A Distant Summer (2 page)

It was the man beside her. It was the subtle physical strength of him, the long, sinewy length of his legs, the muscular hardness of arm that brushed against her shoulder with the motion of the cab. Her senses were alert to his every movement; her gaze was tempted again and again to his navy trouser-clad thighs.

He was tense, but she didn’t actually believe she was responsible. His tension was a result of frustrations with the law and probably with the medical profession as well. She knew that without knowing quite how she knew. And it bothered her: not just the knowing but the sympathy that winged from her heart to his.

“Are you staying in town long?” he asked, and then grimaced in apology. “I already asked that, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” She bathed her expression in pleasant understanding. “And I’m still staying only until the end of the week.”

“Are you visiting friends in the area?”

“No. Denver just seemed like an interesting destination when I started driving. It’s been a very beautiful trip. The Colorado scenery is breathtaking.”

“You drove all that way?” He paused and gave a short laugh. “I don’t even know where you live. You might have driven over from Boulder.”

“I might have, but it was a little out of the way, considering that Arkansas is southeast of here.”

“Arkansas?” A minuscule frown creased his forehead. “But I thought—” Another self-directed laugh rumbled in his throat. “You’ve moved from Missouri, of course.”

She smiled in wry concurrence. “ ‘Et tu, Brute’?”

“Yes, I also,” he said with a glint of humor. “I could hardly wait to leave my home state behind. The fact that I was accepted at the medical college here helped stir my wanderlust. What about you?”

“I’ve never been much of a wanderer, except for vacations. The rest of the time I stay close to home.”

“And family?”

An old pang tightened across her stomach. “No family, just home and friends.”

His gaze brushed her cheek with a more intimate question, but he didn’t ask. “Where are you staying in Denver?”

“The Brown Palace. Is there any other place?”

“Several, but none quite so steeped in tradition.”

She smiled. He smiled. Silence clustered thickly in the narrow confines of the cab. She shouldn’t have come. Kris accepted her judgment as she adjusted her position on the seat beside him and smoothed the crisp fabric of her skirt. There was no graceful way to excuse herself now. Why had she decided to vacation in Denver? And in all the vacations of the past why hadn’t she ever, once, met a man who was as attractive, as physically compelling, as Tucker McCain? But she knew. She’d never met anyone else who could compare because she’d met Tucker first.

The taxi pulled to the curb, and in a matter of minutes she was walking under a green awning and into Cafe Giovanni. It was crowded but thinning in the lull between the lunch-hour and early-evening clientele. There was only a brief delay before they  were walking up the curved stairway to the dining area.

Tucker seated himself across from her at a small out-of-the-way table, and Kris opened a menu and perused it without seeing at all.

“May I order for you?” The persuasive tone of his voice made her lower her menu, and she faced his dark sapphire eyes. And in that split second of contact she knew he could rearrange her life again if she wasn’t careful.

“A cocktail?” he asked. “Or would you prefer wine?”

“Wine, I think. And something light to eat. A salad maybe?”

He nodded and spoke quietly to the waiter. Kris looked around the restaurant, noticed the exposed red brick walls, the plush carpet, but her attention was entirely on Tucker, on the easy confidence that seemed so much a part of him. She heard him order, and the wine he had chosen was Chablis. Against her will she wondered if he remembered the firelight diffused through crystal goblets or the wine she’d nervously spilled on the less than plush carpet. He barely recalled meeting her. Why would he remember the type of wine?

He shouldn’t have ordered the Chablis, Tucker thought as he turned to watch Kristina’s interested study of Cafe Giovanni. The moment the words had left his mouth, he’d realized the connection between that kind of wine and his first encounter with the woman now seated across from him. What a situation.

She was very lovely, and the intangible distance that shielded her intrigued him. Why hadn’t he met her for the first time today? But since fate hadn’t allowed that, why hadn’t she taken her vacation in another month, a month in which his life wouldn’t have been in upheaval, a month in which he could have given her his concentrated attention?

The thoughts evolved into a slow question, and he ran a pensive fingertip over the hemmed edge of his napkin. “Kristina? How did you happen to be at the courthouse today?”

