Holding the Dream Page 0,78

used knife and fork to cut meat as if the precise size and shape of it were paramount. "I think we've established that."

"Not just desires, Katherine. Feelings. I'd planned on sorting them out before we found ourselves at this stage. But..." He shrugged, ate, let her absorb the words. "I like maps."

Her already baffled brain clicked over into complete confusion. "Maps."

"Points of interest. Routes from one place to the next. I like plotting them out. One of the reasons I'm interested in hotels is because they're like a world. Self-contained, full of movement and places and people."

As he spoke, he cut the bone from what was left of his meal, then did the same with Kate's. He gave each of the wide-eyed dogs a feast.

"Hotels are never really stationary. Just the building is. But inside there are births, deaths, politics, passions, celebrations, and tragedies. Like any world, it runs more or less a certain way, along a certain route. But the detours, the surprises, the problems, are always there. You explore them, enjoy them, solve them. I fucking love it."

She pondered as he sat back, lit one of his cigars. She had no earthly idea how they had shifted from a discussion on their relationship to his work, but it was fine with her. Relaxed again, she picked up her wine.

"That's why you're so good at your job. My aunt and uncle consider you the best, and they're very picky."

"We generally do our best with something we enjoy." He watched her through a haze of smoke. "I enjoy you."

Her smile spread slowly as she edged toward him. "Well, then."

"You're a detour," he murmured, taking her hand before it could become too busy, bringing it to his lips. "When I map out the particular world I'm moving in, I always anticipate a few detours."

"I'm a detour." She was insulted enough to tug her hand free. "That's flattering."

"It was meant to be." He grinned at her. "While I'm on this intriguing and very attractive alternate route, I don't intend to worry how long it will take to navigate it."

"And I'm along for the ride? Is that it?"

"I'd prefer saying we're in this together. Where we end up depends on both of us. But I know this. I want you with me. I haven't completely figured out why, but I can't get past the wanting part. When I look at you, it's enough."

No one had ever made her feel more desired. He'd used no soft, alluring words, composed no odes to her eyes, and yet she felt vital and alive and very much wanted. "I'm not sure whether I'm confused or seduced, but it seems to be enough for me, too."

"Good." Most of the tension he'd been holding in seeped away as he brought her hand to his lips again. "Now that you're relaxed, why don't you tell me about this fascinating day of yours?''

"My day?'' Absolutely blank, she stared at him. Then her eyes cleared, went bright. "Oh, Jesus, my day. I'd completely forgotten."

"I can't tell you how gratifying that is." He laid a hand on her thigh again, slid it slowly up. "If you'd like to forget about it for a while longer..."

"No." As she pushed his hand firmly away, she chuckled. "I was bursting to talk about it, and then I started thinking about getting you into bed, and it slipped down a couple of notches on the priority list."

"How about I let you get me in bed again, and we talk later?"

"Nope." She scooted out of reach. "I've already had you, pal. The encore can wait."

"That sound you hear is my ego deflating." He sat back with his cigar, his wine, gestured with the glass. "Okay, kid, spill it."

She wondered how it would feel to simply say it aloud. "In March I found out that my father had embezzled funds from the ad agency he worked for before he was killed." She let out a breath, pressed a hand to her stomach. "God."

It was, he thought, the piece he'd been sure was missing, falling into place. "In March," Byron repeated, studying her face. "You hadn't known about it before?"

"No, nothing. I keep expecting people to be shocked. Why aren't you shocked?"

"People make mistakes." And his voice softened when he calculated just how much she'd suffered. "Cut you off at the knees, didn't it?"

"I didn't cope very well. I thought I was. I thought I could bury it, just push it in. Didn't work."

"You didn't talk to anyone?"

"I couldn't. Margo