After Hours. Sandra Field

hostess and a demon golfer. But when Marcia phoned her from work the next morning, Evelyn sounded unusually flustered.

      “Dinner? On Sunday? With the family? Let me get my book... I—Marcia, could I bring someone with me? A friend?”

      “Of course. Is Lillian in town?”

      Lillian was her mother’s best friend, who had moved to Toronto only a month ago. “No—no, it’s not Lillian. It’s a man.”

      Evelyn always had an escort to the concerts and dinner parties she frequented, but never allowed these undoubtedly very fine men to mingled with her family. “You’re being a dark horse, Mother. What’s his name?”

      “Henry Woods. He’s a broker. I—I’d like you to meet him.”

      Trying very hard to hit a balance between unmannerly curiosity and diplomatic uninterest, Marcia said soothingly, “That’s just fine. Six o’clock?”

      “Lovely. We’ll see you then.” Evelyn, who usually liked to catch up on all the family news, smartly cut the connection.

      More slowly, Marcia put the receiver down. If she didn’t know better, she’d say her mother was in love. Her cool, unemotional mother in love?

      It didn’t look as though her dinner party would be dull.

      

      At five to six on Sunday Marcia was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. The same perverse instinct that had caused her to claim the painting of the three little girls had induced her to ignore the elegant but rather dull outfits that made up the bulk of her wardrobe, as well as her horn-rimmed glasses. She was wearing black stirrup pants with a long black sweater emblazoned with the golden face of a lion; her pumps were black with gold buckles. Despite the addition of the mysterious Mr. Woods, this was only a family dinner, she thought defiantly, adding scarlet lipstick and big gold earrings that dangled against her neck. Besides, it had rained all weekend.

      The security buzzer sounded and Lucy’s voice came over the intercom. A few moments later there was a tap on the door. Before Marcia could say anything, Lucy handed her sister the baby so she could take off her coat and said ingenuously, “We brought Quentin along. I hope you don’t mind? The cocktail party he was supposed to go to was canceled because the hostess had the flu.”

      Christopher Stephen Donovan grabbed at Marcia’s earrings and drooled down the shoulder of her sweater. Quentin’s eyes were even bluer than she remembered them. Marcia backed up so that they could come in and mumbled untruthfully, “No, that’s fine. No problem at all.”

      Lucy handed Troy her coat and swiped at Lucy’s shoulder with a tissue. “He’s teething again—I keep telling Troy someone should invent a better method for the acquiring of teeth. Here, I’ll take him now.”

      But Christopher had locked his arms around Marcia’s neck and burrowed his face into her shoulder. He smelled sweetly of baby powder and warm skin, his weight solid against her body. Her arms tightened around him as she rested her cheek on his wispy hair. Oh God, she thought helplessly, here I go again. I want to weep my eyes out. I’m cracking up. I’ve never wanted children. Not once in my thirty-three years.

      Quentin, meanwhile, had been hanging up his coat and combing the raindrops from his hair—more to give himself time to collect his wits than from any urge for neatness. His first glimpse of Marcia in all that black and gold had sent a jolt through his system as though he’d grabbed a live wire; he’d simultaneously wanted to look his fill and throw her down on the carpet and kiss her senseless. Then Lucy had given her the baby, and, as though the carpet had moved beneath his feet, he’d seen her holding his child, their child, the fruit of their love.

      You’re nuts, he told himself astringently. She hasn’t even agreed to have lunch with you and you’re already into fatherhood? He said, “Marcia, I brought you these. They were selling them at the market.”

      Marcia looked up. He was clutching a large, inartistic bouquet of mixed flowers—oranges clashing with pinks, purple next to magenta. His gaze locked with hers and she found herself quite unable to look away. “Thank you,” she said breathlessly. “Lucy can show you where to find a vase.”

      “Left my suit back at the hotel,” he added.

      He looked extremely handsome in soft-fitting gray cords and a dark blue sweater. “I see,” Marcia said inanely.

      Quentin handed the bouquet to Lucy and stepped closer to Marcia. “He’s going to pull your hair out by the roots... Let go, Chris.” Then she felt the warmth of a man’s fingers against her nape and felt his breath stir her hair. Every nerve in her body sprang to jangling life. Her shoulders rigid, her breathing caught in her throat, she heard Chris mumble a protest; his little fist tightened on her hair and she winced.

      “Easy, Chris...there we go.”

      With infinite gentleness Quentin had loosened the baby’s hold. As he eased the child out of her arms his forearm brushed her breast. The shock ran through her body; he must have felt it. She flashed a desperate glance around and saw that Troy and Lucy were watching her with considerable interest. I will not blush. I will not, she told herself. She said in a strangled voice, “I’ve got to keep an eye on the dinner. I’ll be right back.”

      Troy started setting up their portable playpen, Quentin swung baby Chris high over his head so that he gurgled with laughter, and Lucy followed Marcia into the kitchen. “Is Mother coming? Yummy—something smells delicious.”

      Glad to talk about anything other than Quentin, Marcia said, “She’s bringing a man,” and relayed the gist of the phone call. Before she’d finished Catherine arrived and sauntered into the kitchen, and she had to go through her story again.

      Dr. Catherine Barnes was petite like Marcia, elegant like their mother, and did research in pancreatic cancer. “I’m on holiday for three whole weeks,” she crowed. “I’m looking after Lydia’s dogs next week, so I’ll get lots of exercise and fresh air. You look like you could do with some sun, Marcia, you’re much too pale.”

      Cat was a fitness freak who could always be counted on to say it like it was. “Thanks,” Marcia said drily. “But it does happen to have been raining for the last four days—or hadn’t you noticed? Would you pass around the crab dip, Cat? And I’ll get Troy to pour drinks.”

      Lucy had jammed the flowers in Marcia’s largest vase. “Where’ll I put them?”

      Quentin was standing in the kitchen doorway, minus Chris. “I’ll put them in the middle of the table,” he said.

      Marcia had placed an attractive arrangement of silk flowers that matched her china as a centerpiece. She watched Quentin plunk it on the sideboard and put the motley bouquet in its place. He was exactly the kind of man she disliked—making decisions without consulting her, taking over as though he owned the place. As he came back in the kitchen she said frostily, “The only thing missing from that bouquet is skunk cabbage.”

      “Better luck next time.”

      “Next time? You don’t look the type to enjoy city life. I can’t imagine you’re going to stay in Ottawa for long.”

      “I wasn’t going to—but I’ve changed my plans,” he said. “A friend of mine who’s away owns a place in the Gatineau Hills, so I’m going to stay there for a while. You and I still have to have lunch—or had you forgotten?”

      “You’re very sure of yourself, Mr. Ramsey.”

      “Confidence gets results, Dr. Barnes.”

      “Up until now confidence might have gotten you results,” she said sweetly.

      “Are you suggesting I should change tactics?”

      “I’m suggesting you abandon the project.”

      “I don’t think so. You’re an interesting challenge.”

      Her nostrils flared. “Now you’re being insulting.”