Table of Contents

Cover Page

Excerpt

About the Atuhor

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

“Thank you for dinner. I enjoyed it!”

“I enjoyed it, too.” Bryant’s blue eyes looked into hers and it was suddenly hard to breathe. They mesmerized her, drawing her nearer. Zoe felt his arms surround her and then his mouth was on hers-warm and urgent.

A soft moan escaped her as finally, reluctantly, he released her mouth. “I think,” Bryant said slowly, “something is going on between us.”

Ever since KAREN VAN DER ZEE was a child growing up in Holland she wanted to do two things: write books and travel. She’s been very lucky. Her American husband’s work as a development economist has taken them to many exotic locations. They were married in Kenya, had their first daughter in Ghana and their second in the United States. They spent two fascinating years in Indonesia. Since then they’ve added a son to the family, as well. They’ve recently moved from Israel back to Ghana-but not permanently!

Fire and Spice
Karen Van Der Zee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

ZOE restlessly straightened the papers on her desk, then glanced at her watch. He would be here soon. She took a deep breath, letting her eyes slide over the information in the open file folder in front of her, information she could recite word for word. Well, almost. She fussed with her hair and moistened her lips. She was not nervous. Of course she was not nervous. This was a routine conference between school counselor and the parent of a student. She did it all the time. She was fully prepared, fully confident. Her hair this morning was cooperating, curling nicely rather than too exuberantly as it sometimes did. Her career suit was feminine yet professional. Looking in the mirror these days she still had a hard time recognizing herself.

According to the file, Mr Bryant Sinclair was a single parent, father of twelve-year-old Paul. No mention was made of a mother. He had a high position in a multinational corporation and had recently relocated from Argentina to Washington D.C. He had relocated straight into the first-floor apartment of the old historic town house where Zoe herself had recently moved in as well, on the second floor. This summer she had returned to Washington from Africa, where she’d lived for the past six years—two in Tanzania, one in Mauritania, three in Cameroon.

Mr Sinclair was a good-looking man, tall with big shoulders and piercing blue eyes in a tanned face. He had thick blond hair and an uncompromisingly square chin and there was an aura of self-confidence and command about him. Not the kind of man who skipped your attention.

They’d met in passing, at the front door. They’d introduced themselves as polite people who shared a building did. He’d looked at her with a smile and she’d felt her heart turn over-not once, but twice at least. Instant combustion. There’d been no reason for it except something like love at first sight, or chemistry, or some lovely fantasy like that. Something very elemental, something outside of reason or logic, had happened.

And this whatever-it-was thing that had transpired between them was, of course, why she was sitting here at her desk in her small office at the Olympia International School with her heart in her throat waiting for him to come through the door.

It was not a positive situation she was going to have to discuss with him, which was very unfortunate. Mr Sinclair’s son was flunking in a big way. Four weeks into the school year and he had collected an impressive string of zeros in every teacher’s grade book. Zeros for not doing his work and not handing in assignments. Zoe sighed. Her unhappy task was to inform Mr Sinclair that there was a problem with his one and only son. Parents didn’t like to hear that sort of thing. She didn’t like much having to tell him.

At eight o’clock sharp he appeared in her open door, tall and imposing. Intense blue eyes settled on her face. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice deep and very masculine. It was a wonderful voice, the kind that stroked all your nerve-endings and made your blood sing.

Words stuck in her throat momentarily as she took in the immaculate business suit, the pale blue shirt, the fashionable tie. The man knew how to dress. The man knew how to carry himself. The man knew how to look at a woman.

Having swallowed repeatedly, Zoe was able to return the greeting and ask him to come in. She stood up from her chair and held out her hand. His grasp was hard and warm and sent an electric shiver through her. A faint masculine scent of soap and aftershave reached her nostrils. It was eight in the morning and he was straight out of the shower, no doubt. Am image of the naked man with water pouring all over his tanned, muscled body flitted through her mind. Good lord, what was the matter with her? She didn’t generally picture fully clothed man in front of her standing naked in the shower.

He released her hand and sat down, pulling up his trouser legs a little as he did so. His black shoes gleamed impressively. She’d seen other men in expensive clothes and shiny shoes in her office the last few weeks. Nothing had happened to her heartbeat. Nothing had curled around in her blood. Nothing had shivered up her spine. No disturbing images had come to mind. In short, these men had not disturbed her one bit. This one did. In a big way.

There was something intriguing about this man, something that didn’t quite make sense. Why did a man like Mr Sinclair move into a simple, rented apartment? It was a nice apartment, to be true, located in a nice historic neighborhood, yet a man of his professional background would own a house or a luxury condominium. She’d noticed expensive cars in front of their building, emitting people who looked as if their clothes had come straight from Paris or Rome.

‘I understand you wanted to discuss Paul’s school performance,’ he stated, observing her calmly.

Zoe folded her arms on the desk. ‘Yes.’ She took a deep breath. Suddenly it was difficult to focus on the issue at hand.

She’d had a chance to meet Paul and speak to him before school started, out in front of the house. He was a handsome boy, a little small for his age, with curly brown hair and blue-gray eyes that lacked the bright intensity of his father’s, but instead held a touching vulnerability. For no particular reason she had felt drawn to him. When they’d first met, he’d been friendly and open with her, but once in school he’d clammed up when she’d talked to him.

‘Your son is a likeable boy, Mr Sinclair, and obviously very intelligent.’ To her relief, her voice sounded calm and professional.

He gave a half-smile. ‘I know that.’

She glanced down at the file. ‘I understand that you lived in Buenos Aires the past five years and that your son attended the international school there.’

He inclined his head fractionally. ‘Correct.’

‘I suppose he finds living in the States quite a change,’ she said carefully. The school was full of children from many nations who had moved around from one country to another-children of parents employed by the United States government, foreign embassies and international agencies and companies. Students often had to make great adjustments.

‘Yes.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Is there a problem, Ms Langdon?’ His tone indicated that he wanted to make short of the preliminaries.

‘As a matter of fact, yes, there is.’ She looked straight at him, noticing with some separate part of her brain the strong line of his jaw, the straight nose, the well-chiseled mouth. ‘To come straight to the point, Mr Sinclair, his interim report shows failing grades for all academic subjects. The report was sent home with Paul for your signature this week.’

‘I didn’t see it.’

She was not surprised. Paul had probably found it prudent not to show it to his father. Zoe handed him a copy from her file. He glanced at it and frowned. ‘Are you sure this is correct?’

‘Yes, I am. I’ve spoken to all his teachers. Paul’s academic record suggests this is a very unusual situation. He is intelligent and has no learning disability and his grades in the past have been excellent.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. So what is the problem?’

‘Your son does not hand in most of his homework assignments and does not study or read as instructed. I have talked to him and he seems not at all interested in putting forth any effort.’

A short silence followed her words. ‘I think they call this rebellion,’ he said then, his voice even.

