Against All Odds

* * *

Melissa watched Adam walk toward her, a gazelle in slow motion, and resisted the urge to smile. He must collect women the way squirrels gather nuts, she mused. She told herself not to be captivated by his dark good looks, his blatant masculinity, but she sucked in her breath as he neared her and wished that she’d taken off her distance glasses at the beginning of intermission.

She couldn’t hide her surprise at seeing him there alone. What had happened to the New York City women that such a man as Adam Roundtree attended concerts by himself? She decided not to comment on it, not to rile him, since he seemed more relaxed, less formal than previously, though she sensed a tightness about him. Her heart lurched in her chest as his slow, captivating smile spread over his handsome ebony face. She wasn’t a shy person, but she had to break eye contact with him in order to control her reaction. When her glance found him again, he had nearly reached her, and she had to steel herself against the impact of his nearness. What was wrong with her?

Adam held out his hand to her, and she took it, but they didn’t shake—though that was what he seemed to have intended. Instead he held her hand, and they looked at each other. His gaze burned her until her nervous fingers reached for the top button of her blouse. What is it about him? she asked herself. He spoke first.

“The auditorium is barely half full. Why don’t we sit together for the remainder of the concert?” She didn’t want to sit with him, and she didn’t want him holding her hand. Tremors ploughed through her when he touched her. She eased her fingers from his—feeling as though he’d just branded her—opened her mouth to refuse, and had half turned from him when another familiar voice caught her attention. Gilbert Lewis sauntered toward them.

“Yo, Melissa. I saw you sitting by yourself. I’m going for a drink, mind if I join you?” The man glanced up at Adam. “Or are you busy?” She wondered if he would have suggested it had she been alone.

“Excuse me, Gilbert. I’m with Mr. Roundtree.” She watched Gilbert Lewis walk away and thought how long she’d waited for that small measure of revenge. Small, but priceless. If a man saw a woman with Adam Roundtree, he knew he didn’t have an iota of a chance. The lights blinked, signaling the end of intermission, and Adam touched her elbow to guide her to their seats. She stepped away, but he trapped her.

“Have a good look at me, Melissa, so that you won’t try this trick with me again. I’m not accustomed to being used, Melissa, because nobody dares it. If you didn’t want that man’s company, you could have told him so. You said you’re with me—and lady—you are with me. Let’s get our seats before the music begins.” He walked them to their seats. Chastened, she explained.

“Adam, if you knew how much that scene meant to me, you wouldn’t grumble.”

His tone softened. “Are you going to tell me?”

She laughed. “You’re a hard man, aren’t you? Not an inch do you give.”

His shrug didn’t fool her that time, because his eyes denied the motion. “If it suits you to think that, I wouldn’t consider disabusing you of the idea.” At least he smiled, she noted with satisfaction. They took their seats, and she turned to him as the curtain opened. “You realize, of course, that if I didn’t want to sit with you, I’d be over there somewhere, don’t you?” She nodded toward some empty seats across the aisle. He patted her hand, and his words surprised her.

“I should think so. If you were the type to allow yourself to be steamrollered, you’d be less interesting.”

They stepped out of the great stone building, J. Pierpont Morgan’s grand gift to the city, and into the sweltering night. Several men removed their jackets, but not Adam. Her glance shifted to him, cool and apparently unaffected. She wondered how he did it. She had the impression that he didn’t allow anything, including the weather, to interfere with his adherence to the standards he’d set for himself.

The swaying trees along the edge of Central Park provided a welcomed, if warm, breeze as they walked down Fifth Avenue, but as though they had slipped into private worlds, neither spoke until they reached the corner and waited for the light to change.

“It’s early yet,” Adam observed. “Let’s stop somewhere for a drink.” If he hadn’t been staring down at her, she reasoned, saying no would have been easier. But a smile played around his lips almost as if he harbored a delicious secret—she didn’t doubt that he did—and the twinkle in his eyes dared her to be reckless.

She voiced a thought that tempered her momentary foolhardiness. “Adam, if anybody in Beaver Ridge or Frederick saw us walking together, they’d be certain the world was coming to an end.”

