No More Lonely Nights (55 page)

At the opposite end of the palatial hall was the bank of doors Mark would be entering. Dominique glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost six-thirty. Her pulse hammering in her temples, she made her way down the endless concourse.

Mark glanced for the umpteenth time at the clock on the dashboard. Dominique was to meet him at six-thirty at the main entrance of the Kennedy Center, but Mark had been so eager that he had arrived fifteen minutes early. He didn’t want Dominique to know that, though, so he circled the block, then eased into a parking space a few seconds away from his destination. If he stopped in the drive in front of the center, a parking attendant would take his car. So he would wait until six-thirty. Maybe even a little longer.

Impatiently, Mark drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. He tilted the rearview mirror down and studied his bow tie. He could never get it quite straight. His friends’ wives teased him about that, claiming that he needed a wife of his own to tie it for him. He smiled wryly at the thought. Nina had never possessed the touch of maternalism that caused women to perform such tasks for their husbands.

With a sigh, Mark gave the black silk cloth a tentative tug at one corner. For a moment, the tie straightened, but as soon as he released it, the corner tilted up and the tie was askew again. Mark felt a thin line of sweat form on his upper lip. He considered undoing the bow and starting over. Or would it only end up worse? He decided to leave it.

Mark reached up to return the mirror to its former position, then hesitated with his hand on the frame. He wasn’t a man who usually spent time looking in the mirror. Even when he shaved, his mind was elsewhere, but he suddenly found himself wondering if Dominique would be pleased by what she saw. He brushed his fingers through his hair. Should’ve had a haircut, he thought. He always let it go just a little too long before cutting it. He studied the lines around his eyes and his mouth. Did he look older than his forty-four years? It was hard to say. The lines were definitely there. His mobile face and constant smile had caused that.

So be it, Mark thought. That’s who I am and there’s nothing to do about it. Some of his congressional colleagues had ever-so-discreetly opted for plastic surgery as a means to remain young in the eyes of constituents. Mark shrugged and flipped the mirror back into place. That sort of thing wasn’t for him.

He took another look at the clock. Mark’s heart raced as he realized it was time. He started the engine and pulled into traffic, anxious now lest he keep Dominique waiting. The gala started in just half an hour. He saw the traffic signal ahead turn yellow and stepped on the gas just in time to avoid the red. Then he pulled into the Kennedy Center’s drive and handed the keys to the parking attendant.

He turned to the heavy glass doors. Behind them he saw the outline of a female form. His step faltered. Suddenly he was assailed by doubt. Now that he was to finally see Dominique, would he still feel the same? Was she changed? Embittered? Could she possibly be as attractive as he remembered?

He had been waiting for this moment since the day Dominique had phoned him in October. What had been the real reason for her last-minute cancellation of their cocktail date? Had she been trying to put him off? It had taken all his willpower not to call her when he’d returned from the holiday recess two weeks before, but he’d known she was busy with the gala.

Mark rubbed his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was disagreeably dry. He hesitated one more time before the door and nervously fingered his tie. The female form inside moved closer. He took a deep breath and resolutely stepped through the doors. When he emerged on the other side, he abruptly stopped. He tried to focus on the figure before him.

For one confused moment, it was as though he had been transported back in time. In the soft light, Dominique looked no older than on the first day he had met her. The brighter lights from the central hall many yards away outlined her body, but her long black velvet gown and the shadows of the foyer created an illusion of mystery, as though she were not quite real. Something near her face sparkled, throwing off colored beams. Mark stood where he was and watched Dominique move toward him.

She was speaking to him in that enchanting musical accent. Her hands were stretched forward in greeting. She came nearer and he inhaled the light perfume that seemed uniquely hers: flowers and spice. Then she turned her face up to his and he saw the flash of her smile.

Mark’s feelings toward Dominique, which he had firmly suppressed over the years, burst to the surface of his consciousness. He wanted to reach forward and touch her face, to cup it in his hands. He wanted to pull her into his embrace.