‘I think it’s more than that. Frankly, Mr Sinclair, I am concerned about him.’

His brows arched. ‘Concerned? What exactly do you mean?’

He shows signs of being depressed, she wanted to say, but thought better of it. ‘I’ve spoken to him on a couple of occasions and he seems withdrawn and uncommunicative. According to the comments of the teachers from his school in Argentina this is not his nature. Obviously something is bothering him. Something is not right’

His blue eyes held hers. ‘I think you’re over-reacting,’ he said lightly. ‘He’s been in school a mere four weeks.

Isn’t that a little soon to come to a diagnosis?’

Why did she feel defensive? ‘I’ve not given a diagnosis. I simply stated that I think there’s a problem. The sooner we identify a problem, the easier it is to deal with it.’ She didn’t like his casual attitude. She didn’t like the tone of his voice.

He tapped his fingers on the chair’s arm-rest ‘We’ve only just returned to the States, Ms Langdon. He needs time to adjust to a new environment. He’s only been in school a few weeks.’

‘Yes, of course.’ There was no doubting the truth of that statement, yet she sensed quite clearly that there was more to it than an adjustment problem. It bothered her that the man seemed so unconcerned. ‘Has he said anything about school?’

‘Nothing except that his school in Argentina was much better and the teachers much nicer.’ His mouth curved in amusement ‘Everything else is just fine, he has me believe.’

Everything was not fine. It was not normal for a happy, active, intelligent child suddenly to turn into a withdrawn kid who didn’t do any school work and showed no enthusiasm for anything.

‘Have you spoken to your son about his school work?’ ‘He told me he was not having problems with anything, and I assumed it was true. I’ve never had to be on his back to do his work; he was always very responsible about it.’

‘But he isn’t now.’

‘So it appears,’ he said lightly.

So it is, she corrected silently. Hadn’t he noticed? Hadn’t he paid any attention? How could a father not notice that his son was never doing any school work?

‘He does not bring in his assignments,’ she said evenly. ‘He does not participate in class. He did not take up soccer. He’s a very good soccer player, it says in his files.’

‘Right. I expect he’ll come around when he realizes he’s only punishing himself. He’s a proud kid and my bet is that he’s not going to like the looks of those bad grades for very long. He’ll get himself together, study ferociously and get all caught up.’

‘Would you mind if I asked you a few more questions?’

He glanced at his watch. ‘I don’t have much time.’

Anger rushed to her head. This is about your son! she wanted to say. You have to have time!

She knew other parents, parents who had no time for their children, or had no interest in their lives. She would notice this with a sort of clinical detachment, feeling sorry for the child, disapprove of the parents, but that was where it stopped. As a professional her duty was to help if she could, but it was not good to get too emotionally involved with these situations. The anger she was feeling now was not very professional. She looked back down at her hands folded on the desk and collected herself. She felt her heart race. ‘Is there any problem at home that might cause him to feel unhappy?’

His silence was intentional. ‘No, there is no problem at home, Ms Langdon.’ In spite of his casual tone, she sensed a distinct chill in him. Stay out of my business, the subtle message was.

Nerves began to jump inside her, but she refused to let it show. ‘Did Paul want to come back to the States?’

He shrugged. ‘There was no choice.’

It was not an answer to her question. ‘Choice or no choice, did he want to leave Argentina?’

‘No. I thing that’s why he’s rebelling now. I don’t expect it to last long. He’ll settle in soon enough. He’ll make friends.’

She nodded, hoping he would be right, fearing he was not.

He came to his feet. ‘With all due respect, Ms Langdon, please do not make too much of this. A month is not very long.’ He smiled. ‘I don’t believe it’s time for panic and in-depth psychoanalysis just yet.’ The tone of his voice was polite, but held a faint imperious note. It infuriated her. Obviously, talking with him any further would not be productive. He had pressing matters at the office. What was the matter with this man? Why wasn’t he worried? Still, it would not do to antagonize him. What she needed was cooperation.

She stood up as well. ‘Let’s hope things will turn out all right,’ she said lightly, proud of her own cool control. ‘Please give me a call if there’s anything I can help with, Mr Sinclair.’ He probably wouldn’t, but the offer was automatic. ‘That’s what I’m here for.’

‘Thank you.’ He looked straight at her and suddenly, amazingly, he smiled broadly and humor sparked in his eyes. ‘Perhaps we can dispense with the formalities. We are neighbors, after all. Call me Bryant.’

Was this a peace offering? Well, what could she say? No, thank you, I’d rather call you Mr?

She nodded politely. ‘Thank you, and I’m Zoe.’

He gave a little nod, his eyes a brilliant blue as they held hers. ‘See you, Zoe.’

She closed the door behind his broad back and sat down again in her chair behind the desk, letting out a deep sigh.

She didn’t like this man. She didn’t like his casual attitude, the faint arrogance in his voice. She didn’t like those blue eyes.

She didn’t like the way he smiled at her.

Yes, she did.

She groaned and dropped her head on the desk.

CHAPTER TWO

ALL through the day Zoe kept thinking of Bryant Sinclair, seeing his blue eyes, aware of the warm feeling curling around in her stomach. Yet other, conflicting thoughts fought for attention-a father denying there might be a problem with his son, a father obviously not wanting to take it seriously and discuss it. She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

It was not going to be easy. Yet she was determined to try to help Paul. It was her job. And there was something about the boy, the vulnerable look in his eyes, that touched her.

She had lunch with a couple of teachers and the bubbly school secretary, who was a consummate gossip. Ann had her very own plug into the Washington grapevine.

Ann had noticed Bryant leave Zoe’s office that morning. She knew his address and she knew who he was and she was eager to tell all. Bryant Sinclair came from a wealthy family who owned the international corporation for which he worked, according to the school files. He’d headed up large projects in various places around the world, most recently in Argentina. Some business magazine-Ann couldn’t remember which-had done an article on Bryant and the projects he’d managed. He had been married once, years ago, but what had happened to his wife nobody knew.

Various possibilities were offered. Zoe listened and said nothing, chewing her sandwich.

The other puzzle discussed was the reason why a man like Bryant Sinclair would live in a rented apartment, be it a nice one. And wasn’t it Zoe’s good fortune to live in the same building? Imagine the possibilities!

‘Have you been inside his place?’ Ann asked Zoe, her eyes wide and eager.

Zoe said no and asked if anyone wanted more coffee. She was not comfortable discussing Bryant Sinclair, although, if she were honest with herself, she’d have to admit to being curious like crazy.

By the time she locked her office at four, she was more then ready to go home. It was a long but pleasant walk back to her apartment and the air was still full of late summer warmth. Chrysanthemums bloomed in a glowing array of warm autumn colors in the small city gardens and in pots arranged along stone steps. She hadn’t been home during the fall for years and she’d forgotten how beautiful they were.

