Tangled Vines (12 page)

“Truthfully I was on my way to look for you, to let you know I'd be leaving soon.” Very soon.

“Considering the full day you've put in, I expected that.” His eyes were gentle with understanding. She could have hugged him. “I'll call you a cab. At this hour it might be hard to find one.”

“There's no need for a cab.” Sam Rutledge was still there. He hadn't moved off as she'd expected, as she had hoped. “We have a car waiting outside. I can give Miss Douglas a lift home.”

“Thank you, but it really isn't necessary,” Kelly insisted, turning to him.

“If it isn't a necessity, then try considering it a pleasure,” he suggested smoothly.

“Take his advice,” Hugh said. “The last time I took a taxi, it reeked from the last drunk who had ridden in it.”

“But if Katherine should decide to leave -“ Kelly began.

“Why would I decide to leave?” Katherine Rutledge joined them, showing not the slightest trace of fatigue. “To go where?”

“Back to the Plaza,” Sam replied.

“Why would I want to do that? No one else is leaving,” she reasoned calmly.

“Miss Douglas is,” he explained. “And I offered to take her in our car, but she was concerned that you might want to leave before I got back.”

“That was very thoughtful of you, Miss Douglas, but you need not trouble yourself over that. I am enjoying myself too much to leave anytime soon. I insist that Jonathon take you home.”

“Jonathon?” Kelly frowned. “Don't you mean Sam?”

“Did I say Jonathon?” Momentarily nonplussed, Katherine dismissed the mistake with a careless wave of her hand. “Naturally I meant Sam. He will take you.”

Without choice in the matter, Kelly thanked her, collected her coat, and left, with Sam at her side. Exiting the building's air-conditioned cool, they stepped out into the steamy summer night. Sam scanned the handful of cars ranged along the curb outside and gestured to one.

“Our car is over here.” He lifted a hand to the driver, who hurried to open the rear passenger door.

Kelly slid onto the seat and arranged the folds of her satin coat around her. Any hope that she'd make the ride alone died when Sam folded his length onto the seat next to her. She gave the driver her address and settled back.

“You didn't need to come too.” She had to say it, if nothing else just to release some of the tension inside.

“Probably not,” he agreed easily enough. “But I wanted to make sure you got home safely. As you pointed out earlier, city streets can be dangerous after dark.”

“Hazardous,” she corrected. It was an ingrained habit for any quote to be accurate.

“Hazardous.” He conceded the point.

Kelly leaned back, suddenly wanting to relax and refusing to let his presence stop her. She released a long, cleansing breath and closed her eyes, the corners of her mouth turning up for the briefest of instants.

“I admit this is better,” she said. “The taxis in New York are not exactly the cleanest or the most comfortable vehicles to ride in.”

“Or the safest.”

She glanced sideways, meeting his half smile. “True.”

The car sped in and out of the pools of light cast by the street lamps. Sam was silent a moment, watching the play of light and shadow, light and shadow on her face. She was attractive in both, her features strong, the lines clean, her hair like fire one minute and midnight the next.

“Will you be at the wine auction tomorrow evening?”

“No.” Her head moved against the seat back in a slight negative gesture. “I'm anchoring the weekend edition of the nightly news tomorrow night. It's part of the network's campaign to give me more national exposure. From now on, I'll be sitting in once a month until the new show airs in mid-season, after all the bowl games are over.”

“You'll be busy.”

“Very. Especially when we actually go into production and start taping segments. Hugh can be a slave driver.”

“Have you known him long?” Sam found himself wondering about their relationship. Not that he cared.

“We've been friends for over two years.”

Friends. The casual way she used the word gave him no reason to suspect there was anything more than that between them.

The car slowed and came to a stop in front of the turn-of-the-century red brick building that housed Kelly's apartment. The driver stepped out and opened Kelly's door. As she climbed out, she heard the slam of the opposite car door. Her gaze tracked Sam's dark shape moving toward her.

Suddenly it hit her. A Rutledge had brought her home. A Rutledge was walking her to the front door. She felt the delicious irony of it, a sense of triumph and the heady feeling of power that accompanied both.

He signaled the driver to wait and cupped his hand under her elbow, guiding her up the short flight of steps to the building's arched entrance. A pair of old cast-iron coach lanterns lighted the entry. The door key was in her hand. She surrendered it to him when he reached for it. He held it, making no move to insert it in the security lock.

“Thanks for the ride home,” she said, unable to keep the secretly pleased smile from curving her lips.

