A Kiss in the Dark Read online

  “‘Yes, I’m sorry I’m late. Traffic was horrible. You know how it gets when it rains in this town.’ As I apologized I noticed he wasn’t really a stranger; I’d seen him in the boutique from time to time, talking with Alicia.

  “Tall, blond and lean, he’d be a hard one to forget. His blue eyes looked older than his years, which I guessed to be about twenty-nine. It was the way he looked at a woman … the savoring appreciation.”

  Suddenly Brittany didn’t feel like giggling. She hadn’t counted on how reading the book of short erotic stories aloud to Ethan would affect her. She was starting to feel a flush spread through her body.

  “Maybe I should stop—”

  “No, no. Continue.”

  Brittany cleared her throat. There was nothing for her to do but continue.

  “Finally he remembered he still held me in his arms and moved to release me. You’re shivering. How about a cup of tea?’ He indicated the silver service on a leather-topped table by the wall.

  “‘Yes, it would take the chill off.’ I’d lied—my shivering had nothing to do with the cold. While he was busy pouring the tea, I walked over to the old-fashioned sofa. When I sat down, I saw he’d been having tea himself and reading while he’d been waiting. There was a half-empty teacup and a paperback novel turned over to mark his place.

  “I peeked at the title surreptitiously and felt my cheeks flame a bright pink. He was reading Victorian erotica, a title familiar to me. The sweet musky fragrance of the boutique seemed to close in, making me feel faint. I was suddenly aware I couldn’t sit beside him on the sofa without squirming like a guilty partyer at Sunday church service.

  “He walked toward me and the shop’s feminine decor made his masculinity stand out in contrast. I’d already noticed more of his physique than was proper—and I was as proper as my name. Unless you counted what went on in my head. But no one could guess that, unless they, too, read Victorian erotica. Oh dear!”

  Brittany was silent, biting her bottom lip.

  “Continue,” Ethan instructed.

  She took a sip from the glass of water sitting on Ethan’s desk beside the silver pitcher, then read on.

  “Benjamin set the cup of tea down in front of me. He must have been napping while he awaited my arrival because he had a slightly rumpled look; his suit jacket was off and his sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. He’d loosened his tie and a trace of five o’clock shadow ghosted his jaw. When he turned to retrieve my order from the I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or disappointed he’d put some distance between us.

  “When he returned with the white box, I jumped up, anxious to leave. ‘Thank you for the tea. If you’ll just have Alicia put this on my bill, I won’t have to hold you up any longer,’ I said, reaching for the lingerie box. His large hand covered mine, detaining me.

  “‘Oh, no. You mustn’t leave without trying it on to make sure it fits. Alicia was very explicit about that. She said you’re a valued customer and to give you all the time you required. Pay no attention to me. I’ll just stay right here and read while you try it on in the attic room.’

  “If that was supposed to make me feel better, it didn’t! Alicia was a stickler for having her expensive, one-of-a-kind designs tried on to assure fit and satisfaction. I could see that Benjamin’s mind was made up, so with mounting trepidation I picked up the box and headed for the dressing room that was indeed an attic and the inspiration for the boutique’s name.

  “Once inside the large dressing room, I forgot all about Benjamin. The room had always had a certain enchantment for me. The walls and eaves were papered with a tiny floral print, and the steamer trunks set about were filled with antique quilts and other treasures, giving the space an air of clandestine privacy. The rain pattering on the windowpanes only added to the atmosphere of a leisurely, stolen evening. On one wall hung a huge floor-to-ceiling painting of a Victorian lady.

  “I opened the white box and pulled apart sheer white folds of tissue to reveal the white Victorian gown I’d ordered. Placing the gown on the nearest trunk, I admired its flirty midcalf ruffle as I slipped out of my business suit, revealing my favorite creation of Alicia’s—the creamy silk teddy provocatively edged with white ribbon. I slipped out of it and pulled on the Victorian gown. Through the tiny window I could see the rain and fog. I shook off a feeling that I was being watched, but a few seconds later I heard a sound behind me.

