Free If Winter Comes by Diana Palmer Page B

a long pause,
and then his big, warm hands came up to force her face out of hiding, so that
he could search it and her misty eyes.
     
    “It was the first time
for you…touching, being touched?” he asked finally, and there was a new
tenderness in his voice.
     
    All she could manage to
do was nod. Her throat felt as if it had been glued shut.
     
    The hard lines in his
face relaxed, smoothed out. He looked at her as if he’d never seen a woman
before. His dark eyes went down to her soft body, lingering on the high young
curves that his fingers had touched so intimately.
     
    “I remember looking
down at you,” he said absently, “and there was an expression on your face I
couldn’t understand. Now it all makes sense.”
     
    She chewed on her lower
lip, vaguely embarrassed, because she remembered that moment, too—vividly.
     
    He turned away, ramming
his big hands into his pockets with a heavy sigh. “Well, that tears it,” he
said roughly.
     
    She stared at his broad
back, her eyes drawn to the thick, silver-threaded hair that gleamed like black
diamonds in the overhead light.
     
    “I’m sorry,” she
murmured inadequately.
     
    “My God, for what?” he
asked harshly, whirling to face her. His dark eyes blazed across the room.
     
    The question stunned
her. In the sudden silence, she could hear the ticking of the clock by the
sofa, the sounds of traffic in the street as if they were magnified.
     
    “Are you trying to
apologize to me for not being the woman I thought in my arrogance that you
were?” he asked, a new gentleness in his voice. “I don’t want that.”
     
    She swallowed, dreading
the question even as she asked it. “What do you want?”
     
    A wisp of a smile
turned up one corner of his sensuous mouth. “I could answer that in a
monosyllable,” he teased, watching the color come and go in her cheeks. “But, I
won’t.” He shot back his white cuff and glanced at his watch. “We’d better get
moving, honey. I ordered the table for seven-thirty, sharp. Ready?”
     
    Confused by his sudden
change of mood, she nodded absently and went to get her long black coat with
its lush mink collar—an extravagance she’d once regretted.
     
    He opened the door for
her but caught her gently by the arm as she started out.
     
    “I’m glad the first
time was with me,” he said in a strange, low tone.
     
    Her face went beet red.
She couldn’t seem to meet his eyes as they walked together to the elevator.
     
     
     
    He took her to a quiet
restaurant downtown, with white linen tablecloths and white candles on the
tables, and a live string quartet playing chamber music. It was cozy, and
intimate, and the food was exquisite. But she hardly tasted it. Her mind was
whirling with questions. He seemed to sense her confusion as they lingered over
a second cup of rich coffee. He set his cup down in the saucer abruptly and
leaned back in his chair, studying her with a single-minded intensity that
began to wear on her nerves.
     
    “You’re very lovely,”
he said without preamble.
     
    “Thank you,” she
replied, and lifted her empty cup to her lips to give her nervous hands
something to do.
     
    He drew an ashtray
closer and started to reach for his cigarettes when the waiter came back, and
he paused long enough to order another cup of coffee for them before he
finished the action.
     
    “Men my age get used to
a routine of sorts with women, Carla,” he said gently, blowing out a cloud of
gray smoke from his cigarette. “You disrupted mine.”
     
    “I…hadn’t thought you’d
expect that from me,” she said falteringly. “Not so soon, at least,” she added
with a wistful smile. “I thought I’d have time to…”
     
    “Don’t start that
again,” he said. “I should have known what an innocent you are. All the signs
were there, like banners. I was just too blind to see them. Anyway,” he added
with a brief smile, “there was no harm done.”
     
    “Wasn’t there?” she
asked,