She had not yet purchased a car and so far she had managed without one, walking and using the Metro or taxis for longer distances. Maybe she could wait till spring, when it would be nice to be able to get out into the countryside.

She stopped at the bakery and bought some dark, crusty bread. A young woman with a new-born baby in her arms was looking longingly at the apple strudel. Zoe peered into the tiny, sleeping face, feeling overwhelmed with sudden longing. She wanted a baby, to hold close and to love. She wanted a man, to hold close and to love. Preferably first the man, then the baby, she thought wryly as she moved on down the street hugging her purchases to her chest. She was twenty-nine. It was perfectly normal to want these things. She intended to be a great wife and a super-cool mom. She grinned at herself. A lot easier said than done, but she was ready for the challenge. Sometimes she felt as if she would burst with the need to give her love—as if she carried inside her a large supply that would overflow if she didn’t dispense it.

You are nuts, she told herself, and put thoughts of loving and bursting out of her mind.

Reaching the town house, she skipped up the stone steps to the front door and opened it. Inside the entryway she checked her mail. There was a letter from Nick, which gave her a jolt of pleasure, and she rushed up the stairs to her apartment, eager to read it. She made a pot of tea, changed out of her suit into jeans and a T-shirt, and plunked herself on the sofa with the letter.

Nick was a science teacher at the boarding-school in Cameroon where she had worked for three years herself. He told her of the people she knew-the couple that had married in a lavish tribal ceremony, the latest news of the students and the teachers, the herbalist who had cured the pain in his foot with a magic potion, the Spanish cultural attaché he loved.

My Spanish princess has forsaken me for another. How dare she? you may ask. Actually, I think she wanted a prince. I am not a prince; I am from New Jersey. None the less I am devastated. Loneliness creeps in every nook and cranny of my existence. Why did you have to leave, Zoe? You were my best friend. You should have been here to comfort me in my time of distress.

What am I to do? I spend my nights in isolation, unless Jacob comes by with palm wine and then we sit and discuss the cassava harvest and the mysteries of the female psyche and I drink too much and become very undignified, which I sincerely regret the next morning. Loneliness is a devastating condition, possibly terminal. I so long for your lethal chocolate-chip coconut cookies and your riveting conversation, but your house stands empty when I, ever hopeful of a miracle, pass by.

We all miss you. We miss your house and the comfort and friendship we found within its crooked walls, not to speak of the culinary delights. Your house was a haven of domesticity in this land of deprivation.

Needless to say, I ask myself daily why I am still here, turning grayer every day. Why I stay in this godforsaken dusty little African town. The reason is that I like it.

I so hope you are happy in your swishy apartment in the nation’s capital. In moments of despair I soothe myself trying to visualize it lots of plants. Lovely flowered teacups. A cozy wood fire on cold nights. The heavenly aroma of something baking in the oven.

I hope you find what you’re looking for, Zoe. I can see you already in my mind’s eye, sitting on a sofa, a handsome husband by your side, a baby on your lap with your lovely big brown eyes and warm smile. How serene an image!

Sometimes I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life here in Africa, growing little by little into a mad eccentric.

Zoe laughed out loud. Nick was an eccentric already. He was forty years old, had never been married and had lived all over the world, settling here and there for a few years to teach or do other work that seemed interesting.

And she, of course, had been heading the same direction-straight into mad eccentricity. One steamy night she’d woken in a cold sweat and seen the warning written on the ceiling: Go home! Be normal!

Zoe picked up the pretty flowered teapot and refilled her cup. Sipping at the hot, strong tea, she finished the letter. Poor Nick. All alone in a small African town.

Poor me, she thought suddenly, all alone in a big American town. She grimaced. ‘Oh, stop it,’ she muttered out loud. After all, this was what she had wantedto come back to the States, settle down and grow some roots. Growing roots. It called up images of flourishing, large-leaved plants flowering luxuriantly and spreading sweet perfume. It was a lovely vision and it made her smile.

Putting Nick’s letter on the table, she came to her feet and wandered around the small apartment. It was a lovely place with solid oak doors and hardwood floors dating back a hundred and fifty years. She stood in front of the window which had a view of a narrow, tree-lined street of other historic town houses with gabled roofs and wrought-iron railings along the front steps.

Bryant Sinclair’s silver-blue Saab was not in its parking place in front of the house, she noticed automatically, aware suddenly that she was always noticing his car-or its absence. You’re like a busybody old lady spying on her neighbors, she told herself. Don’t you have anything more productive to do?

It was too early for Bryant to be home. Mrs Garcia, the housekeeper, would be in the apartment keeping Paul company until his father came home. She wondered what the place looked like.

There’d be expensive furniture, no doubt, but she could not quite imagine what it might look like, which was not surprising-she didn’t know the man.

She had, however, a very clear picture of the man himself in her mind—the blond hair, the blue, blue eyes, that prominent chin. Just thinking of him made her pulse do funny things.

Turning away from the window, she glanced around the room and pushed the image of those blue eyes out of her head.

She’d furnished and decorated her apartment herself and she was happy with the result. Everything was perfect, everything in its place. Everything cozy and comfortable. It had taken her a lot of effort and energy to get it the way she wanted it, arranging her eclectic assortment of paintings, woven wall-hangings, wood carvings and baskets in such a way as to make it a unified whole.

This was her nest and she loved the warmth and coziness of it, the color and brightness. She was going to be happy here in her new life. Washington was an exciting city with all sorts of cultural entertainmentsplays, concerts, lectures, seminars—all those things she had missed in the last few years.

She put on a tape of cheery reggae and began preparing a salad with lettuce, avocado and goat cheese. She ate it at the small table, along with a slice of the German bread and a glass of wine. It was delicious.

It was pathetic. She was alone, eating alone. What good was all this without someone to share it with? Suddenly she longed to be back in Africa, in her shabby little house in the dusty town, eating with friends-some starchy yam and oily fish soup-anything. She longed for friends around her, conversation, laughter. She longed for the sense of community, the sharing and support.

Loneliness overwhelmed her and her salad blurred in front of her eyes, the colors swirling together in pretty shades of green and white. Angry with herself, she blinked to clear her eyes. She was not going to get maudlin and weep into her salad like some tragic heroine. This was stupid, stupid. She couldn’t allow herself to give in to these feelings. She would make friends here, build a new life. It would just take some time and effort.

The phone rang.

‘Hi, it’s me, Maxie,’ said the voice. Maxie lived in the town house next door, a large, beautiful place which she shared with her bald husband, several exotic caged birds, and a boa constrictor. She had a mass of bright red hair, a sexy voice and a body to kill for. She wore the wildest, most flamboyant clothes Zoe had ever seen.

‘Hi,’ said Zoe. When she’d moved in, on an excruciatingly hot August day, Maxie had offered lemonade, the use of her telephone, and a view of her snake. They’d talked briefly on occasion afterward. Maxie and her husband Derek owned a very exclusive international art shop and made frequent buying trips overseas.