“Why?” he asked, taking her arm as they crossed the street, “we’re not holding hands.” She was grateful that he wasn’t looking at her and couldn’t see her embarrassment, but she needn’t have worried, she realized, because his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Melissa, why did you agree to find a manager for me if you knew who I was?”

“What happened between our grandfathers was unfortunate, Adam, and it is one legacy that I don’t intend to pass on to my children. I’ve never been able to hate anyone, and I’m glad, because hatred is as crippling as any disease. Believe me—I’ve seen enough of it. Anyway, why shouldn’t I have taken your business?” she hedged, unwilling to lie. His large retainer had been her salvation. “I operate a service that you needed and for which you were willing to pay.” She looked up at him and added, “It’s tempting to walk through the park, but that wouldn’t be safe even with you. How much over six feet are you, Adam?”

“Four inches. How much under it are you?”

“Four inches.”

He stopped walking and looked down at her. “How much under thirty are you?”

“Two years.” Her lips curled into a smile. “How much over it are you?”

“Four years.” He grasped her hand and threaded her fingers with his own.

Each time she was with him, he exposed a little more of himself, she realized. His wry wit and unexpected teasing appealed to her—she liked him a lot. Pure feminine satisfaction enveloped her. Here was a man who was strong and self-reliant, sure of himself, who didn’t need to blame others for his failures, if he had any. She shook her head as though to clear it. Adam Roundtree could easily become an addiction. And she knew that part of his appeal was his contrast with her father. Adam was direct, fair, but her father tended to be manipulative, at least with her. Adam was a defender, but for all his accomplishments, Rafer Grant was a user.

“Where are we going for this drink? We’re walking toward my place, but we could go over to Madison and find a café or bar. There’s no reason to go further out of your way.”

“Stop worrying, Melissa. I recognize your status as my equal—well, almost.” A glance up at him told her that the twinkle carried humor. “We are walking my way. I live on Broadway just across from Lincoln Center.” When she showed surprise, he slowed his steps.

“Where do you live, Melissa?”

She laughed. “Four blocks from you, in Lincoln Towers.”

They took the bus across Central Park, stopped at a coffeehouse on Broadway, and idled away three-quarters of an hour.

“How long have you lived away from home?” he asked between sips of espresso.

“Since I left for college. A little over ten years.”

“Do you miss it?”

She thought for minute. “No. I guess not. Our home life was less than ideal.” Hot little needles shimmied through her veins when his hand reached across the tiny table and clasped hers, reassuring her. She knew right then that he’d protect her if she let him.

“I’m sorry.” His words were soft. Soothing. She wouldn’t have thought him capable of such gentleness. “That must have been difficult for you,” he added.

“Oh, it wasn’t all bad. From time to time, I got lovely surprises that brightened my life.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s see. The occasional rose that I’d find on my dresser. The little crystal bowl of lavender potpourri that would appear in my bathroom. Books of poetry under my pillow. I remember I was so happy to find ‘The Song of Hiawatha’ there that I read it and cried with joy half the night.”

His strong fingers squeezed hers in a gentle caress. “Who was this silent angel?”

“My mother.”

His perplexed expression didn’t surprise her, but she was glad that he didn’t question her further. He looked at her for a moment, then shook his head as though dismayed. “Ready to go?”

She nodded. As they left, he took her hand, intensifying her wariness of him and of what she sensed growing between them.

“Walk you home?” he asked her. She wanted to prolong the time with him but thought of the consequences and tried to extricate her fingers from his, but he held on and then squeezed affectionately. Warmth flowed through her, a warmth that strengthened her, invigorated her, and enhanced her sense of self. She noticed couples, young and old, among the late evening strollers, some of whom were obviously lovers, enraptured, in their own world. Some seemed to argue, to be ill at ease in their relationship. Others appeared to have been together so long that complacency best described them, but they all held hands. Like small children clutching their security blankets, she mused. When they reached the building in which she lived, Adam assumed a casual air and looked down at her, silently awaiting a signal for his next move. What a cautious man, she thought as she prepared to head off any gesture of intimacy on his part. Though wary of the guaranteed effect of his touch, she extended her hand.

“It’s been nice, Adam. Since we’ve just had coffee, I won’t invite you for more. Maybe we’ll meet again.”

