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Page 26.

Later that evening at his apartment, David showed Tory to the reclining chair surrounded by his shelved books, while he cooked dinner. She wore a dark-blue sweat suit with U.S. Army Olympics in white letters along one leg.

He opened the French door leading to the patio. Cool, damp wind blew in, smelling of hedges and late flowers. The kitchen windows dripped with perspiration from pasta water bubbling in a pot, not to mention chicken cacciatore simmering in a piquant sauce, and garlic bread baking in the hot oven. “Dinner in five minutes,” he said.

“Smells wonderful.”

“Didn’t realize you were in the Olympics.”

“I wasn’t. Well, I almost was. I didn’t quite make the team back at Fort Jackson. That’s where Maxie and I met.”

“What event?” He peered into the living room.

“Track. Cross-country.”

She looked tired, her head back, eyes closed and shadowed; her stocking feet elevated on cushions. “I may have a lead. Or another problem, depending on one’s viewpoint.”

David set the steaming dishes on the table, then returned to the living room, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. “Talking in your sleep?”

“I’m wide awake.” Her eyes opened and she sat upright. “It occurred to me in the shower at home. Ib Shoob and Tabitha Summers were pretty good friends. She was this very senior GS-18 civilian computer expert. They’d bicker, because they are both brilliant. Tabitha suddenly retired about two months ago. I was new then, and didn’t know, but everyone else thought it odd. She really liked her work.”

“Coincidence,” David suggested. “He wasn’t sitting on this for two months.”

“What if he was?”

“We could call her right now.”

“That’s an idea.” She fumbled with her com, and David waited. Her face brightened. “Tabitha? Tory Breen. How are you doing?” Tory listened. “Yes, right. Actually, I wondered if you knew that Ib was kidnapped the other night. I’ve been out of my mind with worry. Have you heard from him?” Her face betrayed disappointment as she listened. “If he tries to contact you, will you let me know?—yes, that’s right—same office—yes, I’ll let you know the minute I hear anything—what’s that?—no, I tried looking, and you get frantic and all, but once you’re out there looking, you realize it’s hopeless; you just have to rely on the authorities because they have all the resources—yes, okay, keep in touch, bye!”

Tory rang off and shook her head bleakly.

“I’m sure the police are doing all they can.” David reached out. She accepted his hand and he pulled her upright. She had a firm, dry grip, the back of her hand warm and smooth. She walked in long and graceful strides.

He pulled a chair back and she sat at the kitchen table, visibly pleased at his gentlemanly gesture. “It’s so cozy here,” she said with a genuine lilt of surprise as she eyed the wine rack, the shelf of cookbooks, the pots hanging from the ceiling to save space. He said: “I’ve been batching for over a year now. I may have been a fast food, socks all over the floor guy once, but a good man learns well.”

“Been married?”

“Afraid so. You?”

The haunted look jogged past. “Oh yeah.” She grinned stoically and raised her glass. “Here’s to a good man.”

He touched his glass to hers. “To a good woman.” They sipped.

From her dark look, he knew she was holding something out on him.

Soft pop dinner music blended with the steady hum of the oven exhaust fan under its enamel hood and made a self-contained world, almost as in a submarine. The ceiling lamp hung low over the heavy oak dining furniture, casting an island glow. A few sips of blood-red Italian wine, and David saw color in her cheeks, a glow in her eyes. The specter of Ib Shoob’s disappearance hung somewhere beyond the lamplight, in the shadows, part of a world they were trying to forget for an hour or two. After dinner they sat in the living room on the shag rug. David set out a pitcher in which he diluted the red wine with sparkling water, throwing in a lemon slice. He cut up a few oranges and joined her before a small, crackling fire. She cried a little bit and David gently stroked her hair. It felt thick and warm to the touch; and smelled faintly of chestnuts or sandalwood. He had a feeling she wasn't crying about Ib just now.

Tory used her napkin to wipe tears away. “I’m sorry.” Her face seemed to linger in the atmosphere when all else had gone hazy. He found himself being drawn in by her hungry eyes, her lightly parted lips. He slowly embraced her and kissed her on the cheeks. Holding her firmly, feeling her hands on his shoulder blades pulling him toward her, he sought her tongue with his. For an instant, their eyes fluttered open in mutual surprise. Then he saw her eyes close in dreamy acceptance. He asked the question he’d been wondering how to ask: “Is there anyone in your life?”