‘We’re having our annual end-of-summer party on Saturday,’ said Maxie. ‘I’d like you to come.’

A party! People! Conversation! It was an omen. Zoe felt her spirits soar heavenward.

‘Oh, thank you! I’d love to. Can I bring something?’

‘I’m having it catered. It’s a big party, lots of people, and I don’t want to bother with the food. How have you been?’

‘I like the school and the staff, but I’m still readjusting to things American, like overloaded supermarkets with fifteen brands of everything and phones that work and semi-sane traffic.’

Maxie laughed her husky laugh. ‘You’ll find some soul mates at the party. Lots of globe-trotters and foreign types.’ ‘Sounds interesting. What do I wear?’

‘Anything you like. There’ll be people in jeans and saris and dashikis and bow-tie, so whatever.’

‘Good. When you mentioned catering I was worried I had to get something long with sequins or feathers.’

‘Oh, please, spare me!’ Maxie laughed. ‘Well, I’ll see you Saturday, then, eight.’

Zoe replaced the receiver and grinned to herself. She felt suddenly very light and not at all depressed any more. The invitation was an omen. A definite omen that exciting things were lurking around the corner. She took several dance steps back to the table to finish her salad.

Afterward she felt too restless to read or watch television. She needed something to do. She glanced around the tiny kitchen, looking for inspiration. She should bake something time-consuming and elaborate. A cake. A luscious, decadent chocolate cake with nuts. She’d take it to school tomorrow and leave it in the teachers’ lounge. It wouldn’t last long there.

She was two eggs short. Well, the corner store was still open. Grabbing her purse, she rushed out the door, down the stairs to the hall. Opening the front door, she found herself face to face with Bryant Sinclair. No, not face to face. He was quite a bit taller than she. Her heart lurched as she looked up at him, meeting his blue, blue eyes. Like a summer sky, came the sudden thought. Apparently he was just returning from work. He wore the suit he had worn that morning, a briefcase in one hand, keys dangling in the other.

‘Thank you,’ he said, giving a vague smile.

She was aware suddenly that she was gaping at him stupidly. She rearranged her face in what she hoped was a more dignified expression. ‘I was just going out for some eggs.’ Now why did she tell him that? There was no reason to explain herself.

Amusement gleamed in his eyes. ‘May your quest be successful,’ he said, ‘otherwise drop by and have some of mine. On second thought, why not just have some of mine right now and save yourself the trip?’

‘Thank you, but I need the exercise and I’m sure they have some at the corner store.’ She scooted down the steps to the brick sidewalk and heard the front door close behind her. Her heart was going crazy. What was the matter with her? The moment she saw him, her senses went wild. This was not normal, was it? After all, she didn’t even like the man.

BRYANT was watching her. It was odd-she could feel his eyes on her like a touch on her skin. Zoe sipped her wine as she slowly turned and allowed her gaze to pass casually over Bryant, pretending she didn’t notice him. He was talking to an Arab in a white flowing robe and a woman in a bunny costume. There was indeed an intriguing array of clothes. She glanced around Maxie’s crowded living-room, glimpsing a man in a dashiki, two women in saris and an assortment of exotic print shirts. The rest of the guests wore a more standard variety of party garb, including Bryant, who sported dark trousers and a blue and black print silk shirt, open at the neck.

She wore a short little party dress with off-theshoulder sleeves that she had bought in Rome when she’d visited her mother there this summer on her way back to the States. It was black and sexy, and actually she felt a bit naked in it, although the dress did not expose anything that shouldn’t be exposed in polite company. It was just that she hadn’t worn this sort of clothes for ages.

Arriving at the party a few minutes ago, she’d been surprised to see Bryant, then realized that he was Maxie’s neighbor as much as she. A moment later he was standing in front of her, apparently having shed the Arab and the bunny. ‘You look rather lost,’ he said.

She grimaced. ‘I don’t know anyone here. I suppose I should just dive in and introduce myself to someone who looks interesting and start a conversation.’

He surveyed the room. ‘Who looks interesting to you?’

‘The sheik over there, the one you were just talking to. I can just see him on a camel trotting through the desert.’

He took a sip from his drink. ‘You find that idea romantic?’

‘I said interesting, not romantic,’ she said, giving him a challenging look which he pretended not to notice.

‘I’m afraid you’re going to be disappointed,’ he said.

‘The man was born and bred in Texas. Spent several years in Saudi Arabia with an oil company, and now shows up at parties in his costume. He’s never been within ten feet of a camel and he’s a big bore.’

She sighed. ‘All right, who’s interesting?’

‘That little old lady over there,’ he said promptly.

‘The one in the orthopedic shoes.’ A smile tugged at his mouth as he looked at her.

She was being reprimanded, she knew, ever so slightly, but he had a sense of humor, which was very reassuring.

‘So what’s interesting about her?’ ‘She knows how to ride a camel.’ Zoe laughed. She couldn’t help it.

‘She works for a relief organization in the Sudan,’ he went on. ‘She’s on home leave.’

‘You’re kidding.’ Zoe looked at the woman. She was tiny, wrinkled and gray and at least in her seventies-at first glance, just an old lady. On closer inspection, it was obvious that there was nothing old and doddering about her. She emanated a vivacious spirit, laughing and gesturing with her hands as she spoke.

‘She seems rather busy now, but I’ll have to go and speak to her later,’ she said. ‘By the way, I understand you’ve also worked in Venezuela. I have a friend who just moved there. Did you like it there?’

Behind the bright blue of his eyes, dark shadows moved. Or was she imagining it?

‘Not particularly.’ His voice had cooled considerably. ‘Who told you?’

Not a good subject of conversation, obviously. Her heart fluttered nervously. ‘Nobody. It was in Paul’s file. He was born in Caracas, it said.’

He rubbed his temple with long, lean fingers, stroking at tension. Or pain. Or just out of habit. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘How’s Paul doing?’ she asked lightly. ‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Paul will be fine,’ he said, a faint note of impatience in his voice. ‘He’ll see the light one of these days.’ He took a drink from his glass, which held something amber-colored with ice cubes floating in it. Whiskey, probably.

The bunny bumped into him accidentally on purpose. ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry!’ she exclaimed and beamed up at him with a toothpaste smile. ‘Oh, I wanted to tell you that I found it fascinating what you said about the development politics in Argentina.was it Argentina?’

Zoe escaped with a sigh of relief. Saved by a rabbit, she thought, and gave a little chuckle. Well, she’d learned something about Mr Sinclair: not only did he not like talking about his son, he also didn’t like talking about Venezuela. She wondered what had happened in Venezuela. She wondered what had happened to his wife.