His displeasure wasn’t concealed by the dancing light in his eyes, she noted. “Are you always so cut and dried?” When I’m nervous, yes, she thought. Without waiting for her answer, he went on. “Your tendency to dismiss people could be taken as rudeness. Why are you so concerned with protecting yourself? Trust me, Melissa. I can read a woman the way fortune-tellers read tea leaves. You’d like this evening to continue, but you’ve convinced yourself that it wouldn’t be in your best interest, and you have the fortitude necessary to terminate it right now. I like that.”

He grinned. She hadn’t seen him do that before, and she couldn’t decide what to make of it. Why didn’t he leave? She didn’t want to stand there with heat sizzling between them. Tension gripped the back of her neck, and her hair seemed to crackle with electricity when he took a step closer. She moved, signaling her withdrawal from him, and he pinned her with the look of a man who knows every move and what it symbolizes. His brazen gaze told her that her reprieve was temporary, that he knew she was susceptible to him, and that he could easily get her cooperation in knowing him more intimately. Her blood raced when his right hand dusted her cheek just before he nodded and walked away.

* * *

Melissa closed her apartment door, leaned against it, and sighed with relief. Adam Roundtree was quintessential male. An alluring magnet. But she wasn’t fool enough to ruin her life—at least she hoped not. But the uneasy feeling persisted that Adam Roundtree got whatever he wanted, and that her best chance of escaping him was if he didn’t want her. Just the thought of belonging to a man like him was drugging, a narcotic to her libido. With his height, fat-scarce muscular build and handsome dark face, and those long-lashed bedroom eyes with their brown hazel-rimmed irises, he was a charismatic knockout. Add to that his commanding presence and... A long breath escaped her. She recalled his squared, stubborn chin and the personality that it suggested and concluded that if he softened up and stayed that way, he would be a trial for any woman. She heard the telephone as she entered her apartment, and excitement boiled up in her at the thought that Adam could be calling her from the lobby.

Her hello brought both a surprise and a disappointment. “I thought we agreed that you wouldn’t call me again, Gilbert.”

“You suggested it,” he said, “but I didn’t agree.” At one time she couldn’t have imagined that this man’s voice would fail to thrill her or that her blood wouldn’t churn at the least evidence of his interest.

“You don’t say.” His weary sigh was audible. Women didn’t dangle Gilbert Lewis, and she found his impatience with her disinterest amusing.

“Well, if you didn’t agree, what’s your explanation for this long hiatus? Do you think I’ve been twiddling my thumbs waiting to hear from you?” She didn’t approve of toying with a person’s feelings, but where Gilbert was concerned, she didn’t have a sense of guilt—if he had feelings, he hadn’t made that fact known to her. She grinned at his reply.

“Honey, you don’t know how many times I’ve tried to reach you, but you’re never home. Let’s get together. I’m giving a black tie party next Saturday, and I want you to come. And bring Roundtree.” The latter was posed as an afterthought, but she knew it was the reason for his call. Ever the opportunist, Gilbert Lewis had called because he wanted to meet Adam Roundtree. He had no more interest in her that she had in him.

“And if Adam has other plans, may I come alone or bring someone else?” She had evidently surprised him, and his sputters delighted her, because she’d never known him to be speechless.

“Well,” he stammered. “I’ve always wanted to meet the guy. See if you can get him to come.” She imagined that her laughter angered him, but he was too proud to show it. When she could stop laughing, she answered him.

“Gilbert, you couldn’t have been this transparent four years ago. If you were, there must have been more Maryland hayseed in my hair than I thought. Be a good boy, and stick to your kind of woman. I’m not one of them.” She hung up feeling cleansed. What a difference! Her thoughts went to Adam. That man would never expose himself to ridicule or scorn.

Minutes after he left her, Adam sat at a small table in the Lincoln Center plaza drinking Pernod, absently watching the lighted waters spray upward in the famous fountain. Across the way, the brilliant Chagall murals begged for his attention, offering an alternative to his musings about Melissa Grant, but he could think only of her. His strong physical reaction to her mystified him. He sipped the last of his drink, paid for it, and walked across the street to his high-rise building.

