No More Lonely Nights (4 page)

Paulette ignored the sudden pall. She giggled. “Hampton’s very good looking, don’t you think, Dominique?”

A mask of indifference came down on Dominique’s face. “I never really noticed.”

Paulette rolled her eyes knowingly. “I’ll bet,” she said sardonically.

Dominique gave her a look of annoyance. “I told you I’m not interested in married men.”

Edward threw back his head and laughed. “Well, you’d better watch yourself, because he may become interested in you.”

Dominique’s icy gaze stilled his laughter. “He has two children and a very attractive wife. I’m sure he’s not interested in outside romances.”

Edward rubbed his jaw in a classic gesture of skepticism. “That’s not what I hear.”

Paulette leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell! Tell!”

Dominique sat back deliberately in her chair and crossed her arms.

“I wouldn’t want to offend Dominique,” Edward teased.

Paulette made a sound of protest. “She wants to hear, too! She’s just too stuck-up to show it.”

Edward leaned toward the table and, with a wicked grin, said, “I won’t go on without Dominique’s permission.”

Dominique stared at the group. They looked back at her expectantly, tauntingly. She lifted one shoulder indifferently. “Don’t let me stop your childish games.”

Edward leaned even farther forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well, they say that the boy—James, I think his name is—really isn’t his. That his wife found herself a… diversion, shall we say, while he was in the Pacific.”

“Why didn’t he divorce her?” Paulette whispered, her face flushed with enjoyment.

“No one knows. Maybe because he didn’t find out until the youngest was conceived.”

“How does he know that one is his?” Paulette asked.

Edward replied with a shrug. “But he hasn’t exactly been in mourning.”

“What do you mean?” Paulette’s breath grew shorter in anticipation.

Edward glanced at Dominique. She looked away pointedly and feigned a yawn. He grinned and continued, “He keeps company with a very dishy blonde. Lieutenant Amanda Smythe.”

Dominique had to suppress a start of recognition. The woman phoned Hampton every day, her manner always peremptory. Dominique had wondered why she was so unpleasant.

“Well, well, speak of the devil,” said Harry. He raised one eyebrow as he fixed on a spot near the entrance.

Dominique turned to look. At the entrance of the courtyard stood Stephen Hampton, the epitome of masculine authority in his officer’s dress uniform. Beside him was a tall, stunning blonde, also in dress uniform. Dominique felt a twist in her stomach and realized that she was angry. Well, of course, she told herself, I’m disappointed in him. I thought so highly of him. He seemed so reserved and proper. Now it turns out that he’s just like all the other soldiers who cheat on their wives when they’re away from home. And that nasty woman!

As if on cue, Amanda Smythe turned toward Hampton and possessively snaked her arm through his. She looked up at him with a coy smile and said something in his ear. He was rather more stiff in his manner, but nonetheless smiled down at her as he replied.

“Well, whatever Mrs. Hampton’s up to in England,” said Harry, with a lewd wink, “the group captain obviously believes that what’s sauce for the goose…”

Dominique tore her eyes away from the couple with difficulty. “I still think it’s wrong,” she said with disgust in her voice.

Paulette shrugged. “Who knows what goes on in a marriage?”

“I believe we’ve hit a sore point,” Harry drawled, looking at Dominique. “Perhaps we’d best change the subject. Why don’t we order?” He raised his hand for the waiter.

After they had ordered, Edward invited Dominique to dance. Her good spirits returned as they joined the people streaming to the dance floor. She smiled up at her escort as he took her in his arms and moved into an accomplished fox-trot. “I love this song,” Dominique sighed. “It’s from an old Fred Astaire movie, isn’t it?”

“Swing Time,
I think.” Edward turned her expertly, then led her into a few more intricate steps. “And you dance as well as Ginger Rogers!” he smiled with enthusiasm.

Dominique loved to dance, loved the caress of the gown as it swirled around her legs. She closed her eyes and gave in to the rhythm, her face aglow with enjoyment. The orchestra segued into a Latin tune. “Oh, my favorite! A rumba,” Dominique said in delight.

Edward’s face echoed her pleasure as Dominique’s hips began to sway to the Latin beat. No English girl would have dared move
that
way. Dominique’s dancing was entirely unselfconscious, yet mesmerizingly uninhibited. She was thoroughly involved in the song when she heard a familiar voice over her shoulder.