She mingled, smiling, talking, listening, nibbling at exotic-looking little tidbits of food, trying not to be aware of Bryant, who, with amazing speed, had managed to get rid of the bunny once more and was mingling, too. She talked for quite some time with the little old lady, who was very interesting indeed, not to speak of sharp and full of humor.

‘So, what did you think of her?’ asked Bryant later.

‘People like her give me great hope for the future,’

she said. ‘I hope I never dry up.’

‘Do you worry about that a lot?’

She laughed. ‘Actually, no.’

He put his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. ‘And what are your hopes for the future?’ he asked lightly.

‘Oh, I have a catalogue full.’ This was true enough, if not very specific. She wasn’t ready to tell him her intimate dreams. She smiled. ‘Mostly, I don’t ever want to be bored. Or boring, for that matter,’ she added.

‘You are not boring,’ he stated evenly, his blue eyes locking with hers.

She felt her heart leap a little. She mustered a bright smile. ‘Thank you, that’s a relief. I hope I can keep that up until old age.’ She tucked a stray curl behind her ear. ‘And what about your hopes for the future?’

‘I’ve not given it much thought. May I get you another glass of wine?’

His personal future seemed to be another subject he did not care to discuss. It was getting to be quite a list

‘No, thank you, I’ve had enough.’ She put her empty glass on a nearby table, trying to find something safe to say. Fortunately, there was no need. Several people joined them and took over the conversation, which gave her the opportunity to listen and watch.

Watching Bryant’s face and listening to his voice made her feel very much alive, a light, effervescent feeling that tingled all through her.

It was very late when she decided to leave. She felt good, very good. Her spirits had been much restored. Actually, she felt quite charged up. She smiled to herself as she skipped down the steps to the quiet, dark street. The air was crisp and cool and she took in a deep breath, lifting her face to the night sky. Stars, a swelling moon. Endless space full of mysteries. It made you think of magic and love and hope.

Life was exciting and full of promise.

She wished she could hug the feeling to her and keep it there always.

Paul’s school performance did not improve in the following week. Twice in that time Zoe ran into Bryant as they were leaving for work at the same time. On both occasions her heart made a nervous little leap as she saw him-dressed in a business suit and smelling faintly of something clean and masculine. Neither time did he mention his son.

She’d seen him one other time, but he’d not seen her. The day after the party, Sunday, she’d taken a walk and noticed Bryant and Paul in the park, shooting hoops. Like Paul, Bryant had been wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He’d been like a different man, running, jumping, tossing the ball through the hoop with the smooth agility of an athlete. With her heart in her throat she’d watched his lean, muscled body twist and stretch and leap. Disturbing feelings had stormed through her-disturbing because of their intensity, because of the total lack of control she seemed to have over them.

It was frightening and exciting at the same time.

Sitting in her office, looking at the teachers’ reports about Paul’s work or lack thereof, she tried to concentrate on Paul and put Bryant out of her mind.

She called Paul into her office to have another talk with him. He sat huddled in a chair with his head down and stared at his hands as he fiddled with a paper clip. The body language was not promising. He answered all her questions with one of three mumbled answers: ‘I don’t know’, ‘I don’t care’ and ‘It’s stupid anyway’.

It was not the first time she had encountered a child like Paul with an attitude like his, yet she could feel her emotions getting the better of her. Bryant had to know something was wrong. Bryant had to take charge of this problem. Bryant had to care.

She wanted to do something, but scheduling another conference was most likely not going to work. She had to think of something else.

Something else-but what?

She needed inspiration, an idea, an opportunity. Something.

The next day she came home from school and found Paul outside sitting on the brick steps, his book bag next to him. He moved it to let her pass.

‘Why are you sitting here?’ she asked.

‘I forgot my key.’

‘Where’s Mrs Garcia?’

He shrugged. ‘She had to go to the doctor or something. My dad said I could be by myself today until he came home.’

‘Well, I can let you into the front door. When is your dad coming home?’

He shrugged. ‘I dunno.’ He got up and followed her into the small hall they shared.

‘Why don’t you come up to my place and wait? You can have a snack and do your homework.’

He shook his head. ‘Naw, I’m okay.’ He sat down on the floor with his back to the wall.

She started up the stairs to her apartment. ‘If you change your mind, just come on up, okay?’

‘Okay.’

He did not come up. Half an hour later she went downstairs with a glass of apple juice and some cookies. ‘I thought you might like something to eat.’

He put down the comic book he was reading and looked up in surprise. He took the glass and the small plate from her. ‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. When does your dad come home usually?’

He shrugged again. ‘Different times.’ He bit into one of the cookies. ‘These are good,’ he said.

‘I made them myself. I’m famous for my chocolatechip coconut cookies all over Africa.’ This was rather an exaggeration, but it did get his attention.

‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Did you live in Africa?’

She nodded. ‘Several places. Last I was in Cameroon. I taught English at a boarding-school, and I was the girls’ counselor too.’

His face closed up. ‘Oh,’ he said, and glanced back at his comic book.

Berating herself for her stupidity, Zoe went back up the stairs into her own apartment and left the door ajar, hoping to hear Bryant’s arrival home. Paul was twelve, old enough to be on his own for a couple of hours when it was necessary.

It was five-thirty when she heard voices in the hall below. Bryant. Not so late.

Fifteen minutes later there was a knock on her door and Bryant stood in front of her, suit jacket gone, tie gone, shirt-sleeves rolled up. He handed her back the glass and small plate she’d given Paul earlier.

‘Thank you,’ he said, smiling. ‘That was very nice of you.’

His hand was brown and strong, she noticed as she took the things from him. ‘I asked him to come up here, but he refused,’ she said, trying not to be affected by this tall, vibrantly sexy man standing in front of her. It was hopeless. Her heart fluttered crazily and her blood tingled.

‘He told me.’ His blue eyes held hers, as if looking for something. ‘I’d like to take you to dinner tonight,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Because I gave Paul some cookies?’

His mouth quirked. ‘No, because I want to. Paul’s going to spend the weekend with his cousin in Philadelphia. He’ll be picked up in half an hour. I thought it would be a good opportunity to try out that little Thai restaurant on M Street and for us to get better acquainted.’

The gods are with me, she thought with sudden excitement. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d been looking for, an opportunity to find out more about what was going on. Maybe Bryant had changed his mind and decided he wanted to talk about Paul. Perhaps talking over dinner was easier than in her office, and in a casual atmosphere she had more chance to reach him.

‘Do you like Thai food?’ he asked.

She smiled. ‘Oh, yes. I love fire and spice.’ Oh, God, she thought, shut up.

A gleam in his eyes, a faint smile. ‘Is that a yes?’

She tried to look sober, not to give him any ideas. ‘Yes, it is,’ she said evenly.

She stood in front of her closet finding something to wear. It was no use fooling herself—her concern for Paul was not the only reason she was interested in having dinner with Bryant. Bryant alone would have been incentive enough, but she was aware of very conflicting feelings. She was interested in this man, yet she was also wary.