Her gaze returned to him with a hint of smoky apprehension. She glanced down as if weighing her response and then met his eyes. “I saw your name in the morning paper and I decided to go. I didn’t intend to talk to you. I was just curious, I guess.”

Her voice trailed into an unsettling hush, and Tucker felt a spiral of disappointment. Curiosity had brought her into that courtroom. She had wanted to see
Dr.
McCain on the legal hot seat. Nothing more. Certainly not Tucker McCain, victim of circumstantial publicity, a man in need of a friend. He couldn’t prevent himself from leaning back against his chair ... away from her.

Kris recognized the defensive movement and knew that somehow she’d offended him. Even knowing she should not say more, she couldn’t seem to prevent herself. “When I read the article about your—about the litigation, I couldn’t believe it. I know how much, I mean, I remember that you told me, how much becoming a doctor meant to you. This lawsuit must be a nightmare.”

“It hasn’t been pleasant,” he answered in cautious acknowledgment. “But then I don’t suppose malpractice suits ever are.”

He had stressed the word, and Kris felt another tug at her sympathy. Malpractice. He must hate the very idea, and to have it associated with his career! Small wonder that he exuded such intensity. “Will the case be resolved soon? Out of court?”

“My attorney seems to think so, but ...” He lifted his shoulders in a heavy shrug. “Frankly, I’m at the point where I don’t give a damn whether or not it’s ever resolved.”

Oh, he gave a damn all right. Even a casual observer could see just how much he cared—or how much he hurt. Why hadn’t she simply skipped the newspaper that morning and gone ahead with her original plans? Then she wouldn’t be here now, caring because he cared, hurting because he hurt. “You worked very hard to become a doctor, a
good
doctor.”

He tilted his head slightly at her confident tone. “Did I tell you that, too?”

“There are things I don’t have to be told.”

The corners of his mouth curved upward but didn’t quite become a smile. “It’s comforting to know I have a champion in the state of Arkansas.”

“You must have a lot of supporters here in Denver.”

His only answer was to glance, as if impatient, in the direction the waiter had taken. Restless fingers danced along his napkin before curling into a fleeting fist, and then he brought his gaze to her. “Tell me about Arkansas.”

Kris accepted his change of subject gracefully. “The capital is Little Rock. The population is somewhere around—”

He interrupted her. “I meant to say, tell me about
you.”

She’d been hoping he wouldn’t ask; she’d been wondering what she would say when he did. The napkin in her lap began to acquire nervous pleats. “I’m a newspaper editor. It’s strictly small-town news, but I’m very proud of it.”

His dark brows lifted in acknowledgment, and Kris realized her defensiveness. She hated the unexpected feeling. After her first year at the
Maple Ridge Gazette
the guilty feeling that she should apologize for her career choice had vanished. Why should the old attitude reappear now? And why had she been so quick to classify herself by her work, as if the sum of her existence could be found in the equation of newsprint and ink?

“And where is this small town?”

“Arkansas.” Her tone was flippant, but it was threaded with a quiet panic. He smiled, and Kris saw an unavoidable and perfectly legitimate question rising in his eyes. As it parted his lips, the waiter arrived with the wine, and she thought it couldn’t have come at a better time. She didn’t want to tell Tucker anything more about her life. Maybe he wouldn’t ask.

“You’ve never married.” Tucker offered the statement in the same careful way he extended a glass of wine, and just like that, he altered the mood and swept her into an ambiance of conflicting emotion.

Accepting the glass, she pretended an interest in the transparency of the drink. “Why do you say that?”

“Just a hunch.” He took a slow sip of wine and set the glass on the table. For a long moment he stared at it. He didn’t look at her, and she didn’t look at him, at least not directly. But the longing to do so was enclosing her, tightening across her lungs, increasing the beat of her heart. It was hard to breathe, and she knew release would come simply by lifting her eyes to his. But she must not.

“I’m not married,” he said in an offhand manner. “There’s never been time. Or maybe there’s just never been a good reason. I don’t know.” His pause was contemplative; his soft sigh, weary. “That doesn’t surprise you, does it?”

