Europe and England from classmates in boarding school, but what she knew of America came mostly from movies and very old television programs, and she was, she feared, badly out-of-date. “You must understand, here we have no such thing. What is it like? How, exactly, is it done?” And without her realizing it, her heart had begun to beat faster.
“What’s it like?” Kitty gave a dry little laugh. “Not that I’ve had much personal experience lately, you understand, but from what I can recall, it can be anything from fun and exciting to downright awful. As for how it’s done—honey, there’ve been about a bazillion books and magazine articles devoted to that subject.”
“Oh, but please,” Leila cried, “you must tell me. For example, must the man always be the one to…to…” Frustrated, she paused to frown and gnaw at her lip. She was not accustomed to feeling so awkward, and she did not like it one bit.
“Make the first move?” Kitty said kindly.
“The first move—yes!” Leila was almost laughing with relief. “Must the woman always wait for the man to do it? Or may the woman be the first one to speak?”
Kitty gave a merry laugh. “I guess that depends.”
“On what?” She leaned forward, intent with purpose now.
“Oh, well…on your generation, for one thing. Now, my generation, they’re pretty much stuck on the ‘leave it to the guy to make the first move’ tradition. Men my age seem to feel threatened by pushy women, for some reason.” She sighed.
Leila wasn’t exactly sure what was meant by “pushy women,” but she forged on, eager to get to what she really wanted to know. Breathlessly, she asked, “And…Mr. Gallagher?”
It was hard to imagine such a man feeling threatened by anything, much less a mere woman.
“Cade?” Kitty had that look again, the one that made Leila think of the woman’s animal namesake. She leaned forward as if she were about to reveal a great secret. “Just between you and me, I think that man focuses entirely too much on business. I think maybe if a woman wanted to get his attention, she might have to be a little bit pushy.”
“Pushy?” Leila frowned. That word again. The pictures it brought to her mind didn’t seem appealing to her.
“You know,” Kitty said, lifting one shoulder just slightly. “Give him a little…nudge in the right direction. A push.”
“Ah,” said Leila, feeling as if a light had come on in her head, “you mean, not a real push, but a suggestion. And this is…permissible in America?”
“I don’t know about all of America, but in Texas it is.”
“Thank you,” Leila breathed. “That is what I wanted to know.” She placed her glass on the table and rose to leave, preoccupied and just in time remembering her manners. Turning back to Kitty, she said automatically, “It was very nice talking with you. I hope I may see you tonight at the reception?”
“Oh,” said Kitty, looking solemn, “you can count on it.”
As Leila was turning away, she saw the other woman pick up the paperback book she had laid aside when Leila interrupted her. She thought it must not be a romance novel after all, but perhaps a very funny one instead. Because, as she found her place and began to read, Kitty was laughing to herself, and the smile on her face stretched from one ear to the other.
Chapter 3
The hum and clatter of sound from the reception hall receded as Cade strolled deeper into the gardens, and was gradually usurped by the quieter conversation of the fountains. The music followed him, though, carried on the soft evening air like a sweet-scented breeze. At least it was western music tonight. Not country western, that would have been too much to hope for—but the classical stuff, something vaguely familiar to him. Mozart, he guessed, or maybe it was Beethoven. He never could keep those guys straight.
He had the gardens to himself tonight. Everyone seemed to be inside the grand ballroom, nibbling fruits and exotic Middle Eastern tidbits and awaiting the arrival of the king of Montebello and his entourage, including the recently restored crown prince, Lucas, who not so long ago had been all but given up for dead. Elena had filled him in on that story, and thinking of it now, Cade could only shake his head. The whole thing sounded like something out of a spy novel to him.
He’d pay his own respects to the honored guests before the night was over, of course; he owed that much to Elena. But for now, he was seizing the opportunity for a much needed breath of fresh air. And some space—oh, yeah, that more than anything. There was something about this damned island, beautiful as it was, that gave him claustrophobia. He’d be glad when all the hoopla was over and he could get down to doing business with the old sheik. Hassan and Elena were postponing their honeymoon long enough to give him the intro he needed to smooth the way, but he was confident the negotiations would be easy sailing for all concerned.
As he stepped though the rose-covered arch that led to the promenade where yesterday he’d stood and listened to that strangely sinister conversation, he paused once again to light one of his cherished cheroots. This time, though, he didn’t linger there but continued on down the tiled walkway, which was arrow-straight and flanked on both sides by rows of intricately carved columns and lit at regular intervals by torches. At the far end, through another arched portal, he could see where it opened out finally onto a cliff-top terrace overlooking the sea. Through the portal the sky still glowed with the last wash of sunset, and it seemed to Cade like the gateway to paradise.
He walked toward his destination slowly and with a pleasant sense of anticipation, savoring the taste of the cigar, enjoying the textures of the night and his aloneness in it, feeling the breeze curl around his shoulders like a cloak…stir through his hair like caressing fingers…
And something shivered down his spine. He’d felt something…something that wasn’t really a touch. Heard something that wasn’t quite a sound. And knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t alone in the promenade any longer.
He halted…turned. Froze. His heart dropped into his shoes.
Halfway between the archway and where he stood the figure of a woman paused…hovered…then once again moved slowly toward him. Tonight, she wore an evening gown of a delicate yellow-gold, something shimmery that seemed to glow in the light of the torches like a small pale sun. It had a high neck and long, flowing sleeves, a bodice that clung and skirts that swirled around her legs so that she seemed to float, disconnected from the ground, like a wraith or a figment of his imagination. Except that he knew she was only too real.
Strands of long black hair, teased by the same wind that made a plaything of her skirts, coiled around her shoulders and lay like a shadow across one breast. Something glittered in the twist of braids on top of her head…caught an elusive source of light and winked. He couldn’t see her features in that purple dusk, but he’d known at once who she was. In a strange way, her body, the way she moved, seemed already familiar to him.
Leila almost lost her courage. The tall figure silhouetted against the evening sky and framed by gold-washed pillars seemed so forbidding, utterly unapproachable, like a sentinel guarding the gates of Heaven. But, oh, she thought as her heartbeat pattered deliriously in her throat, how commanding he looked in his evening clothes—how elegant, even regal.
And yet—the notion came to her suddenly, the way such insights often did to Leila—as elegant and at ease as he appeared,