She frowned. What to wear? There was not a whole lot of choice; since coming back home she’d had to buy a whole new wardrobe and most of her clothes now consisted of suits and dresses she wore to the office and casual sports wear. She took out a short, casual dress of multicolored silk with a wide belt Fall colors—fiery orange, wine-red, glowing copper, golden yellow-colors that looked perfect with her chestnut hair and brown eyes, as the sales lady at Woodies had pointed out rather enthusiastically.

She put the dress on the bed and blow-dried her hair, thanking Mother Nature for her easy, manageable hair. It curled happily all by itself and she just let it do what it wanted to do. It hung just to her shoulders and often she put it up to keep it out of her face, but tonight she’d let it hang loose.

She slipped on the dress, put in gold hoop earrings and stepped into high-heeled shoes. Some carefully applied make-up, a dab of perfume and she was ready.

She picked up her purse and a soft knit jacket against the evening chill, and went down the stairs. Bryant came out of his door as she reached the hall. His glance moved over her discreetly and the look in his eyes left nothing to the imagination: he liked what he saw.

‘I’m ready,’ she said unnecessarily.

‘Shall we walk?’ he asked. ‘It’s not far.’

‘It’s nice out, sure.’ She hoped her feet would manage in her high heels; they weren’t used to such fashionable footwear.

It wasn’t quite dark yet. It seemed strange to be walking side by side with this man, who was a stranger, and to feel this odd light-headedness at his presence. He wore camel trousers, a dark blazer and a shirt and tie, but even in the less formal clothes he looked impressive. He moved with an easy stride as if he enjoyed walking and was in no particular hurry.

Once at the restaurant they didn’t talk about Paul. They talked about his work in Argentina and her work in Africa. Suddenly it was hard to think of Paul, of the things she’d wanted to say.

‘Why did you come back to the States?’ he asked, pushing his empty soup bowl aside.

‘I woke up one morning and there was a message painted on my ceiling. It said, Go home! Be normal! Exclamation marks.’

He quirked a brow. ‘Really?’

She grinned. ‘Well, sort of. Maybe it wasn’t actually on the ceiling. Maybe it was my imagination, or my subconscious giving me a message.’

He studied her face for a moment. ‘So, you want to be normal?’

She put her spoon down. ‘I thought I’d give it a try.

It sounds so nice and comfortable.’

One corner of his mouth twitched upward. ‘What made you go to Africa in the first place?’

She smiled. ‘I was bored with nice and comfortable. I needed a challenge, an adventure.’

He nodded. Obviously it was a sentiment he could identify with.

‘I started off in the Peace Corps,’ she went on. ‘It was quite an adventure, let me tell you, and one thing led to another and before I knew it I’d been gone six years. I’m twenty-nine. I thought it was time to come home and.settle down, work on my career here. Be normal.’

‘Some people end up staying overseas forever,’ he commented.

She twirled the stem of her wine glass. ‘Yes. I have a friend who’s been gone seventeen years, and I don’t think he’ll ever come back. I don’t think he could ever adjust.’

‘Are you finding it hard to adjust now?’

‘In some ways, yes, very.’ She grinned. ‘Shopping is a major problem. All those choices! The decisions! But it’s great being back. I love the fall, and the air is so clean and crisp, like drinking spring water. In Cameroon the air was so humid at times, you could ladle it up like soup.’

He looked into her eyes, saying nothing for a moment. ‘You have beautiful eyes,’ he said then. ‘Warm and smiling. You must be a happy person.’

She laughed, taken aback a little. ‘Oh, I think I am, most of the time.’

It was easy to talk to him. She was enjoying herself, and it seemed he was too. The food was delicious. The restaurant was small and very crowded, but she wasn’t very much aware of the other people. All she was aware of was him—his voice and his thick blond hair swept back from a high forehead. A very noble forehead. She was aware of his blue eyes—eyes that made her quiver. And she noticed his mouth, which was strong but sensual and caused disturbing thoughts in her head.

She liked the way he talked about his work, which involved the development of infrastructure in developing countries-bridges, dams, roads and airports. He was dedicated and committed, but not too enthusiastic about his state-side office job, which involved too much paper-pushing, discussing and negotiating, most of which annoyed and bored him. Obviously, he was a man of action, who needed to be involved in things happening-bridges being built, dams being constructed. She tried visualizing him in dusty khakis driving a Jeep. It was not difficult, even though all she had seen him in was impeccable, expensive city clothes. Not difficult at all, and she felt a secret twinge of excitement, which surprised her.

‘You’re looking forward to going overseas again, then?’ she asked.

‘When I find the right project, yes.’

‘Don’t you think it would be a good thing to settle down, for Paul’s sake?’ she asked. ‘At least for a couple of years or so?’

His shoulders moved in a faint shrug. ‘Paul’s young. He’ll learn to be flexible, to adapt.’ He gave a half-smile. ‘Important lessons to learn in life, don’t you think?’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Here she was agreeing with him. ‘Only,’ she added, ‘a lesson needs to be learned at the right time in the right place.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘It’s not going well with him in school, you know,’ she said softly.

He met her eyes. ‘I would prefer not to discuss Paul tonight. Would you mind?’

So that was not why he had invited her. One part of her rejoiced, another part was disappointed.

‘I thought perhaps that’s why you had asked me to dinner. To discuss Paul.’

‘No. I asked you out for all the usual reasons.’

Her heart flipped in her chest. She took a drink of her wine. ‘I see.’

‘Is that acceptable?’ he asked, amusement in his voice now.

She managed a smile. ‘Of course,’ she said lightly.

It was acceptable. It should be acceptable. It also complicated matters. Did she want to get involved with a man who didn’t seem to take his son’s troubles very seriously?

Maybe she was over-reacting. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. After all, there were a lot of things she didn’t know about them or their relationship at home. The image of the two of them in the park, shooting hoops, flashed through her mind. She’d heard

Bryant’s voice calling out praise and encouragement. She’d heard them laugh. Surely, their relationship seemed happy enough.

She gazed at her plate. The most important thing was to keep the channels of communication open. She took another bite of the spicy nua pad prik.

It was a little disconcerting how easy it was to forget about Paul when she was talking to Bryant, how easy it was to think other thoughts and feel other feelings, how easy it was not to think of Bryant as a father, but to see him simply as a man who was charming and interesting and who disturbed her heart-rate dangerously.

‘Why did you become a school counselor?’ he asked.

She laughed. ‘I think it’s the way I grew up. I have a super mother and all my friends used to love to come to my house and talk to her about their problems.’ She took a drink of her wine. ‘And I like kids. I don’t think there’s a deep, dark reason.’ She longed to know whatever he was willing to tell her about himself, but she found out little really personal information apart from the fact that he had grown up in the district where his parents still lived. His sister, married, now lived in Philadelphia and had two children, one a son Paul’s age.