“Good evening, Miss Avallon, Lieutenant.” Hampton stood next to them on the dance floor, the blond beauty at his side.

Edward Wentworth-James snapped to attention as Dominique turned to face Hampton. She was radiant from the dancing, her golden skin illuminated by a pink flush, her upswept hair in a halo of tendrils around her face. Hampton’s gaze lit briefly on her bare shoulders, then quickly moved upward. Without taking his eyes off Dominique, he said, “At ease, Lieutenant.” In her peripheral vision, Dominique saw Wentworth-James drop his arm, but her attention was focused on Hampton. Everyone’s was—he had that effect, not only because of his rank, but because of an innate nobility, a way of carrying himself that would have distinguished him in any company.

Hampton turned to the blonde and said, “Lieutenant Amanda Smythe, Miss Avallon. You’ve spoken a number of times on the telephone, I believe.”

The lieutenant gave Dominique a frosty smile. “Oh, yes, the one with the accent.”

Dominique shifted her gaze to the woman, then smiled, too, but her expression was devilish. “Accent?” she said innocently. “I should say that you British are the ones with the accent.”

Lieutenant Smythe’s face froze. Edward coughed uncomfortably. Stephen Hampton chuckled, “Touché, Miss Avallon. We tend to forget that we’re visitors here. And unwelcome ones at that.”

“Unwelcome perhaps,” Lieutenant Smythe said haughtily, “but nonetheless the only effective authority in a country of heathens.”

Dominique was used to the British expressing such views and she had a ready answer. In an exquisitely polite tone, she said, “These heathens, Lieutenant, created one of the greatest civilizations known to man. And one of the richest. But, of course, you know that”—Dominique gave a sly smile—“since your people took all the treasures back to London and put them in the British Museum.”

Lieutenant Smythe’s face turned red. She pivoted toward Hampton, her profile to Dominique. “Are you going to allow her to insult us this way?” she demanded.

Hampton turned his hands up in a gesture of amused helplessness. “I’m afraid I have no authority over a French civilian, my dear. Especially when she’s the best secretary I ever had.”

Lieutenant Smythe inhaled sharply at Hampton’s response, then turned and glared at Dominique.

Dominique, her eyes flashing gold in the candlelight, regarded Smythe with an ironic stare. It was laughable that this woman thought the British military had any power over a member of the Avallon family.

Smythe’s expression went from anger to uncertainty, finally settling into disdain. “I’d like to sit down now,” she said imperiously to Hampton.

In a lilting voice, Dominique said, “it was a pleasure to meet you.”

The other woman’s eyes snapped. She turned and walked away stiff-backed.

Dominique looked at Hampton with a defiant expression. If he upbraided her, she would defend herself. She didn’t have to put up with Amanda Smythe!

But instead of anger, Hampton wore a look of amusement. His eyes widened comically and he murmured, “I’m in hot water now.”

Their gazes met and held, sharing the humor. Dominique’s nostrils flared with suppressed laughter. Hampton’s mouth twitched at the corners. “Well…” he said. His eyes danced as they darted from Dominique to Edward, then back again. “I’ll see you Monday, Miss Avallon.”

Fizzy bubbles were cavorting in Dominique’s head. It took everything she had to suppress a grin. All she trusted herself to say was, “Monday.”

Dominique arrived at the office before Hampton. She had discovered in her first week that if she didn’t, she’d never complete all the work he generated in one day. And that was important to her. She wanted to prove that she could do well in her job, no matter how much Solange denigrated it.

As she went through the letters Hampton had left in her “in” box, she realized that she had already learned enough to draft replies to most. Two, however, required Hampton’s review and she took them to his office.

As she walked in, she spotted a mug of coffee on the credenza, a leftover from Friday. Ugh! Cold coffee. Wrinkling her nose, she picked it up, then paused as she noticed the photo behind it: Winston Churchill. She had never had the opportunity to read the inscription. It said: “Stephen, I have always known you would bring honour to your country, as your father did before you. You are one of the brightest stars of the British Empire. We are proud.”

