A Memorable Man

“You felt drawn,” she murmured into the quiet space left by his voice trailing off.

“Yes.” Adam cringed inwardly at the detectable strain in his voice.

“Yes.” The understanding in her eyes reflected her solemn tone. “I know.”

“How do you know?” he demanded, the strain in his voice rough edged.

“I’ve felt it, that compelling draw,” she replied, her voice a bare whisper. “Many times.”

“I don’t understand any of this.” Gulping down the last of the wine, Adam rose and went to the drinks cabinet to withdraw another small bottle. “Are you ready for another?” he asked, in a near snarl.

“No.” Sunny shook her head, setting her hair rippling against her shoulders and back.

Adam shuddered in response to the sight of the long, swirling strands, the gold highlights glinting in the glow from the table lamps. His hands ached to bury themselves in the silken mass. In reflex, his fingers clenched around the delicate stem of the wineglass.

“You’re angry,” she murmured, staring pointedly at his white-knuckled grip.

And aroused, he replied in silent frustration, glaring at the offending digits. When had he ever responded to a woman—any woman—like this? Never. Adam knew full well that he had never before in his life, not even as a young and admittedly horny man reacted so strongly to a woman.

“Adam.”

“What?” Startled by the harsh sound of his own voice, he sliced a quick, hard look at her.

“Come sit down, please.” She drew a slow breath, then went on, “I have a story... several stories, to tell you.”

Recalling the tales of Scheherazade, Adam smiled, wryly, took a fortifying swallow of his wine, and returned to settle again on the opposite corner of the settee.

“About what?” He raised his brows in a deliberate arch of skepticism.

“Seasons past,” she answered, her beautiful, revealing eyes filled with gut-wrenching sadness.

Shifting mental gears away from the tales of Scheherazade, Adam suddenly recalled another tale and the visit of Dickens’s fictional ghost to Scrooge. Smiling in an attempt to ease the tension in the muscles banding his stomach, he repeated the miser’s response to the specter.

“Long past?”

Sunny’s return smile was soft, melancholic.

“Our past.”

Adam had reached the point of explosion. Leaping to his feet and nearly spilling the wine in the process, he took the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. Bending down, he brought his face to within inches of hers.

“Dammit, woman,” he erupted. “We have no past. I never laid eyes on you before this afternoon.” Even as he made the claim, Adam felt a twinge of conscience, recollecting the shock of recognition he’d experienced earlier as she had come abreast of him in the street.

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