A Compromising Affair. Gwynne Forster

brothers.”

      “Really?”

      “We went from kindergarten through college and law school together.” He took a pair of tongs and put some pulled pork on her plate. “Want some chicken or ribs?”

      “Ribs. I love ribs, though I have to use yards of dental floss after I eat them. Where do you live, Scott?”

      “Right now, I’m staying at the Willard in Washington. But my belongings should arrive from Vilnius next week. Then, I’ll either move into my condo in Baltimore or sell it and move to Washington, where I work.”

      She accepted the plate of pulled pork, ribs and vegetables. “Thank you. I imagine you must have mixed feelings about moving.”

      “Of course. I’ll hate not being close to my grandmother. She’s getting older.”

      “Do you have family other than your brothers and your grandmother?”

      “There’s my father. My grandmother helped him raise us after our mother died in a car crash almost twenty years ago. She’s very dear to me. Where do you live, Denise?” Scott said, deciding that it was time to move the focus to her.

      “I have a house in Frederick and an apartment in Washington, and I divide my time between the two places.”

      He could see that she was deftly avoiding any details, at least about herself, so he decided to be more direct. “I work for the State Department, Denise. What do you do?”

      “I know you’re an ambassador, Scott. I’m a—a fundraiser.” Her brow creased in a frown. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

      “Actually, I do. I believe I met you at a party, but I’m having trouble remembering which one.”

      She lowered her gaze. “Don’t you remember seeing me at the party Judson gave for you when you were leaving for Lithuania? We weren’t introduced, but that’s where we met.”

      He hoped that his eagerness and excitement in preparing for his diplomatic assignment explained what must have been a testosterone malfunction. “That send-off and having everyone address me as ‘Mr. Ambassador’ nearly overwhelmed me. Something about that party seems to nag at me, though.” He shrugged his shoulder. “My preference is for the simple life. So Denise, do you work in Washington?” he said, quickly changing the subject.

      A slight smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “I love politics, but not that much.”

      He wondered at her seeming reluctance to tell him where she worked. “As long as you raise money for good causes, I’d say that’s a good thing.” If she didn’t want to open up, he’d find out what he wanted to know some other way.

      “Where do your folks live, Denise?” he said, figuring the innocuous question would help continue their conversation. He had to get used to her name, since he wasn’t sure that it really suited her. She had an almost aristocratic air about her that he didn’t especially like, and women like that weren’t usually named Denise, but rather something like Caroline, Amanda or Allison.

      Maybe he’d been away from African-American women too long. He told himself to stop trying to figure her out, that if she was interested in him, she’d open up.

      She hadn’t answered him, so he decided to change tactics.

      “Would you have dinner with me?” he said.

      She looked him in the eye. “When did you have in mind?”

      The heat from her fiery brown eyes seared through him. But if she could eyeball him, he could certainly do the same. “Friday, and as many times as you’d like thereafter.”

      “You’re a bold man.”

      He gave a quick shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t remember ever getting anything or anywhere in life by being timid, Denise. It’s not my style.”

      “I certainly never imagined you were a man who passively accepted whatever circumstances he encountered,” she replied candidly.

      He stared at her, mulling over the situation. “Where will you be next Friday between five-thirty and seven?” She gave him her address in Frederick, Maryland. “I’ll be there at six-thirty in jacket and tie.” The brilliant smile that covered her face surged through him like an electrical charge. The woman was beautiful.

      “I’m looking forward to Friday.”

      “So am I,” he said truthfully, while hoping and praying that he wasn’t shooting himself in the foot.

      Chapter 2

      Denise brushed her long, silky black hair until it shimmered. She curled it, brushed out the curls and let them fall softly around her shoulders. “At least it’s mine and not a weave,” she said to herself with a note of pride. She had inherited both her hair and her dark complexion from her maternal grandmother, who was a Shinnecock. Her father’s family had been mixed since slavery.

      She didn’t want to overdress, but she wanted to look good. Scott Galloway was a strikingly handsome man, and she wanted to make an impression. When she’d looked into those dreamy grayish-brown eyes, half-hidden by long lashes that curled slightly at the ends, she’d felt as if a bolt of lightning had shot through her body. Leaning against a tree as if he didn’t have a care in the world, he’d taken her breath away. But she didn’t believe for one minute that he was as nonchalant as he appeared. The first time she’d met him, two years ago at a reception, they’d been sitting near each other at a round table. She couldn’t see much more than his profile. And he’d been so thoroughly peeved with her that he barely spared her a glance, or so it seemed.

      She had always been attracted to very dark-skinned men. But Scott’s complexion, which was the color of shelled walnuts, gave him a polished, masculine look that got to her. And what a physique!

      “Get your head on straight, sister,” she told herself.

      “Those looks don’t mean a thing if that’s all there is to him.”

      The thought amused her. Of course, he was a man of substance and, she imagined, had plenty of it. He seemed to have it all. Nevertheless, she wondered what his Achilles’ heel was. She had yet to meet a man who didn’t have one.

      When the doorbell rang, she was wearing a short silk chiffon dinner dress that was a goldenrod color with insets that began where the hip stopped, and a rounded bodice that revealed no cleavage. Diamond stud earrings, black patent-leather pumps, a black silk purse and a dab of perfume completed her attire.

      “How do I look, Priscilla?” she asked her housekeeper. Priscilla Mallory lived in Frederick, Maryland, but she commuted to D.C. when Denise was staying in Washington.

      “Like you ever look anything but great. If he isn’t blind, he’s gonna be when he sees you in that getup. Real sweet, ma’am.”

      Denise opened the door and thanked God for self-control.

      “Hi. You’re punctual. I like that,” he said as he handed her a dozen yellow roses.

      “Hi. You’re both punctual and a gentleman. Thank you. You chose the right color roses. I love yellow, and I adore yellow roses. Have a seat in the living room while I put these in a vase.”

      She headed for the kitchen to find a vase. Decked out in a khaki-colored suit, a light shirt and burnt-orange tie, Scott Galloway was something to look at. “Go into the living room, Priscilla, and introduce yourself to Ambassador Scott Galloway,” Denise said to her housekeeper.

      Priscilla’s eyes bulged and her lower jaw sagged. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, indeedy.”

      Now, when did that happen? thought Denise. She entered the living room in time to see Priscilla putting a tray with two glasses of white wine and cheese sticks on the coffee table in front of Scott, who stood and extended his hand to shake hers.

      “Ambassador Galloway, this is