He closed his arms about her. He felt her arms go around him. He lowered his head to hers, his eyes focused on her lush mouth. He was going to kiss her, just as he had always wanted to. He was going to show her how much she meant to him. He forgot propriety, the past, their friendship.

As he drew closer to her, she ever so slightly turned her head and kissed his cheek. “Mark, how good to see you again!” Dominique’s voice was affectionate, there was no mistaking it. But it didn’t have the husky note that he had been imagining. There was nothing at all romantic in her manner toward him.

The realization jolted Mark back to reality. He blinked as her scented hair brushed against the skin of his face. He was confounded by her proximity, yet his social training told him that something was required of him. Something mundane and hearty and appropriate.

“Dominique, how are you, it’s been much too long!” Mark heard his voice as though from a distance. It sounded right. It just didn’t feel right. It wasn’t at all what he wanted to convey.

Dominique disengaged herself from his arms, but held on to his hand. Mark allowed himself to be guided forward. She was chatting about something. He couldn’t quite focus on her words. In a moment he would get his bearings, regain control. But every nerve in his body seemed perilously close to the surface of his skin. With hypersensitivity, he felt the touch of her palm against his.

They stepped onto an elevator.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” she laughed.

He forced himself to smile back. How could she be so relaxed? Didn’t she feel the electricity between them? It was impossible that such a strong emotion was one-sided. Or was it? Hadn’t it been one-sided in the past? Why had he expected it to change?

In the harsh light of the elevator, Mark thought he saw a few signs of the difficult times she had recently endured. A faint crease at the corner of each eye. A subtle wariness of expression. When she wasn’t smiling, her mouth settled into a line that was more firm than before, as though she were determined to… what? He wasn’t certain.

The elevator stopped and Dominique led the way out. She turned and looked over her shoulder at Mark. He noticed the youthful, confident squareness of her posture. He thought about the emotional battering she had suffered at Clay’s hands. It seemed she had survived; not only survived, but bounced back, not unscarred but, in a way, stronger than before. He remembered the quality that had first drawn him to her: the vivid force that emanated from her. It was still there. Had grown in power.

Once more, he felt himself plummeting toward hopeless entanglement.

The moment Mark stepped through the door, all Dominique’s anxiety about the gala melted away. He wore the same irresistibly charming smile she remembered. A smile that enfolded her and conspired with her and drew her to him with a magnetic pull. A smile that said nothing in life is
that
serious.

She watched Mark’s eyes light up as he focused on her, and she felt herself glow in return. He admired her, he genuinely admired her! He was a man surrounded by power, a man who could have his pick of virtually any beautiful, accomplished woman in America—and he admired
her!
It made Dominique’s confidence soar.

Almost at once, she reined herself in. He was, after all, a practiced politician. It was his job to engage people, make them feel important and, yes, admired. And he was so good at it! Her giddiness ebbed away.

Then Mark wrapped her in the warmth of his arms and—she couldn’t help it—she clung to him in return. Oh, it felt good to be hugged! To smell the male scent of soap and shaving cream and—something that was exclusively Mark’s—a freshness that reminded her of a morning walk in the woods. Not as overpowering as cologne, just a nice, clean smell.

She looked up at him and saw his face come toward her. Their lips were about to meet. But they had never before kissed on the mouth. He mustn’t think she had done it on purpose! She was suddenly terribly aware of her newly single state, and her pride asserted itself. She didn’t want to be perceived as one of the countless women who threw themselves at Mark. She turned her head and lightly pecked his cheek. She didn’t see the look of disappointment on his face.

He continued to hold her and she wanted to be held, but instead she stepped back. She looked attentively at him as she chattered about inconsequential things. Why did she always envision him as handsome? He wasn’t really. She compared him to other men she’d known. Strictly speaking, he wasn’t as handsome as Clay or Stephen Hampton. Yet he transmitted kindness, humor, warmth, and—Dominique blushed as she thought it—sexiness. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him, not as a friend, but as a lover. She was surprised by the strength of her feelings. She had never before allowed them to stray so far into forbidden territory. During her marriage to Clay, she had firmly assigned Mark the category of friend. Despite the initial chemistry between them, she had irrevocably drawn the line. It would have been disloyal to do otherwise.