  “I turned slowly, my heart in my throat. There was no one there.

  “Benjamin’s voice sliced through the silence as he called upstairs, ‘Miss Adams, the mirror’s down here. I’m waiting….’”

  Brittany looked over at Ethan. He seemed quite comfortable, not fidgeting at all. Maybe this hadn’t been such a good idea, she thought, fidgeting herself.

  “I’m waiting …” Ethan echoed.

  “How could I have forgotten the mirror was downstairs? Now what? I’ll have to go down and look at the gown in the mirror. Benjamin will keep insisting. I’ll just be quick about it, pretend he’s Alicia.

  “I started down the stairs after taking a deep, calming breath.

  “Benjamin was lounging at the bottom. ‘It’s lucky I’m a young man,’ he said, his hand held over his heart protectively. He didn’t move, but his blue gaze flowed over me like warm syrup.

  “‘I find your conduct very unprofessional. Do you flirt with all your customers?’ I asked, trying to put some ice into my voice.

  “He stood in front of me—his lips a whisper away, his hands hovering mere inches from me in a phantom caress. ‘No. Only you. I design the lingerie. Alicia runs the boutique for me. I couldn’t resist seeing my design on my favorite customer. The one who buys my most special Victorian creations. You could call it professional curiosity—wanting to see my designs on a flesh-and-blood woman who appreciates them. Or it could just be wanting.…’ His smile was all silken promise.

  “‘Which is it?’ I had to know.

  “He walked over to the sofa and sat down. ‘Come here, Miss Victoria Adams,’ he ordered softly.

  “I was shaken, unable to put a refusal together, much less a coherent thought. Why wasn’t I yelling at him, demanding he leave the room? Instead, I felt myself following his command without a will of my own.

  “His smile was wide and wicked as I stood facing him. ‘How do you feel about temptation, Miss Victoria Adams? Do you ever give in to it?’

  “I didn’t answer—I barely breathed.

  “‘Take off the gown,’ he ordered.

  “The gown slipped to the floor and I stood before him, naked.

  “‘Tell me, are you a naughty little girl, Miss Victoria Adams?’ he asked.

  “I closed my eyes.

  “‘Say it,’ he demanded.

  “‘Yes … yes … I’m naughty….’ I sighed.

  “‘But only for me, isn’t that right?’ he insisted, his breathing ragged, his voice needy.

  “I nodded my head as if in a trance. ‘For you… Only you.’

  “It was a thrillingly seductive beginning to our liaison. As it turns out I won’t be Miss Victoria Adams much longer; Benjamin is busy designing my trousseau for our honeymoon.”

  Brittany waited when she’d finished reading. The room was quiet; Ethan’s uneven breathing was the only sound.

  Finally he spoke.

  “You are a very naughty little girl, Miss Brittany Astor…. Aren’t you?”

  5

  SLEEP HADN’T COME EASILY since the accident.

  Ethan threw off the covers and tried to get comfortable, balling a pillow beneath his head. Closing his eyes didn’t bring the darkness the way it had when he was sighted. Eyes open or eyes closed, the scenery never changed.

  What made him more restless tonight was Brittany Astor. She’d knocked the pins out from under him with her stunt earlier this evening—reading erotica to him.

/>   Why had she done it?

  That was the question he kept going over in his mind. Cheap thrills? Getting her kicks reading sexy material to a blind man to turn him on? Because she had surely done that.

  But somehow he didn’t think that was it.

  He was fairly certain cheap thrills weren’t Brittany Aster’s style.

  He had a secret. Something he hadn’t told her. And now he was glad he hadn’t.

  He smiled.

  Brittany didn’t know it, but he remembered her. Sort of.

