced eyebrow, the faint edge of his tattooed neck above his collar, and the wicked, lusty glint in his eyes as he saw the plunging neckline of my dress, I could almost say he looked respectable.

"I've been working at this all day," Adam continued, drawing me back into the warmth and light of the conservatory. "I want to show you what I do." He'd no sooner said the words when the door from the restaurant opened and a stream of people came through, bearing wine and carts of covered dishes of food. Each smiled politely at us as they passed.

Adam pulled my chair out and sat me at the table, dismissing the servers with his crooked smile and warm thanks.

In the light it was a little easier to remember why I'd come. I really wasn't interested in dancing around what I knew. Instinctively I knew that I wanted the truth. I felt as if I deserved it. I just needed to rally my thoughts and formulate my approach. A good journalist always comes prepared.

He sat himself across the small, round table from me. Crowded around us, each within arms reach, were the carts of food and from one Adam pulled a bottle of champagne. Before I could think out a strategy he popped the cork and poured us each a glass, and as he passed me mine his fingers brushed warmly against my own.

"Adam...," I started, but he raised his glass to me and automatically I did the same.