So they actually knew each other, Dominique thought. Hampton had never mentioned it. She realized that he never mentioned any of his accomplishments. On the contrary, he was always quick to point out the good points in others and to praise his subordinates for their work. Even in front of Lieutenant Smythe, he had called her, Dominique, the best secretary he ever had. She smiled as she thought of the incident three nights before. She had seen a new, unexpectedly humorous, side of the group captain. It charmed her.

In fact, as Dominique reflected on her first week with Hampton, she realized they had worked together very companionably. He had shown no impatience at the inevitable mistakes she, as a newcomer, had made. He was a gentleman. Which brought her musings full circle. Why the poor choice of women in his life?

She picked up the photo of Hampton’s wife and children. Serena Hampton had the same cool, blond beauty as Amanda Smythe. They were both undeniably striking. But surely Stephen wasn’t so shallow as that!

Dominique started and looked up as she realized that, for the first time, she had thought of him by his first name. She should stop immediately, she chided herself, or it would one day slip out.

Her eyes returned to the photograph of Hampton’s wife. What an awful woman to have cuckolded him while he was at war. And to present him with a child upon his return! Why had Hampton accepted such treatment? Of course, he, too, was wrong to commit adultery. But still, Dominique felt sorry for him. And perhaps there was a reason he could not divorce. Perhaps his wife refused to let him and he was too gentlemanly to accuse her of infidelity. That would be like him, Dominique thought. She couldn’t imagine him doing anything vengeful or petty.

She moved to the picture of Hampton with his children. He was smiling broadly, his teeth gleaming white against his tan, his sun-streaked hair giving him the look of an outdoorsman. Had she really thought him overly somber only one week before? How could she have failed to notice how truly handsome he was? She had failed, she reminded herself, because his looks were overshadowed by the manner in which he carried himself. He was a leader, and that came through as his most prominent characteristic. It was a quality that commanded respect. It made Dominique proud to work for him.

She thought, once more, of his easy demeanor Friday evening. So unlike him. It seemed like a mood confined to that time and place—a momentary aberration, almost unreal. And what of her behavior? What had come over her? She’d been intoxicated with the evening, with her freedom. She had felt irresistible, witty, reckless. Now she felt embarrassed, as though she had been drunk and indiscreet.

Dominique sighed and replaced the photograph on the credenza. She’d drive herself crazy if she dwelled on the incident. Work was the best cure for introspection.

When Hampton arrived a half hour later, Dominique was at her desk.

“Good morning, Miss Avallon.” He smiled down at her.

The sight of him flustered her. Not just because of Friday night. But because only a few moments before she had been speculating on the most private aspects of his life.

She stopped typing just long enough to hand him a pile of yellow slips. “You have several messages,” she said, then quickly resumed typing. Had she put his photos back in their correct places?

“Thank you,” said Hampton. He perched on the corner of Dominique’s desk and read through his messages. “Have a nice time Friday night?” he asked as he studied the papers in his hand.

Dominique stopped typing and looked up. She’d been dreading this. In the unmerciful light of Monday morning the delicious verbal sparring of Friday night seemed like insolence. After all, Lieutenant Smythe
was
her boss’ friend. And though Dominique owed her no particular sign of respect, she owed Hampton at least the respect he had always shown her.

Hampton’s eyes flickered toward Dominique, then back to his messages. She barely caught a glimpse of his expression. Amusement? Curiosity? Or was it annoyance?

She answered warily, “I had a very nice time, thank you.”

Hampton arranged his message slips in a neat pile, then put them in his briefcase. He latched it and stood up. Now he focused his entire attention on Dominique. “You’re quite a dancer,” he said dryly.

Dominique’s cheeks burned. Her hands slid off the keys of her typewriter and dropped helplessly to her lap. “Thank you, sir,” she responded automatically. Why did he stand there looking at her? Why didn’t he go into his office?

Hampton tilted his head to one side, as though puzzled. “You seem awfully subdued this morning, Miss Avallon. I must say it’s quite a change from your mood Friday night.”

Here it was. Dominique braced herself for his rebuke. But, after all, Smythe had provoked her—had deserved Dominique’s retort. Still, perhaps a small apology was in order. Dominique hadn’t been wrong, but her manner could have been less challenging. Keeping her eyes down, she said, “I hope I wasn’t too…” She didn’t know how to finish.