Now, the necessity for boundaries was erased. Dominique’s sensuality, long suppressed, came alive like a flower turning to the sun.

By seven-thirty, the Hall of Nations overflowed with people, the hubbub of their conversation resounding off the marble walls. New congressional wives, initially a little bewildered, soon gravitated toward the “Welcome to Washington” room, where they relaxed with soothing harp music as soft-voiced “consultants” told them about their new city.

The crowd was a hodgepodge of styles, representing as it did every state in the union. New Yorkers wore the latest fashions—dresses with cutout midriffs and plunging necklines. Midwesterners ran the gamut from flowered print chiffons to no-nonsense simplicity, while New Englanders stuck to navy and pearls. The embassy community was clearly distinguishable from the rest. The women were either impeccably chic or festively arrayed in native dress.

At eight, handsome young men in black tie directed guests to a seated dinner on the top floor, giving the workers below a chance to clear the area of the debris from the cocktail buffet. Candlelit tables for eight, decorated with yet more Dutch flowers, were placed strategically about the room so that guests could enjoy views of the Potomac River.

Dominique sighed with relief as she overheard the guests rave about the dinner, an ambitious joint effort by several embassy chefs. There was sautéed fresh foie gras from France, creamy risotto in saffron from Italy, stuffed roast loin of lamb from Greece, cheeses from Switzerland, and pastries from Austria. Dominique herself was too nervous to eat. She shuttled back and forth from the great halls below to the dining room, ensuring that everything was moving along smoothly. On her last trip, she returned just as dessert was being served. The orchestra had begun to play, and a few couples swayed on the parquet dance floor at one end of the room.

Dominique noted that Sylvia Brussels was firmly ensconced at one of the tables, chatting as she enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cigarette. As Dominique passed by, she heard Sylvia accept the congratulations of the German ambassador. Dominique tried to shrug off her annoyance. After all, Sylvia
was
the company’s top executive—apart from Mrs. Filmore, who had already departed earlier in the month for her annual trek to Palm Beach. If Mrs. Filmore trusted Sylvia enough to leave the company in her hands, she probably
did
deserve a lot of credit.

But a little voice inside Dominique reminded her that Sylvia had stayed as far away as possible from tonight’s project. She sighed to herself. What did it matter? At least the woman was happy. For the first time, Dominique saw a genuine smile on her face. It was not directed at Dominique, of course, but that didn’t matter. Sylvia could not deny that Dominique had proved her worth. That was the important thing.

After dinner, Dominique circled the room to check that dishes were being promptly cleared. As she passed the head table, where Mark was also seated, he caught her by the wrist. Dominique felt a charge go through her at the contact.

“Do you have time for a dance?” he asked.

Dominique looked quickly about the room. Did anything need her attention? People were laughing and chatting, toasting new friendships, and enjoying the glow of good wine and good food.

Dominique smiled down at Mark. “Just one,” she said. As they passed Sylvia’s table on the way to the dance floor, she could feel the woman’s gaze burning into her. In view of Dominique’s duties that evening, she could have found an excuse not to dance. But, she rationalized, that wouldn’t be very polite. And the fact was that she wanted the dance. Just one, that was all.

It was a waltz—the rather sentimental “Fascination.” But the words, crooned by a honey-voiced brunette in a sequined gown, suddenly resonated with meaning.

Mark carefully placed his hand on the velvet covering Dominique’s waist—a little higher and he would have touched her bare back. As it was, his body heat radiated through the material. It made Dominique’s nerves tingle with awareness. She felt as though she were on a tightrope. One wrong move and she would stumble to an unknown fate. At all costs, she had to avoid looking into Mark’s eyes. Eyes that lingered on her face, her hair, her bare shoulders. She should try to make small talk, Dominique told herself. To look casual. But she was mute with tension.

Mark, too, was silent. He could smell the perfume rising from Dominique’s skin. Tantalizing, erotic. He wanted to bury his face in her hair. He wanted to lead her away from the others, to be alone with her.