“This has to stop,” he muttered to himself. He’d never mixed business with pleasure, but when they’d reached her apartment building, he had wanted more than the coffee she refused to offer or a simple kiss—he’d wanted her. She would never know how badly. Sound sleep eluded him that night. Another new experience. Like a flickering prism, Melissa danced in and out of his dreams. Awakening him. Deserting him. And waking him up again.

* * *

Adam walked into his adjoining conference room promptly at eight o’clock to find coffee and, as he expected, his senior staff waiting for him. Their normal business completed, he detained them

“Where might an abusive man look for a woman who’d defied him and escaped his brutality?” he asked the group. Anywhere but a small town was the consensus. He returned to his office and began redrafting plans for a women’s center in Hagerstown, Maryland, an unlikely place for one. His secretary walked into his office.

“Are you planning to open another one?” He nodded, explaining that “this is more complicated and more ambitious than our place in Frederick.”

Her gaze roamed over him, with motherly pride, it seemed. “If you need help with this, I’ll work overtime at no cost to you. It’s a wonderful thing you do for these poor women, supporting these projects from your private funds.”

He leaned back in his big leather chair. “I can afford to pay you, Olivia, and I will. You do enough for charity.”

“Pshaw,” she demurred. “What I do is nothing compared to the help you give people. These homes for abused women, that hospital ward for seriously ill children, and the Lord knows what else. God is going to bless you—see if He doesn’t.”

He shook his head, rejecting the compliment. “I’m fortunate. It’s better to be in a position to give than to be on the dole.” Abruptly he changed the topic. “Olivia, what do you think of Melissa Grant? Think she’ll find me a manager for Leather and Hides?”

“Yes. She seemed very businesslike. Real professional. Anyhow, I trust your judgment in hiring her. When it comes to people, you don’t often make mistakes.”

Adam slapped his closed left fist into the palm of his right hand. Not in the last fifteen years, he hadn’t, but the thought pestered him that where Melissa was concerned he was ripe for a blunder of the first order.

Melissa. He had the sense that he’d been with her before. She reminded him of a woman he’d danced with in costume one New Year’s Eve. He’d been dancing with the woman, but at exactly midnight she’d disappeared, leaving an indelible impression. As farfetched as it seemed, whenever Melissa spoke in very soft tones, he thought of that unknown woman. Perhaps he’d wanted the woman because she was mysterious. His blood still raced when he thought of her. Warm. Soft. He’d like to see her at least once more. Yet he wanted Melissa. He rubbed the back of his neck. His elusive woman was at least two, maybe three, inches shorter than Melissa, but he couldn’t dismiss the similarity in allure.

He picked up the business section of The Maryland Journal and noted that the price of sweet crude oil had increased more rapidly than the cost of living index. His folks were no longer in the natural gas business and had sold their property in Kentucky, so fuel prices didn’t concern him, but every day his family had to combat the scandal brought on by Moses Morris’s unfair accusation of seventy years earlier. Anger toward the Grants and Morrises surged in him as he reflected on how their maltreatment had shortened his grandfather’s life and embittered his mother. His passion for Melissa cooled, and he strengthened his resolve to stay away from her.

He dictated a letter pressuring Melissa to find the manager at once, though the contract specified one month. He rationalized that he wasn’t being unfair, that he was in a bind and she should understand.

Several hours later Adam told himself that he would not behave dishonorably toward Melissa or anyone else, that he should have investigated MTG and identified its president. He tore up the letter and pressed the intercom.

“Olivia, get Jason for me, please.” Melissa hadn’t been in touch with Jason, and that riled him. He paced the floor of his office as he tried to think of a justifiable reason to telephone her. Finally, he gave up the idea, left his office and went to the gym, reasoning that exercise should clear his head. But after a half hour, having conceded defeat, he stopped as he passed a phone on his way out and dialed her number.

Adam held his breath while the phone rang. She’s in my blood, he acknowledged and wondered what he’d do about it.

“Melissa Grant speaking.”

“Have dinner with me tonight. I want to see you.”