“Maybe we'll see each other again sometime.”

“Maybe.” She doubted it.

Sam didn't think it was likely either. He unlocked the door and opened it for her. Halfway through the doorway, she paused and turned back for the key, one hand moving to hold the door open. He gave it to her.

Then, on impulse, Sam slid his fingers into her hair, cupping the back of her head as he lowered his mouth to hers. She went still at the contact, but her lips were soft beneath his. He explored that softness and the warm curves, felt them heat and move against his with returning pressure.

He drew her closer, wanting to discover more, to taste more. She was all lace and soft scent and long limbs, strong and pliant, warm and willing. A kiss wasn't enough. He wanted to wrap himself in her, lose himself in her. Even as he felt the need build, Sam drew back from it. He had one failed marriage behind him, the result of one of those clichéd-but-true whirlwind courtships, based solely in passion. He wasn't about to be swept into another.

“Good night, Kelly.” Sam stepped away from her carefully, like a man retreating from the edge of a very sheer cliff.

“Good night.” She avoided his eyes, turning and pulling the door closed behind her.

Listening to the solid click of the night lock, Kelly felt none of that earlier sense of power. She felt shaken and vulnerable, forcibly reminded of too many half-forgotten needs that were suddenly impossible to deny. It scared her.

From his post by the antique clock, the centerpiece of the Waldorf's richly tinted lobby, Clay Rutledge saw the baroness the instant she stepped from the elevator. She wore a large-brimmed hat of red straw and a swingy summer dress of white silk, lightly splashed with irregular dots of red, royal blue, and green. The look was both saucy and sophisticated, very chic and very French, and very easy to spot in a crowd.

She hesitated briefly, then turned and made her way toward the hotel's Park Avenue entrance. Clay waited several beats, then followed at an unhurried pace.

Her slim heels clicked across the floor's patterned mosaic, then down the short flight of steps to the revolving door at street level. She pushed through it, then paused again. A doorman came into view.

Clay lingered at the top of the steps and observed the exchange between the two, watching as the doorman pointed to the right, obviously giving directions. Clay smiled when he saw the city guidebook Natalie Fougere held against her narrow red clutch purse. Smiling her thanks, she moved off in the direction the doorman had indicated. Again he waited until she was out of sight before following.

Outside he saw her again as she crossed the street and walked along East Fiftieth, heading toward Fifth Avenue. If it had been any other woman, Clay would have suspected she was on her way to explore the exclusive shops on Fifth Avenue. But the guidebook she carried and the inquiring turn of her head, which suggested an eagerness to discover the many sights and sounds of the city, negated that thought. Clay strolled after her, trying to anticipate her destination. Perhaps the plaza at Rockefeller Center. Or the Museum of Modern Art.

All the while he continued his appraisal of her. After last night, there was no doubt in his mind that she was a lonely woman with unspent emotions, ready for the excitement of an illicit affair.

A moment later she surprised him when she turned onto Fifth Avenue. He quickened his steps, reaching the corner as she climbed the steps to St. Patrick's Cathedral. Maintaining a careful distance, Clay entered the ornate stone-and-white-marble structure.

A few worshipers sat in the gleaming pews while others, tourists mainly, wandered about the sanctuary, admiring the stained-glass windows and the religious statuary, conversing in hushed murmurs. From the back of the church, Clay scanned the scattering of people and finally spied the distinctive red straw hat the baroness wore. She was at one of the alcoves surrounding the nave. He watched as she lit a candle and knelt to pray, the gleam of a rosary in her hand.

He watched her thoughtfully for a moment, then withdrew, crossing to the opposite side of the avenue. While he waited for her to come out, he made a few minor revisions in his original assessment of Natalie Fougere: she was not the type to casually flirt with a man for the diversion; no doubt she truly cared for her husband, wanting to please him and struggling against the unhappiness she felt in her marriage. None of which changed the fact she was lonely and ripe for an affair. It meant only a slight altering of his approach.

Clay faced one of the most photographed views in New York: the white gleam of the cathedral's Gothic spires against the black glass of the Olympic Tower rising behind it; but his gaze was fixed on the bronze doors. When Natalie Fougere walked out of them, luck and Saturday were on his side – there was no traffic on the street.

He reached the opposite side of the crosswalk as she came off the last step. He showed surprise and pleasure at seeing her, before quickly veiling the latter.

“Baroness. Good morning.”

“Good morning, Monsieur Rutledge.”