She shook her head and murmured “nuh-uh,” with her eyes still closed. He lowered her gently on her back and lay beside her. She felt good against his limbs, against his side, her cheek against his cheek. A soft rain pattered outside, competing with the crackling in the fireplace. He felt her hand exploring his back, his neck, her feminine fingertips ruffling the hair and skin at the base of his skull giving him goose bumps.

She stopped suddenly, stiffened with some realization, paused—and then continued again, relenting in some battle within herself.

“What’s the matter?”

She was silent.

“Dinner okay?”

“Everything is perfect. You are perfect. It scares me a bit.”

“There now. I cook you dinner, kiss you, and all I manage to do is scare you.”

She choked with sudden laughter in his arms. She looked away, embarrassed. “I am such a geek, I know.” She started to scoot away.

He hung onto her, and she only made it a few inches. Her mood had switched to silly, and she giggled nervously.

“Hey, come back here.” She didn't, but let him crawl after her, and then sighed happily as she settled her back against his approaching body. She closed her eyes and had a pleased, nuzzling look. She didn't look scared. Or silly. There was some serious purring there. He enjoyed feeling her curves through her clothes without touching anywhere tabu for a first date. He tugged her gently with one hand, and she resisted. Then she rolled closer to him, laid her head on his chest, and placed one hand, palm down, where she could feel his heart beating. He heard the pace of her breath quicken gradually as their body heat mingled and their closeness aroused her. Gradually, comfort overcame arousal, and they fell asleep holding each other.

The living room clock struck eleven when he suddenly awoke to find her sitting up beside him. She looked surprised and sleepy. Her arms were raised, hands lifting thick garlands of dark amber hair, hairpin pinched between her lips. “I have to go,” she said contentedly.

“I’ll walk you.”

“That’s so sweet of you.”

“Dangerous out there.”

“You’ll protect me.” It was a tease, but she ran her fingernails fondly around his ear. She whispered so close to his ear that he could feel the puffs of breath of each syllable: “It was nice sleeping with you, David.”

He got goose bumps again. He knew better than to say anything. Instead, he put his hand on her hip and let electricity speak for him. She stroked his hand silently for a few minutes to let him know it was a good thing he was doing.

After they bundled up, and he locked the door, they walked the four blocks between his place and hers. They held hands on and off, but both were independent spirits comfortable to orbit near each other without crashing into one another’s planets. Still, David felt himself remembering the wonderful pleasures—so unexpected in their timing—of falling in love. Tory was subdued and elegant—while Maxie was the blonde version, the light wine, a spumante, Tory was the dark version, the cabernet sauvignon. He kept glancing at her, and liking what he saw: dark sensuous eyes, slight smile, quirky poise when she said something witty or sarcastic or teasing or sad. Droplets pattered from trees on lawns, but the rain had stopped. A light fog stalked their heels. She slipped her arm through his. They arrived at her condo entrance and stopped. For a moment they were both awkward, away from the earlier spell, still strangers to one another. The disappearance of Ib Shoob, and his ominous discovery, hung in the atmosphere around them. He knew she would lie awake late tonight, worrying about Ib. She looked intently into his eyes with that dark, haunted look again. She placed her fists against his chest in frozen pummeling. “So much to sort out, David. So much that can’t be said. I wish it were easier.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Part of it is—I have a phobia about trusting. In time, when you—” She fell silent.

“When I what?” She was doing it again—pushing him away while she pulled him close. After the madness of being married to Kristy, this woman wasn’t even a contender for getting his frustrations up. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I’m not perfect. Almost definitely not right for you. You’ll make up your mind soon enough.”

“Okay. One question. You're not really a man in disguise?”

She burst out in laughter. “Oh God no, nothing like that.” Her laughter turned wistful. “It’s nothing like that, sweetheart. There, see? I called you that.” She took his cheeks in both hands and leaned close to kiss him—briefly, just a brush of their lips—and let go. “That's enough for now.” Before he could protest, she lightly placed her fingertip on his lips to silence him. Her eyes looked large and dark. “Let’s enjoy this for a while without asking too many questions. Then, in time, we’ll ask the questions and think about the answers. Okay? Keep it light? Worry about Ib for now?” She gave him a quick kiss, no more than a flutter of lips against his, and, a minute later, a wave of the hand from the other side of the pool on the other side of the steel bars separating them as she strode upstairs and he turned to go home, alone in the night.