Free Turn Back the Dawn by Nell Kincaid Page B

because she had been so frightened and wary. He had surprised her because in so many ways, he was unpredictable. Even tonight, as Kate had gone around the store with him, he had surprised her—at one moment acting like the consummate playboy, charming a young woman into a
    near trance, but at the next helping out an old man as if the man were the most important person in the world. And she felt easy with him—as if he wouldn't pressure her; yet, when she was ready for him, he was hers with a force that showed he had held himself back with all his might.
    But as she looked at him, with a tug of fear and sadness she realized there were many, many things she didn't know about him. Could she love him? And was he ready for love? He wanted her; but was he ready for all that went along with the fulfillment of that desire?
    She shuddered involuntarily, and he pulled her closer. "Cold?" he asked, the light of affection and desire still bright in his eyes.
    She smiled and shook her head, and slung her arm around him and held him close.
    On the taxi ride to Ben's apartment on East Seventy- ninth Street, they talked quietly, sporadically, each lost in thought more than in conversation. Though there was little talk, Kate felt there was more communication, more connecting, than if they had spoken. For she knew, with the same deep certainty that told her he wanted her, that he was thinking about her. Thinking, wondering, perhaps wishing. And she wanted to keep everything just as it was, with no clouds on the horizon: just two people filled with possibilities, and questions that could be answered another time.
    The taxi stopped at an impressive-looking prewar building, with a scallop-trimmed canopy over the entranceway and hedges to its sides. A uniformed doorman came to the curb to open the taxi the moment it pulled up, and soon Kate and Ben were walking through a beautiful lobby with
    marble floors, high, chandeliered ceilings, fine antique furniture, and gilt-framed oil paintings. The atmosphere somehow didn't quite fit Kate's image of Ben; she would have expected a more casual, less obviously monied building. But then, she reminded herself, Ben was a man of many paradoxes; and though he dressed very casually, he obviously did have money.
    The apartment, one of two on the fifteenth floor, was another surprise. She had thought it would be modern and sleek like his office, perhaps with the stark emptiness that came after divorce. But it was the opposite: the foyer and living room were warm and cozy-looking, filled with antique oak and walnut furniture, old Americana, and beautiful braided rugs. Old posters and prints on the walls showed that Ben had spent much of his time antiquing, and everywhere Kate looked, there was something unusual and beautiful to look at: an old spice cabinet weathered with age, a simple painting of a village square, a rocker burnished golden from use.
    She followed Ben into the living room and sat down on a fluff-filled couch that felt like a cloud. "This is so comfortable!" she said. "Where is it from?"
    He smiled. "I had it specially made. My interest in antiques ends where the discomfort begins, and one day I thought, hell, I work hard enough, I can damn well come home and sink into something great And this is the result."
    "Well, it's wonderful," she said.
    "How about a drink to go with it? Martini?"
    "Great. How long have you lived here, by the way?" she isked as Ben went over to the small bar across the room.
    "Oh, let's see. Fourteen years, I guess. We bought it when Eliza was two and Christopher was one."
    "It's a coop?"
    "Yes. And at the time it was way beyond our means. But I knew that we could manage—we would have to manage—if I made that kind of financial commitment, and we did. I wanted the kids to grow up in a nice neighborhood, and in a safe building." He smiled. "And for a time, they did."
    He came back to the couch carrying a tray with two glasses and a pitcher, and he sat down. "Well. To us,"