She told him she’d decided to try the city life after having grown up in the Maryland suburbs and that working at the Olympia International School had afforded her that opportunity. She told him she was an only child, that her father had died when she was seventeen and that her mother had remarried and now lived in Rome with her Italian businessman husband.

They walked home through the crisp evening air. The pungent scents of fall were all around. She was filled with an odd excitement. The streets were crowded with people—people walking home after eating at one of the many little neighborhood restaurants or seeing a movie, or people just taking an evening stroll with friends and mates. She liked the liveliness of the place, the many little shops—bookshops and spice shops and art shops and galleries and delicatessens.

He opened the front door and they stepped into the hall.

‘Thank you very much for dinner. I enjoyed it!’ she said, meaning it.

‘I enjoyed it too.’ His blue eyes looked into hers and it was suddenly hard to breathe. He leaned against the wall and observed her and she felt herself grow warm under his regard.

‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘something is going on between us.’

CHAPTER THREE

ZOE could not deny it. Something was going on between them—something elemental and instinctual that had nothing to do with reason or logic. Her heart was racing, her whole body tingled with anticipation’Yes,’ she said huskily.

He pushed himself away from the wall. He stood very close. She stared at his chin, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what he might read in her eyes. This was crazy. She felt like a nervous teenager rather than the mature woman of twenty-nine she was. She knew what she wanted. She knew what he wanted. He was so close she could feel his body warmth, smell the clean scent of him, feel his breath brush across her cheek. With her heart throbbing, she raised her eyes to his.

Everything fell away—the small entryway with its faint smell of floor polish, her worries about Paul, time itself. His eyes mesmerized her, drawing her nearer.

She felt his arms surround her, saw his face bend towards her and then his mouth was on hers-warm and urgent.

Her whole being reacted to this kiss, wild tumult everywhere inside her as a storm of need swept over her. A soft moan escaped her and his kiss intensified. She kissed him back with a hungry passion that came from somewhere hidden deep inside her.

Finally, reluctantly, he released her mouth and with his arms still around her he leaned back against the wall again, her body resting against the length of his, her face against the warmth of his neck. His breathing was ragged, as was her own, and Zoe closed her eyes, not moving, trying not to think. Thinking would spoil everything. She wanted to feel, only to feel.

Then, gently, he put her away from him and looked into her eyes. ‘It’s a good thing I’m not eighteen,’ he said softly, a note of humor in his voice.

Her reason came back. And with it acute embarrassment. Sexual desire had its time and place and this had not been the time and place, surely. She hardly knew this man. It wasn’t in her nature to lose control so totally, so quickly.

‘I think I’d better go up,’ she said with difficulty,

wishing she could die on the spot. She had acted like a love-starved nymphomaniac. ‘Thanks again for dinner.’ She tried to be dignified as she walked up the steps, but her legs felt like rubber.

‘Goodnight, Zoe.’ His deep voice floated up behind her, intimate, knowing.

‘Goodnight.’

Soon after, she lay in bed, unable to sleep. She thought of Bryant on the floor below, also in bed. At least, she assumed he was in bed. Was he thinking about her, wishing he had swept her straight into his apartment and taken her to bed and made passionate love with her?

She should not flatter herself. He was probably sitting on his sofa reading some report or other, contemplating the state of the infrastructure of some poor Third World country.

Then again, maybe he was taking a long, cold shower. She groaned into her pillow. What was the matter with her? Never in her life had she felt so totally bowled over by a man. It was terrifying. She wasn’t sure how to handle it, what to do.

Well, one thing she did have to do: try to hold on to her sanity, not to let matters progress too fast so she’d lose control. A real relationship took time to develop and she wasn’t in the market for something fast and fancy.

She pushed her face into the pillow. What she wanted was something solid and long-term. What she wanted more than anything was to find a soul mate, someone for the long haul. A man to build a life with, a man to be the father of her children.

Behind her closed eyelids was the image of a man with blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes.

She did not see or hear from Bryant in the next few days, which was a relief of sorts, even though she had expected it. He had told her during their dinner that there was a week-long international convention in town which meant he’d be busy till all hours.

Although she didn’t get a glimpse of Bryant coming or going, what she did notice was a young blonde woman in the hall one afternoon with a grocery store paper bag clutched against her chest. She had a key and was trying to get into the Sinclair apartment.

‘Hi!’ she said cheerily, and gave Zoe a white-toothed smile. She was in her early twenties, Zoe guessed, and she had a fresh prettiness.

‘Hi,’ said Zoe, and started up the stairs, only to hear the sound of something dropping to the floor and a muffled curse. She glanced down. The girl had dropped the bag and the contents had fallen out.

Zoe went back down. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

‘Oh, thank you. That damned key. It wouldn’t work.’ She laughed. ‘I’m such a klutz.’

She didn’t look like a klutz. Her slim body looked sleek and sporty and well-coordinated. She wore slimfitting jeans and a sweatshirt that read ‘Georgetown university’.

Zoe put the stuff back into the bag-boxes of macaroni and cheese mix, a frozen pizza, a packet of hot dogs. The girl had managed to open the door and Zoe handed her the bag.

‘Thanks a lot. Do you live upstairs?’

‘Yes. I’m Zoe Langdon.’

‘I’m Kristin Meyers. It’s nice to meet you.’ Her smile was bright. She radiated cheer and peppiness. ‘See you!’

Zoe climbed the stairs to her own apartment wondering who Kristin was. Not that it was any of her business. Come to think of it, she hadn’t noticed Mrs Garcia lately. Was she no longer working for the Sinclairs? Zoe stood in front of the window and looked down at the street, noticing Paul. His school bag hung by one strap from his shoulder. His head drooped and he focussed on his shoes as he kicked a pebble along the pavement. He’d been held after school today to do make-up work, work he had not done at home.

Maybe Kristin was a sitter, or a tutor, or a combination of the two. Then again maybe she was Bryant’s woman of the week. ‘Oh, stop it!’ she said out loud to herself. It wasn’t her business. She didn’t care.

Yes, she did. Secretly, she kept waiting for Bryant to call or knock on her door, in spite of the blasted convention that made him come home late every night.

She turned away from the window. Something was happening to her and she didn’t like it. She didn’t want to feel this way. She didn’t want his image in her head all the time. She didn’t want to hear his words over and over in her mind.

‘I think something is going on between us.’

She was not going to sit by the phone like a lovesick teenager and wait for Bryant to call her. He had kissed her very nicely—well, okay, passionately, she corrected herself—but that did not mean that he was now going to spend every night knocking on her door. He was busy and so was she—at least, she could make herself busy. She should do something about her social life, make friends.

She started a cooking spree and invited some of the teachers to dinner. She signed up for an evening class at the university. Maxie took her to a seminar on Indian spirituality on Friday night.