She had dark brown eyes, the rich color of bittersweet chocolate. He noticed the glow that came and went quickly in their depths, reflecting his own look of repressed pleasure. Just as closely he observed the slight change around her lips. It was these small, barely discernible shifts in a woman's expression, the differing sounds of a woman's voice, little gestures, or sentences left unfinished that told him the things he needed to know. Just as her expression told him now that his sudden appearance had had an effect on her.

He glanced past her, toward the cathedral entrance. “Where is Emile? Isn't he with you?” he asked as if he didn't know.

“He had a meeting to attend.”

He brought his glance back to her face, examining it. With her he would play the man of honor, fighting the strong attraction he felt and displaying that emotional restraint in his every look, his every gesture, his every word.

He smiled with politeness. “Then, may I walk you back to the hotel?”

“Thank you, but...I thought I would view some of the sights of New York.” A little self-consciously she indicated the guidebook in her hand.

“Alone?” Clay gave her a look of alarmed concern, then masked it with a smile. “Let me show you New York. The experience is much more enjoyable when it's shared.”

She hesitated, her eyes rushing over his face. “I have no wish to inconvenience you.”

“It would be a pleasure, Baroness.”

“Natalie, please.”

He caught the faint movement of teeth sinking into her lower lip, a signal that she questioned the wisdom of inviting a further familiarity.

Clay inclined his head with a courteous reserve that promised he wouldn't take advantage of it. “Only if you will call me Clay.”

“As you wish,” she acknowledged with equal reserve.

“We are very close to the plaza of Rockefeller Center,” he said, raising a hand to indicate the direction.

He walked at her side, taking deliberate care not to touch her or let their shoulders brush, even accidentally. They strolled down Channel Gardens and stopped at the stone parapet to gaze at the lower plaza with its open-air cafe and golden statue of the fire-stealing hero of Greek mythology, Prometheus, agleam in the mist of dancing water jets. Other than mentioning points of interest, Clay said little; her comments were equally restrained.

“Where next?” he asked, then suggested, as a lark, “The Empire State Building, perhaps. No true tourist could ever come to New York without visiting it.”

“Is it far?”

“Too far to walk. We'll take a taxi.” He hailed a passing cab, then held the door for her before sliding in after her, carefully keeping his distance.

He read nothing into either her silence during the short ride or her previous brevity. His glance strayed to her frequently and he let her catch him looking at her. She was, he decided, a beautiful, elegant woman, her dark hair pulled away from her face and neck, its fullness hidden beneath the crown of her hat. In his mind, he likened her to an instrument of many strings, waiting for a master's touch.

The cab stopped at the Thirty-fourth Street entrance to the Art Deco skyscraper that flimdom and King Kong had long ago immortalized. Inside the marbled lobby, Clay purchased tickets for the observation deck and escorted Natalie onto the high-speed elevator crowded with tourists. It shot them to the eightieth floor, where they switched to another elevator that would take them the rest of the way. Even with the press of bodies and mingling odors, he could smell the subtle sexiness of her perfume.

He waited for the elevator to empty, then guided her out, past the souvenir stands to the heavy door leading onto the deck. Natalie laughed at the slap of the wind and grabbed at her hat, holding it on her head as she crossed to the wall. Clay walked over to stand beside her, gazing with mild interest at the architectural potpourri of glass-and-steel towers, venerable brownstones, and Gothic churches that was Manhattan.

With a reckless disregard for height, Natalie peered over the observation glass. “The taxis, they look like bright yellow marigolds.”

She stepped back and lifted her face to take in the far-sweeping view. He studied her rapt expression of wonder, the delicate curve of her long neck, and the silk of her dress, molded to her shapely figure by the wind.

“Magnificent, isn't it?” He pretended an interest in the view of the island of Manhattan, the Hudson River, the specks of sailboats on the Sound. “So high above everything. Isolated from the hustle of the city below. One could almost believe we are the only two people in the world,” he mused with feigned idleness. “Of course, two people can make the biggest world of all when they are the right two people.” On that, he turned to look directly at her.

Whether deliberately or not, she misread his meaning. “You are missing your wife.”

“My children, perhaps,” he offered, then shrugged, glancing away. “It's no secret my wife and I have little in common anymore, except our love of the children,” he lied smoothly. “She is content with her flowers and her painting, while I...” He stopped, scowling darkly. “Why am I telling you this?”

“Perhaps you knew I would understand.”