  She was a kid. Or had been in his mind until tonight. She must have been around fourteen when he met her; and he’d been a man, twenty-one. She’d been horse crazy and always hung around his polo ponies. He wondered if the role of tomboy had come naturally to her, or if it had been her way of dealing with being compared to her older sister, Francesca. At that time, Francesca was a stunning eighteen-year-old, and was being courted by photographers.

  His mind wandered back to the present. To Brittany now. Why had the minx read the sexy story to him?

  Now that he thought about it, it had felt like she’d been baiting him, issuing some sort of challenge.

  It was hell not being able to see. Not being able to pick up all the little nuances of social interaction. He didn’t like feeling like an outsider.

  Her presence seemed to linger in the room… something he found both disturbing and exciting. Was it possible he could have a full life even if his blindness wasn’t temporary?

  Tonight had been the first real connection he’d experienced since the accident. She’d snuck up on him, and past his defenses. There was something going on between himself and Brittany. He didn’t know what, but he was in the game.

  His competitive spirit was back.

  He’d achieved all his goals by sheer force of will. It was how he’d determined he would regain his sight from the moment he’d learned his possible fate.

  He would see again.

  Because he had to see Brittany.

  And then he did something he hadn’t done since the accident: He laughed out loud.

  He knew exactly what his move would be.

  BRITTANY HAD SLEPT like a baby.

  It was only when she woke up that she was confronted with misgivings about what she’d done.

  Where had she gotten the nerve? And why hadn’t she thought as far as the consequences, she wondered for the umpteenth time as she sipped her cup of tea and watched “Style” on CNN. Francesca had gotten her into the habit. The show featured two or three collections by designers around the world, a beauty feature—usually profiling a supermodel like Francesca—and a tour of someone’s home.

  Normally it was a distracting bit of fantasy. But today, reality superseded fantasy.

  She hadn’t answered Ethan’s question. In fact, she had practically fled his apartment, mumbling something about waiting for an important phone call.

  Ethan hadn’t believed her, she was sure, but he’d let her escape. Still, tonight she’d have to face him.

  A postcard Francesca had sent from Zurich lay on the table. As postcards did, it had arrived after her sister returned. The postcard showed a happy couple dining at the Brasserie Lipp.

  The picture brought her thoughts back to Ethan.

  She wondered if Ethan was thinking about her. And if he was, what he was thinking.

  That she was a brazen hussy? Depraved? Or even worse, ridiculous? At least one thing was certain: he couldn’t be looking at her as a “pal” any longer.

  What was her next step? Did she make one or wait for Ethan to do something? She couldn’t afford to be conservative when she had only two weeks left in which to accomplish what she hadn’t done in the ten years since they met.

  She wished her sister were here instead of in South Beach. Francesca would be able to advise her about “Now what?”

  Francesca was her best friend. Did she envy her? Yes. But Francesca was too generous for Brittany to hate her. Besides, it wasn’t as if Francesca had found her prince, and had two cherub-faced children, a cat and a house in the country.

  Her sister often joked that she’d kissed more than her share of toads and it was high time she’d found her prince.

  Brittany had found her prince at age fourteen. She just had to figure out how to get him to fall in love with her. Getting him to kiss her would be a start. With any luck at all, kissing her had finally occurred to Ethan.

  She looked down at her sock-clad feet.

  Just thinking about Ethan kissing her made her toes curl.

  DAWSON LET HER INTO the brownstone that evening.

  “How is he?”

  “Unbearable,” Dawson grumbled.

  Brittany had been afraid of that. Facing Ethan was going to be even worse than she’d thought.

  “He’s in a rotten mood, then?”

  “No. He’s annoyingly upbeat. You haven’t given him any drugs, have you?”

  “Drugs! No. No, of course not.”

  “Well, whatever it is, he’s ran my butt all over town today. He’s all yours.”

  Dawson left and Brittany headed for the library, but as she passed the dining room, Ethan’s voice stopped her.

  “I’m in here.”

  The flicker of candlelight caught her eye as she turned toward the sound of his voice.