She wrote letters to her friends, called her mother in Italy, took long walks and read a big book, or tried to.

None of it helped one little bit. Her mind was determined to occupy itself with thoughts of Bryant, thoughts of him kissing her, touching her.

The trees had started to turn in vivid colors, the fiery orange and red of the maples joining the rich golden yellow of hickory and the warm, coppery brown of the oaks. In the morning the air was cool and clear and to Zoe it was like a gift of the gods. Walking to school she would drink in the air like champagne, feeling light on her feet and smiling at the world in general. Ah, fall was so glorious!

The six-weekly report cards came out, and Paul’s was a miserable collection of failing grades. With a sigh of despair, Zoe sent a note home with Paul saying she wanted another conference with Bryant. He called her at home that night and just hearing his voice made her tingle all over.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How was your convention?’

‘Deadly. But it’s over now. I received your note,’ he went on, and there was a change in his voice, subtle but real. ‘I have no time to come to school in the morning, and frankly I do not expect a conference to change anything.’

The lovely tingling stopped instantly and anger rushed through her in its stead.

‘Have you seen his report card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Paul is in trouble, Bryant. You are his father. Don’t you think you ought to do something?’

‘I don’t think a conference is going to accomplish anything.’

Not if he was not willing to cooperate, not if he didn’t want help. ‘So you’re going to stand by and let him fail? Don’t you understand that his behavior is a cry for help?’

‘Listen,’ he said impatiently, ‘I’ll come up and we can discuss it now if you like, but I can’t do this on the phone with him in the next room.’

‘Then come to my office tomorrow.’

‘Your office, your apartment, what’s the difference?’ He sounded annoyed.

There was a big difference, but she didn’t want to argue over time and place. In view of the situation, she was glad to have a chance to talk to him about Paul at all.

So she agreed, raced into the bedroom, looked at herself in the mirror and groaned at her faded jeans and sweatshirt. She put on some lipstick, brushed out her hair and a knock came on the door. He was dressed in jeans and a cotton sweater, and her heart leaped at the sight of him in his casual clothes. He looked sporty and strong and utterly male.

She told him to take a seat and busied herself pouring them each a cup of coffee, her hands shaking. She sat down opposite him, willing herself to concentrate on Paul rather than Bryant.

She took a fortifying sip of her coffee. ‘What did Paul say about his grades?’

He waved his hand casually. ‘That this school is “stupid” and he wants to go back to his old school in Buenos Aires. I told him it was out of the question.’

She stirred her coffee. ‘What did you say to Paul about his report card, specifically?’

‘What do you think I said? I told him it was a disgrace and that I expected better from my son. I found him a tutor, but apparently that has not improved matters.’

Ah, Kristin. She couldn’t help feeling a tiny sense of relief.

‘The problem isn’t that he needs help with his homework,’ she said calmly. ‘He knows how to do it; he just doesn’t. He systematically refuses and that refusal is a symptom of the problem.’ Her mind produced the picture of Paul slumped in his chair, head down, fiddling with a paper clip. ‘Something is bothering him. He’s not happy.’

He gave a crooked grin. ‘He’s twelve years old. Puberty’s looming. Of course he’s not happy. The world is a terrible place. Nobody understands him. Unfortunately, it’s a phase he’ll have to go through like the rest of humanity. It’s growing-up time. He’ll have to learn to adjust to changes and accept the inevitable.’ He sighed. ‘We can’t go back to Argentina. There isn’t a thing to be done about it.’

‘Your move here was a big change and it’s not easy to adjust to big changes like that,’ she said.

He looked straight at her. ‘Oh, I know,’ he said slowly. ‘Believe me, I know.’ There was something odd about the way he said it, and deep down, way behind the brightness of his blue eyes, she saw a dark shadow.

Had any of this to do with his wife, Paul’s mother? But she’d looked through all the records from Paul’s school in Argentina and there’d been no mention of a mother-no name, no address, nothing.

‘If you know,’ she said gently, ‘then you should be able to help him deal with it.’

He crossed his arms. ‘I’m trying. We’re having long father-son talks and I tell him it’s important not to give in to these feelings, not to dwell on them, which is what he’s doing. We eat huge bowls of ice-cream while I try to explain to him that what matters is the present and the future and that it takes courage to move forward without dwelling on the past.’

‘It sounds easy, but it’s a lot to ask of a boy of twelve. Maybe it would help if you acknowledged his feelings instead of telling him he shouldn’t have them. He has the right to his feelings, you know. He’s not miserable because it’s so much fun.’

He stiffened. ‘He is not miserable. I’ve been too busy lately, but the work is easing up and I’ll be spending more time with him.’

She nodded. ‘That’s good.’

He came to his feet and stood in front of a water-color painting of an African market scene. After a moment he turned and glanced around. ‘You have a nice place. Very personal, very cozy.’

‘Thanks.’ The tension had lessened, the atmosphere changed subtly. ‘Can I get you a drink? I have Scotch, rum, dry sherry and white wine.’

‘Scotch on the rocks, thanks.’

She went into the kitchen and he followed her in. When she took the Scotch bottle, he took it from her

hand and set it on the counter. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes and her heart began to thump.

‘I wish you were just my upstairs neighbor,’ he said, his mouth curving in an ironic smile.

‘Yes,’ she said. She did not avert her gaze. ‘But I’m not.’ She was his son’s school counselor and she didn’t like the way he dealt with his son.

‘No, you’re not. But could we for now pretend you are?’

Yes, said one part of her. No, said another. Pretending is dangerous.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with difficulty, ‘I can’t just pretend.’ She slipped out from under his hands and took a glass from the cabinet

‘You’re angry.’

‘I’m frustrated.’

‘Why? Why does Paul matter so much to you? There must be all kinds of kids with problems much more serious than his. Alcoholic parents, drug problems, whatever.’

True enough. She sighed, pushing the hair from her forehead. ‘I’m frustrated because I know Paul is unhappy and I don’t think your attitude is right.’ She picked up the bottle of Scotch and poured out a measure into the glass.

‘You don’t think my attitude is right?’ he repeated, a note of warning in his voice.

‘Correct.’ She looked straight into his eyes as she handed him the glass. ‘You seem too casual about it. You don’t seem to take it seriously.’

Silence. She felt a distinct chill in the air. He stood very still as he observed her.

‘Are you saying,’ he said slowly, ‘that I don’t care about my own son?’

Her heart pounded wildly. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m trying to say is that you give the impression of not taking his unhappiness seriously. You think all he has to do is be tough.’

‘It’s a tough life,’ he said quietly, and there was nothing casual about his tone.

‘So it is. And a little tender loving care and some understanding will help.’

He gave a humorless little laugh. ‘You know it all, don’t you, Counselor?’ His voice mocked her. He tipped his glass back, finished the whisky in one go and with a forceful thump deposited the glass on the counter.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.