Her dark eyes were a mute testimony to the loneliness of her own marriage when he turned back. He held her gaze for a significant moment without making any response.

“Have you ever taken a carriage ride through Central Park?”

She seemed momentarily thrown by his question. “No.”

“Neither have I.” He smiled an invitation. “Shall we?”

She hesitated not at all, a smile lighting her whole face. “Yes.”

Twenty minutes later they were sitting in the backseat of a carriage traveling through Central Park. Beyond idle comments on sights they passed, they spoke little, but Clay saw by the small smile on her lips that she was comfortable with the silence.

As they rode by the eighteen-acre lake within the park, Natalie sat forward. “Do you see the rowboats?” she asked and continued to gaze at the sunlight glinting on the water's glass-smooth surface. “How beautiful it looks on the water.”

“I think we should find out if it is,” Clay announced and instructed the driver to drop them off near the boat rental site.

When they pushed away from the dock, Natalie sat at the bow. The red straw hat was in her hand, exposing the sleekly coiled knot atop her head. She gripped the sides of the boat and leaned back, tilting her face to the sun.

Beautiful, Clay thought again as he stroked the oars, propelling the boat through the water with slow, languid pulls. His sports jacket was folded neatly on the seat beside him; the cuffs of his shirt were rolled back.

“This is wonderful.” She dipped a hand in the sun-warmed water and watched the drops fall from the tips of her fingers. “You were right, Clay.” She looked at him with a wistful quality. “It is better when it is shared.”

“Yes,” he said, then stayed silent for several strokes of the oars, continuing to hold her gaze. “I shouldn't say this, Natalie, but you are a very lovely woman.” His voice was full of tightly suppressed intensity.

For a moment, there was such a tightness in her throat she couldn't speak. Many times – too many times in recent months – she had looked at Emile and longed for him to notice her again, to see her as the beautiful, desirable woman he had claimed she was before their marriage. There were even times when that longing had been a physical ache.

She knew it was wrong to find so much pleasure in another man's compliment, but she did. She was too starved to care where the nourishment for her soul came from.

But she said, slowly and carefully, “It is rather nice to be noticed, Clay.”

“Forgive me,” he murmured.

“For what?” she chided, needing to make light of his words. “For being kind?”

“It wasn't kind. You are a very lovely woman. A man would have to be blind not to notice that.”

Sometimes she thought her husband was blind. Blind to her needs.

When Clay fell silent, she did nothing to encourage further conversation and tried to turn her mind instead to the serenity of the lake and the blue of the sky overhead. But she found it impossible not to notice the way the sunlight glinted off the dusky gold of his hair, the play of muscle beneath his shirt, and the easy strength of his arms.

What a fool his wife was, Natalie thought, not to appreciate this man. Did his wife not know how lucky she was to have such a sensitive, caring husband, a man so attuned to her that he could anticipate a whim and indulge it even before it was voiced?

Like renting this rowboat to glide across the lake, just the two of them, New York's tall buildings nothing more than a vague intrusion on the skyline beyond the trees. She watched his hands pulling on the oars, the flexing muscles in his arms. His hands would be warm and sure in the caress of a woman, seeking to please, to arouse, to satisfy. And his kisses would be moist and heated, swift to ravish.

Conscious of the quickening strike of her heartbeat, Natalie looked away. It was not wise to indulge in idle fantasies, even harmless ones.

Too soon, it seemed to Natalie, the hour was up and the rowboat had to be returned. Clay helped her from the boat, his grip firm and subtly strong. But he didn't release her once she was on the dock. He stood behind her, a steadying hand still on her waist and the other on her arm, below the cap sleeve of her dress.

“I was wrong,” he murmured, ever so softly. “Even a blind man would notice you – the headiness of your scent, the music of your voice, the satin of your skin....”

One finger, and one finger only, traced the curve of her arm before he drew his hand away. She breathed in, and found it difficult to breathe out.

For a moment, she imagined swaying back against him and feeling the solidness of his body along her length, the warmth of his arms folding around her, the sensation of his lips exploring her neck. Before the thought could become an impulse, he stepped back, releasing her, and the moment was gone. But not the memory of it.

“There is a fairly good restaurant not far from here,” Clay said. “If you feel hungry, we could go there for lunch.”

She looked at her watch for the first time since she'd left the hotel. “It is late.” She discovered this with a twinge of guilt, aware that she had been enjoying his company too much to notice the passage of hours. “I must return to the hotel. I promised Emile I would meet him for lunch at one. It is nearly that now.”