Night Moves

“Like I said, I wanted to go all out. Especially with your birthday in a few weeks. This will be the first time I’ve missed it in, well, forever.”

“Oh. Right.” Well, damn. She realized with a start that a tiny bit of her had actually hoped he was making some sort of romantic gesture. The mention of her birthday dinner, however, squashed that hope like a bug.

Ever since they moved to New York together, they’d taken turns treating each other to amazing birthday dinners. If one of them had an actual date on their birthday, the dinner was moved to a nearby evening, but they never failed to get together. It was fun, it was tradition and it was a chance to splurge on fabulous food guilt-free. After all, you couldn’t feel guilty about buying your best friend a birthday dinner, even if you were near your limit on your Visa card and had yet to buy textbooks. Friends came first, right?

“So, if this is my birthday dinner,” she joked, “does that mean I’ve got a present, too?”

He chuckled, then pulled out her chair for her. “Sorry, kid. I’m not that organized.” He moved to the other side of the table and took his seat, the corner of his mouth quirking in a familiar grin. “But you can tell me if there’s something in particular you want.”

Was it her imagination, or was his voice deliberately pitched low? She swallowed as the butterflies in her stomach took flight and her mind ran over all the possible “presents” he could offer. Oh my.

Her breath hitched, and it was all she could do to fight the urge to scream, “Yes, yes, I want you. I want a wild, stupid fling.” Except, of course, she didn’t want that. Couldn’t want that.

Damn. She really was a mess. And tonight—when her unexpected fantasy was so fresh on her mind—was the worst possible night to be spending with him.

Calling on intense self-control, she managed a simple shrug as she picked up her salad fork. “I’ve got one or two things in mind,” she said. And although she tried desperately to keep her tone flat and in control, she was appalled to hear the hint of heat that crept into her voice. Which probably went a long way to explaining why she’d gotten that C in drama and blown her straight-A average.

“Are you going to tell me?”

She shook her head, probably a little too vigorously. “I don’t think so.”

He perked up at that. “No? Hmm. So I have to guess. That’s okay. I’m a good guesser.” He grinned. “Besides, right now I know exactly what you want.”

She felt her eyes widen, and despite her best effort, her voice came out squeaky. “You do?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “And you can have it.”

“I—I can?” A bead of sweat trickled down between her breasts, and Ella swallowed, trying to will her body back to a place of calmness and serenity.

Not hardly.

He picked up the open bottle of champagne. “Birthday bash, remember? I figure we can go a little wild.”

Ella clenched her fists at her side, stifling an overwhelming sigh of relief. “Right. Champagne. Great.”

His eyebrows drew together, and he looked at her the way he might look at a hostile witness. “What did you think I was going to say?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” She waved a hand, even more seriously regretting that C. “I’m just stressed about that paper. And, you know, sad that you’re moving.”

“Just sad?”

She nodded. “I’m over being pissed off. I mean, it’s your career. That’s the one thing I truly understand.” And it was true, too. She did understand why he was going. But it still hurt all the same.

She shook her head to clear it. “So, you’ve really done it up, huh?” She took in the table, really seeing it for the first time, and not just the trappings. He’d returned the champagne to the table without pouring it, and now she saw the label. “This salad is amazing. And is that Cristal? Wow. You splurged.”

“For you? Anything.”

“Especially since you get to split the bottle.”

“There are three bottles, actually. I bought you a couple of extras.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “We can finish them off tonight, or you can keep them around to remember me by.”

“Just the thought depresses me.”

“In that case,” he said, “I really need to pour you this drink.”

“Can’t argue with that.” She started to lift her glass, then remembered her purchases. “Wait a second.” She ran to her bag and unwrapped the flutes, then held them up with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

As expected, Shane laughed. “You can never be too rich—”

“Or too thin or have too many champagne flutes,” she continued, finishing the line she’d said so many times to him—every time she’d splurged on another flute for her collection.

“So I’ve been told,” he said. “Serendipity, huh? I mean, you buy yet another pair of flutes, and I bought champagne. We’re like champagne and caviar. We go together.”

She managed a watery smile as she held up her glass. “Fill it to the brim,” she insisted. “I can use it.”

He leaned over to do just that, and as he reached toward her, she noticed him wince. Pain flashed in his eyes as he held the bottle steady, and she could see that he was fighting a grimace. When he pulled back and set the bottle on the table, his face cleared, and she could almost hear his sigh of relief.

“You want to tell me what that was about?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” he said. He rolled his right shoulder, wincing again as he did so.

“It’s not nothing,” she said, frowning. Back when she and Shane were in junior high, Shane had caught a ride home one stormy afternoon with his older brother, Marc. Marc had been driving too fast, lost control on a curve and flipped the car. Marc had been killed instantly. Shane had been banged up pretty good, the only enduring injury being a shoulder that tended to get pulled out of whack way too often.

There’d been emotional injuries, of course, and she and Shane had leaned on each other even more. Since neither had a solid family to rely on, they’d become each other’s family.

A wash of memory swept over Ella, bringing in vivid color to her mind the first time she’d really let Shane in on the horror of her life. They’d lived in an affluent enough section of town, and though her parents were divorced, both were Important People, doing the social and political thing. But they hadn’t done the parenting thing. Her father had just flat-out ignored her—she’d seen him a grand total of twice since the divorce. And her mother had used the excuse of having to work, then dumped Ella with the maid. All that even though Cecilia Davenport had enough money in oil royalties never to work a day in her life.

Considering her mom’s attitude, Ella hadn’t much minded spending the day playing with the maid’s daughter. Not an ideal life, but she could have dealt with it had the worst not happened.

She’d gone to a fund-raiser for some society thing her mom had been working on. It had been held in the summer at the estate of one of the society members. Tommy McQueen, Central High School’s star quarterback, had been there. The few kids present had hung out by the pool. Tommy had flirted with her, although she’d been too shy to flirt back, especially since she’d been a lowly freshman. But when she’d tried to escape to the safety of the inside, he’d pulled her aside, then dragged her into the pool house. As she’d fought, he’d fondled and almost raped her, coming so close, she’d had to endure the humiliation of a rape kit.