Man of the Hour: Night Of Love

The next morning, it was raining. Meg looked out the front window and smiled wistfully, because the rain pounding down on the sprouting grass and leafing trees suited her mood. It was late spring. There were flowers blooming and, thank God, no tornadoes looming with this shower. The rain was nice, if unexpected.

She did her exercises, glowering at the ankle that was still stiff and painful after weeks of patient work. David was at the office and no doubt so was Steve—if he wasn’t too worn out from the night before, she thought furiously. How dare he rub his latest conquest in her face and make sarcastic and painful remarks about it?

He wasn’t the person she’d known at eighteen. That Steve had been a quiet man without the cruelty of this new man who used women and tossed them aside. Or perhaps he’d always been like this, except that Meg had been looking at him through loving eyes and missed all his flaws.

She didn’t expect to see him again after his harshness the night before, but David telephoned just before he left the office with an invitation to dinner from Steve.

“We’ve just signed a new contract with a Middle-Eastern potentate. We’re taking his representative out for dinner and Steve wants you to come with us.”

“Why me?” she asked with faint bitterness. “Am I being offered as a treat to his client or is he thinking of selling me into slavery on the Barbary Coast? I understand blondes are still much in demand there.”

David didn’t catch the bitterness in her voice. He laughed uproariously, covered the mouthpiece and mumbled something. “Steve says that’s not a bad idea, and for you to wear a harem outfit.”

“Tell him fat chance,” she mumbled. “I don’t know if I want to go. Surely Steven has plenty of women who could help him entertain his business friends.”

“Don’t be difficult,” David chided. “A night out would do you good.”

“All right. I’ll be ready when you get home.”

“Good.”

She hung up, wondering why she’d given in. Steven had probably invited one of his women and was going to rub Meg’s face in his latest conquest. She herself would no doubt be tossed to the Arab for dessert. Well, he was due for a surprise if he thought she’d go along with his plotting!

By the time David opened the front door, Meg was dressed in an outfit she’d bought for a Halloween party in New York: a black dress that covered her from just under her ears to her ankles, set off by a wide silver belt and silver-sprayed flat shoes. It was impossible to wear high heels just yet, and even though her limp wasn’t pronounced, walking was difficult enough in flats. Her hair was in its neat bun and she wore no makeup. She didn’t realize that her fair beauty made makeup superfluous anyway. She had an exquisitely creamy complexion with a natural blush all its own.

“Wow!” David whistled.

She glowered at him. “You aren’t supposed to approve. I’m rebelling. This is a revolutionary outfit, not debutante dressing.”

“I know that, and so will Steve. But—” he grinned as he took her arm and herded her out the door “—believe me, he’ll approve.”

3

David’s remark made sense until he escorted Meg into the restaurant where Steve—surprisingly without a woman in tow—and a tall, very dark Arab in an expensive European suit were seated. The men stood up as Meg and David approached. The Arab’s gaze was approving. The puzzle pieces as to why Steve would be happy with her outfit fell into place.

“Remember that the Middle East isn’t exactly liberated territory,” David whispered. “You’re dressed very correctly for this evening.”

“Oh, boy,” she muttered angrily. If she’d thought about it, she’d have worn her backless yellow gown….

“Enchanté, mademoiselle,” the foreigner said with lazy delight as he was introduced to her. He smiled and his black mustache twitched. He was incredibly handsome, with eyes that were large and almost a liquid black. He was charming without being condescending or offensive. “You are a dancer, I believe? A ballerina?”

“Yes,” Meg murmured demurely. She smiled at him. “And you are the representative of your country?”

He quirked an eyebrow and glanced at Steve. “Indeed, I am.”

“Do tell me about your part of the world,” she said with genuine interest, totally ignoring Steve and her brother.

He did, to the exclusion of business, until Steve sat glowering at her over dessert and coffee. She shifted a little uncomfortably under that cold look, and Ahmed suddenly noticed his business colleague.

He chuckled softly. “Steven, my friend, I digress. Forgive me. But mademoiselle is such charming company that she chases all thought of business from my poor mind.”

“No harm done,” Steve replied quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Meg said genuinely. “I didn’t mean to distract you, but I do find your culture fascinating. You’re very well educated,” Meg said.

He smiled. “Oxford, class of ’82.”

She sighed. “Perhaps I should have gone to college instead of trying to study ballet.”

“What a sad loss to the world of the arts if that had been so, mademoiselle. Historians are many. Good dancers, alas, are like diamonds.”

Her cheeks flushed with flattery and excitement.

Steven’s fingers closed around his fork and he stared at it. “About these new jets we’re selling you, Ahmed,” he persisted.

“Yes, we must discuss them. I have been led astray by a lovely face and a kind heart.” He smiled at Meg. “But my duty will not allow me to divert my interests too radically from my purpose in coming here. You will forgive us if we turn our minds to the matter at hand, mademoiselle?”

“Of course,” she replied softly.

“Kind of you,” Steven murmured, his dagger glance saying much more than the polite words.

“For you, Steven, anything,” she replied in kind.

The evening was both long and short. All too soon, David found himself accompanying the tall Arab back to his suite at the hotel while Steven appropriated Meg and eased her into the passenger seat of his Jaguar.

“Why is it always a Jaguar?” she asked curiously when he was inside and the engine was running.

“I like Jaguars.”

“You would.”

He pulled the sleek car out into traffic. “Leave Ahmed alone,” he said without preamble.

“Ah. I’m being warned off.” She nodded. “It’s perfectly obvious that you consider me a woman of international intrigue, out to filch top-secret information and sell it to enemy agents.” She frowned. “Who is the enemy these days, anyway?”

“Mata Hari, you aren’t.”

“Don’t insult me. I have potential.” She struck a pose, with her hand suspended behind her nape and her perfect facial profile toward him. “With a little careful tutoring, I could be devastating.”

“With a little careful tutoring, you could be concealed in an oil drum and floated down the river to Oklahoma.”

“You have no sense of humor.”

He shrugged. “Not much to laugh about these days. Not in my life.”

She leaned her cheek against the soft seat and watched him as he controlled the powerful car. It was odd that she always felt safe with him. Safe, and excited beyond words. Just looking at him made her tremble.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.