the table until his fingertips were touching hers. A spark shot through Della, even at that simple, innocent touch. And when his hand crept up over hers, that spark leaped into a flame.
“Because if you do have all night,” he added, “I’d be more than happy to give you a very thorough illustration.”
Triple yikes. And another quaff, for good measure.
Ah, that was better. Now, what was it she had been about to say? Something about needing to get home because it was approaching midnight and, any minute now, she was going to turn into a bumpkin. Um, she meant pumpkin. Not that that was much better.
She searched for something to say that would extricate her from her predicament, but no words came. Probably because no ideas came. And probably no ideas came because they were all being crowded out by the visions featuring her and Marcus that kept jumping to the forefront of her brain. He really was incredibly sexy. And it had been such a long time since she’d been with anyone who turned her on the way he did. And it would probably be even longer before she found someone she wanted to be with again. She had no idea what would happen once Geoffrey was done with her. All she had that was certain was right now. This place. This moment. This man. This sexy, notorious, willing man. This man she should in no way allow herself to succumb to. This man who would haunt her for the rest of her life.
This man who, for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to leave quite yet …
Della tore her gaze from his, forcing herself to look at something—anything—other than Marcus. Gazing past him, she found herself looking at the windows of two French doors not far from their table. The snow the forecasters had promised earlier in the day had begun to fall—delicate, dazzling flecks of white shimmering in the lamplight outside. As a native New Yorker, Della was no stranger to snow. And Chicago had seen snow more than once already this season. But there was something as magical to her about snow today as there had been when she was a child. When it had snowed then, at least for a little while, her neighborhood ceased to be a broken landscape of grimy concrete and asphalt and would transform into an enchanted world of sparkling white. The rusty fire escape outside her bedroom window morphed into a diamond-covered staircase that led to the top of an imprisoned princess’s turret. The piles of garbage at the curb turned into pillows of glittering fairy-dust. The corroded cars became pearly silver coaches. Snow drove the gangs and dealers inside, who preyed on the neighborhood like wicked witches and evil sorcerers, so that all Della could see for block after block were radiant castles of white.
At least for a little while.
How appropriate that it should snow tonight, when she was actually enjoying the sort of enchanted adventure she’d had to invent as a child. How strangely right it felt to see those fat, fantastic flakes falling behind the man who had been such a bewitching Prince Charming this evening.
“It’s snowing,” she said softly.
Marcus turned to follow her gaze, then looked at Della again. His expression indicated that snow didn’t hold the same fascination or whimsical appeal for him that it did for her.
“They’re predicting four or five inches,” he said, sounding disappointed at the change of subject.
He looked down at their hands, at how his rested atop hers and how hers just lay there. With clear reluctance, he pulled his toward himself. It was what she wanted, Della told herself. A change in subject to change her feelings instead of changing her mind. So why did his withdrawal have the opposite effect? Why did she want him to take her hand again, only this time turn it so their palms were flat against each other and their fingers entwined?
Still, he didn’t retreat completely. His fingertips still brushed hers, and she could feel the warmth of his skin clinging to her own. It was all she could do not to reach for him and arrange their hands the way they’d been before.
It was for the best, she told herself again. This was a momentary encounter. A momentary exchange. A momentary everything. Especially now that the snow had begun, she really should be leaving. She’d told the driver of her hired car that she would be at the club only until midnight. It was nearing that now. She definitely needed to wind down this … whatever it was … with Marcus. Then she needed to be on her way.
So why wasn’t she?
“It will be just enough snow to turn everything into an ungodly mess,” Marcus said distastefully, giving her the perfect segue she needed to say her farewells. Unfortunately, he added, “At least no one will have to battle rush hour to get to work,” reminding her that tomorrow was Sunday, so it wasn’t as though she had to get up that early. She could squeeze in another moment or two …
“By afternoon,” he continued, “the city will be one big pile of black slush. Snow is nothing but a pain in the—”
“I love snow. I think it’s beautiful.”
Marcus smiled indulgently. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to maneuver in it,” he replied. Then he brightened. “But with that clue, I can add to my knowledge of you. I now know that, not only have you only arrived in Chicago recently, but you came here from some hot, sunny place that never has to worry about the hassle of snow.”
She said nothing to contradict him. It wasn’t lying when you didn’t say anything. And the more misconceptions he had about her, the better.
At her silence, he grinned with much satisfaction.
“I’m right, aren’t I? You came here from someplace where it’s hot all the time, didn’t you?”
Oh, if he only knew. It had certainly been “hot” for her in New York when she left. Just not the way he meant. So she only smiled and said, “Guilty.”
And not only of being from a “hot” place. She was guilty of twisting the truth in an effort to stay honest with him. Guilty of letting him believe she was someone she wasn’t. Guilty of leading him on …
But she wasn’t doing that last, she tried to reassure herself. Neither of them was making any promises to the other. If anything, promises were exactly what the two of them were trying to avoid. And, truth be told, she still wasn’t sure what her intentions were where Marcus was concerned. He was clearly interested in sharing more than champagne and an assortment of fruit and cheese with her. He was waiting for her to give him some sign that she was interested in more than that, too. And although there was a not-so-small part of her that was definitely interested, there was another part of her still clinging to rationality, to sanity, to fidelity.
Because even though succumbing to Marcus’s seduction wouldn’t make her unfaithful to another man, it would make her unfaithful to herself. She hadn’t scrabbled her way out of the soul-swallowing slums and into one of Wall Street’s most powerful, most dynamic investing firms by believing in fairy tales and capitulating to whimsy. She’d done it by being pragmatic, hardworking and focused.
Then again, being those things was also what had forced her to flee the very life she’d toiled in and fought so hard to build.
She sighed inwardly. There it was again. More thinking about things she wasn’t supposed to be thinking about tonight. Recalling the dissolution of her old life and fretting over the irresolution of her new one didn’t belong in the fantasy life she was living now. It was her birthday. The one day of the year where it was okay for a person to be selfish and self-indulgent. It was the perfect time for her to be thinking about the moment. The moment was all that mattered for now. The moment was all she had that was certain. The moment was all she had that she could control. With another glance at Marcus—whose place in this night, in this moment, she still hadn’t determined—she rose from her chair and moved to the French doors to watch the snow.
There was a small terrace beyond them, dark because of the late hour and frigid season. Della could just discern the outline of a handful of tables and chairs—all covered for