* * *

She had dressed when he arrived at her apartment. He liked that, but he noticed her wariness about his entering her home. He didn’t put her at ease—if she didn’t want to be involved with him, she had reason to be cautious, just as he had. It surprised him that she didn’t question why he’d asked her to dinner, and he didn’t tell her, reasoning that she was a smart woman and old enough to divine a man’s motives. He’d selected a Cajun restaurant in Tribeca, and it pleased him that she liked his choice.

“I love Cajun food. Don’t you think it’s similar to soul food?”

He thought about that for a bit. “The ingredients, yes, but Cajun’s a lot spicier. A steady diet of blackened fish, whether red or cat, would eat a hole in your stomach. Reminds me of my first trip to Mexico. I’d alternate a mouthful of food with half a glass of water. I don’t want that experience again. Come to think of it, that’s what prompted me to learn to cook.”

“You cook?”

He knew she wouldn’t have believed it of him, and neither would any of his staff or business associates. “Of course I cook, Melissa. Why should that surprise you? I eat, don’t I?”

“Aren’t you surprised that we get on as well as we do?” she asked him. “Considering our backgrounds, I’d have thought it impossible.”

He let the remark pass rather than risk putting a damper on a pleasant evening. Later they walked up Seventh Avenue to the Village Vanguard, but neither liked the avant-garde jazz offering that night, and they walked on.

Adam took her arm. “Let’s go over to Sixth Avenue and Eighteenth or so. The Greenwich Village Singers are performing at a church over there, and we may be able to catch the last half of the program. Want to try?” She agreed, and at the end of the concert, Handel’s Judas Maccabeus, he walked with her to the front of the church to shake hands with two acquaintances who sang with the group. While he spoke with a man, his arm went around her shoulder, automatically, as if it belonged there, and she moved closer to him. He glanced down at her and nodded, letting her know that he’d noticed and that he acknowledged her move as natural, but he immediately reprimanded himself. He’d better watch that—he’d been telling the man with whom he spoke that Melissa wasn’t available, and he had no right to do it.

“That was powerful singing,” he remarked, holding her arm as they started toward the front door. She nodded in agreement.

“That mezzo had me spellbound.” He tugged her closer.

“Would you have enjoyed it as much if you hadn’t been with me?” She looked up at him just before a quip bounced off of her tongue. She’d never seen a more serious face, but she had to pretend that he was teasing her.

“I doubt it,” she joked, “you’re heady stuff.”

“Be careful,” he warned her, still serious. “I’m a man who demands evidence of everything. If I’m heady stuff, you’re one hell of an actress.” His remark stunned her, but she recovered quickly.

“Oh, I’ve been in a drama or two. Back in grade school, it’s true, but I was good.” Laughter rumbled in his throat, and he stroked her fingers and told her, “You’re one classy lady.”

* * *

Melissa looked around her as they continued walking down the aisle of the large church toward the massive baroque front door and marveled that every ethnic group and subgroup seemed to be represented there. She stopped walking to get Adam’s full attention. “Why is it,” she asked him, “that races and nationalities can sing together, play football, basketball, tennis and whatever together, go to school and church together, but as a group, they can’t get along? And they make love together—what’s more intimate than that? You’d think if they can do that, they can do anything together.”

“But that’s behind closed doors,” he explained. “Two people can resolve most anything if there’s nobody around but them, nobody to judge them or to influence them. Take us, for instance. Once our folks get wind of our spending time together, you’ll see how easily a third person can put a monkey wrench in a relationship.”

* * *

Melissa quickened her steps to match those of the man beside her. He must have noticed it, because he slowed his walk. Warmth and contentment suffused her, and when he folded her hand in his, she couldn’t make herself remove it. Was the peace that seemed to envelop her the quiet before a storm? She couldn’t remember ever having felt so carefree or so comfortable with anyone. Adam was honorable, she knew it deep down. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t leave her to cope alone with the problems that they both knew loomed ahead if they continued to see each other.

As if he’d read her thoughts, he asked her, “Would your family be angry with you if they knew we spent time together?”

Looking into the distance, she nodded. “I’d say that’s incontestable. Furor would be a better description of my father’s reaction.” She tried to lift her sagging spirits—only moments earlier they had soared with the pleasure of just being with him. He released her hand to hail a speeding taxi, and didn’t take it again. She sat against the door on her side of the cab.