“No,” She wasn’t surprised at the information— she knew he would be the type of doctor whose commitment to medicine superseded any other commitment—but she was surprised that he’d mentioned the subject at all. The fact that he had was a measure of his uncertainty at the moment. It provided a glimpse of the vulnerable man beneath his cloak of confidence.

Silence came again, but this time she welcomed its comfort, and she sensed that Tucker did, too. Kristina continued to stare at her wineglass, remembering, oddly, that the last time—the
one
time—she’d been with this man, they had allowed not a second of silence. There had been a constant flow of words ... looks ... touches.

Luncheon arrived, and she banished memory to the safe past. Suddenly she was hungry and eager to lighten the mood and the pensive line of Tucker’s smile. “Do you have a private surgical practice?” She picked up a fork and poised it above her salad.

“Yes.” Tucker focused first on the fork and then slowly raised his gaze to her face. Her gray eyes met his, and for an instant he thought her sudden cheerfulness faltered, but she recovered quickly with a general comment. And although he answered in the same vein, he did not recover as quickly. There had been something in that momentary exchange, something muted and almost fearful—but real. Very real.

Tucker tried to define that intangible reality during the course of the meal, but he never came close to solving the enigma. If there were shadows in her gray eyes, Krishna never allowed him another clear glimpse of them. She was quietly animated, talking around many topics of conversation yet drawing out his opinions and his attitudes with skilled subtlety.

He realized what she was doing without being truly aware of how she did it. He knew only that he was talking, voicing thoughts that seemed to form without conscious effort. What he said seemed unimportant. It was the type of conversation he might have had with any new acquaintance, but he had an odd sensation that she was learning more about him than he would have willingly told anyone else.

Each time he tried to turn the tables, to discover the person behind her beautifully delicate face, she gave answers that left him dissatisfied and hungry to know much more than she revealed. By the time he paid the check Tucker was certain that he wanted to see Kristina again.

“Have dinner with me tonight,” he said, impulsively reaching across the table to touch her hand. Her fingers were cold, and he thought they trembled slightly beneath his. “We can make it late, if you prefer, and light.”

She met his gaze and slowly withdrew her hand to her lap. “No. Thank you, Tucker ... but no.”

His palm lingered against the crispness of the tablecloth as he sought again to penetrate the elusive veil of reserve that sheltered her. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll phone your hotel room,”

“I might not be there.”

“I’ll leave a message.”

“That isn’t necessary. Really.”

“It
is
necessary, Kristina. I want to see you again. I
intend
to see you again.” He couldn’t understand her reluctance, couldn’t explain his own persistence, but he knew he had never meant anything more sincerely.

She looked as if she might make another protest, but then a polite smile erased the impression. “I think I should be getting back to the hotel now. Thank you for lunch. It was very nice.”

He rose just in time to grasp the back of her chair as she stood and tucked her purse under her arm. His hand went automatically to her waist, and, although she permitted the faint brush of his fingertips, he felt her become instantaneously alert. As they left the dining room and descended the stairs, nothing else was said, no smiles were exchanged. There were no glances that held a small treasure of meanings, and Tucker was lost in the puzzle.

When he followed her into the afternoon brightness, she turned to him. “Again, thank you. It was good to see you, Tucker.”

A knot of frustration pulled taut inside him. She was going to walk out of his life as inexplicably as she’d walked in. He couldn’t allow that, but what could he do to stop her? Without actually considering a course of action, he bent his head and whispered a zephyr-soft kiss to her lips. It was a mere touch, yet it told him more than he had learned during the entire afternoon.

There was a bond between his heart and hers. He didn’t know if it had been forged in a long-forgotten moment or if it had bloomed into being within the past hour, but he didn’t doubt its existence, and he didn’t doubt that Kristina was aware of it, too.

“I’ll phone you.”

The husky tone of his voice sent a sweet unrest rippling through her composure. She didn’t protest. She simply turned from the dusky determination in his eyes and stepped inside a waiting taxi.

Tucker came forward to close the door, leaning down to offer one last promise. “Tomorrow.”