  “I hope you haven’t eaten yet,” Ethan said as she joined him in the dining room.

  “I have, actually.”

  A look of disappointment crossed Ethan’s face. “I suppose I should have had Dawson call.” He shrugged. “It’s just that we’d gotten into the habit of eating dinner together.”

  “It’s Saturday.” She’d fallen into the habit of eating with him during the week because it had been more expedient to do so. Often she came straight from her office.

  “I suppose it is. Damned thing about being blind is that you lose track of things like that.”

  “It has nothing to do with being blind. It has to do with you withdrawing here, hiding from the world and living one day much like any other.”

  He didn’t argue with her. “Sit down and keep me company while I eat—and make sure the candles don’t set the place on fire. I’d hate to light my own funeral pyre.”

  Brittany took the seat to his left where a place had been laid for her on the gleaming cherrywood table. Candlelight warmed the dark forest green walls and rich colors of the Oriental rug. An oil canvas of a Parisian scene hung on the wall behind Ethan.

  “Tell me about your day,” he said, twisting the herbed angel-hair pasta in his plate around his fork.

  He was acting as if nothing had happened. As if she hadn’t read him something surprising. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to bring it up, though she couldn’t believe he was going to let what had happened pass without comment.

  “I spent the day listening to myself,” she answered.

  “You talk to yourself?”

  “No, I listen.”

  He looked puzzled.

  She explained, watching him work at getting the pasta onto his fork. “I have this ritual I do on weekends. On Saturday morning I watch ‘Style’ on CNN and on Sunday morning I read the New York Times. Then after that I don’t do any more input. I spend the rest of the day listening to myself … dreaming, pretending, imagining, inventing, fantasi— Uh, you know, finding out who you are, making friends with yourself.”

  “You just sit and do that?”

  “Sometimes. Sometimes I bake, sometimes I clean, and sometimes I putter with my roses on my balcony garden.”

  “You must have been an odd kid,” he said, giving up on the pasta and buttering a roll.

  “I was a kid who got lost in books. It’s why I became an editor. I love ideas.”

  He took a bite of his roll and chewed it thoughtfully. “So thaťs what you did when you were a kid? You read books?”

  “That and rode horses. How about you?” she asked, anxious to turn the conversa
tion away from herself.

  “I rode horses, too,” he said, making another stab at getting the angel-hair pasta from his plate to his mouth.

  That he’d done in spades, Brittany reflected, a thousand images of him doing just that imprinted on her mind. She sat across from him, staring, drinking in his masculine beauty. Splashed with golden candlelight, he had an almost-mythical aura.

  The fourteen-year-old in her was swooning. The twenty-four-year-old stilled his hand. “Let me help you,” she offered, taking his fork.

  “What, no ‘You have to learn to do this on your own’ crap? Have you finally accepted that I’m not going to be permanently blind?” he asked, letting her feed him.

  “I haven’t accepted anything. If your sight doesn’t return, I’m not the one qualified to help you adjust to it. I can only show you that you can deal with it—that life is worth living.”

  “Oh, that’s rich, coming from someone like you who hides from life in the world of books.”

  She shoved a forkful of pasta to his lips, wanting to silence words she’d heard all too often from Francesca.

  The silence stretched out before them as she fed him. It only served to accentuate their intimacy. Growing nervous, Brittany offered up a rebuttal. “Everyone is different. Some people seize life as you always have. Others, like me, flow with it.”

  “In other words, whatever floats your boat…”

  “You could say that, yes.”

  Ethan pushed back his plate. “I’ve had enough pasta. If I eat any more, I’ll be too full to enjoy dessert. You will share dessert with me, won’t you?”

  “Unless it’s cheesecake,” she agreed. “I think I must be the only person in the world who doesn’t like cheesecake.”

  “In New York, anyway,” Ethan said with a chuckle. “I think it’s a hanging offense in New York, isn’t it? After all, New York cheesecake has a claim on culinary fame.”