Brock released it instantly. He reached to lift a glass of white wine from a passing tray and handed it to Amanda.
“Thank you,” she said, pausing to sip from the crystal goblet, while struggling to compose herself.
“How do you know Mary?”
The question came as a surprise. Amanda hesitated. “Actually, I don’t,” she said. “We just met today. I have some clothes she’s interested in seeing.”
The man turned to stare at her. “Mary?” he asked in disbelief. “Mary Gibson is hiring a personal shopping service? A professional image-maker?”
Amanda felt another surge of irritation. “Look, Mr. Munroe,” she began, “you’re certainly free to have any opinion you like about my job. But that doesn’t mean that I—”
“What do you like to do?” he asked, ignoring her cool tone. “I mean, when you’re away from the job? What kind of person are you, Amanda? You know, I’ve always thought…” He paused suddenly, looking embarrassed.
“What? What have you always thought?” Amanda asked, intrigued by his sudden discomfort.
“Nothing,” the big man said with a casual shrug. “I’ve always liked to find out what interests people, that’s what I was going to say.”
“You want to know what interests me?”
“Yeah. I want to know what you’re like. I mean, do you spend all your time getting your hair done and reading fashion magazines, or do like to jet-set around the world, or what? When you’re all alone, what do you dream about?”
Amanda bit her lip and stared at him in silence, thinking about his question.
What did she like to do?
The tall man watched her calmly, apparently prepared to wait all day for her response. But Amanda was slowly realizing, to her growing discomfort, that she had no answer to give him.
She didn’t know what she liked to do. The truth was, Amanda Walker hardly knew who she was anymore.
There’d been a time, years ago, when she’d been far more definite about her likes and dislikes. She could remember herself at twenty-one, telling Edward with girlish happiness that she loved running barefoot on the beach, waking early to watch the sunrise across the lake, walking in the woods at twilight and listening to the hushed music of the night birds.
And he’d laughed, gazing at her with raised eyebrows and that wry sardonic grin that had always made her heart turn over.
“My, my,” he’d said with the flat New England twang that sounded so sophisticated to her Texas ear. “What an intriguing little savage we have here. The face of an angel and the soul of a hillbilly.”
Amanda had flushed with embarrassment at her own naiveté. Instantly she’d resolved to be more the kind of woman Edward admired, more cultured and intelligent and in tune with the nuances and realities of his New York life-style.
And she’d certainly succeeded. During the years that she’d been in New York, Amanda Walker had become the toast of their small exclusive circle, a graceful arbiter of fashion, gifted with a sure knowledge of what was correct for every occasion. She was at ease in any group, comfortable with the casual witty patter that was so much in vogue, secure in the knowledge that she was the most elegant woman in any gathering.
But did she like that life?
And if she did, why had she decided to come back to Texas, left Edward behind along with all their friends and embarked alone on this terrifying project?
And it really was terrifying—throwing aside the security of Edward’s arms as well as a large salary and expense account, for the dangers and uncertainties of opening her own business.
“I like to succeed,” she told the man in front of her with a quick defiant lift of her head. “I like the idea of making my own way in the world, taking on something that’s really difficult and making it into a viable and lucrative operation.”
She saw something in Brock Munroe’s face, a flicker of some emotion that looked almost like disappointment.
“And is that all you dream about, Amanda? Being a big success? Is that your whole happiness in life?”
Amanda met his eyes. Then she flushed and looked away, buffeted by a sudden paralyzing wave of yearning when she remembered her dream.
The dream haunted her all the time these days. She saw herself on a grassy hillside, laughing in the sunlight with a baby in her arms. That was the whole dream, just herself and the midday warmth and the comfortable weight of the drowsy infant in her arms. And somehow there was also the knowledge that a man stood nearby, unseen but deeply loved.
The image was always brief, usually invading her sleep in the misty hours just before dawn, and it filled Amanda with a happiness so exquisite that waking to cold reality sometimes seemed like an anguish too great to be endured.
She glanced helplessly toward the patio door and saw Beverly emerge, mouthing something and waving across the crowded noisy room.
“I—I have to go,” Amanda told the dark man in his poorly fitting suit. “My friends are looking for me.”
“In a minute, Amanda,” Brock Munroe said gently, holding her with his eyes. “First, you were going to tell me what you dream about.”
“I dream about clothes,” Amanda told him abruptly, wincing at the harsh arrogant note in her own voice. “And real jewelry and expensive cars. I dream about having lots and lots of money so I can own beautiful things, Mr. Munroe.”
When Amanda saw the disappointment that flickered across Brock’s face, she was tempted to grab his arm and apologize for her lies. She wanted to say, No, no, it’s not true, none of it’s true, that’s not what I’m like at all….
But maybe it was, she told herself defiantly.
Maybe they were all true, the things she’d just told him. Why was she so driven by her need to succeed in business, if not for the pleasures that came along with financial success? And why had she left behind everything she’d once valued, if not to attain a new goal that meant even more to her?
Brock waited politely, but his handsome face was no longer warm with interest. Amanda wanted to say something—anything to dispel the sudden chill that had come between them.
“Mr. Munroe…Brock, look, I just wanted to…” She began with uncharacteristic awkwardness.
But Beverly reappeared at that moment, waving frantically over the heads of people nearby, trying to catch Amanda’s eye.
Conscious of her friend, Amanda paused nervously. Brock smiled down at her with that same distant look of sadness.
“‘Again, the Cousin’s whistle,’” he quoted softly. “‘Go, my Love.’”
Amanda nodded automatically, then turned and stared up him.
“That’s from a Robert Browning poem, isn’t it?”
Brock Munroe nodded, looking down at her intently. “The poem’s called ‘Andrea del Sarto,’” he said. “It’s always been one of my favorites.”
“But…” Amanda’s astonishment was evident. “But how…”
“I may be a big simple cowboy in a bad suit, Miss Walker,” Brock said quietly. “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy poetry.”
She was silent, still searching for words to express her surprise.
“All you glamorous people don’t own the world, Amanda,” Brock told her quietly, his hard sculpted face empty of emotion. “You don’t have a corner on everything that’s beautiful and worthwhile. The rest of us may be peasants, but we have eyes and hearts and souls just like you do.”
Amanda felt an urgent desire to explain herself, to apologize