A Compromising Affair. Gwynne Forster

Thank you for the wine and cheese sticks. If you have any club soda, I’d like to add it to my wine. I’m driving.”

      “Oh. You want a spritzer?” Priscilla asked.

      “Yes, thank you.”

      Denise hadn’t planned for them to spend time alone at her house, but it wasn’t a bad idea. She had learned more about Scott since he’d come through the door than in all the time she’d spent with him the previous Sunday at Judson and Heather’s barbecue. Good manners and a lack of ego came naturally to him, she surmised. She sat beside him and lifted her glass.

      “Welcome to my home, Scott. Do you like these?” She pointed to the cheese sticks. “Priscilla makes them, and the house would be full of them if I encouraged her.”

      “I love these things. I used to buy them at Dean & DeLuca. These are the first I’ve had since I got back. Mrs. Mallory must have some special recipe.”

      “I’ll tell her you enjoyed them”

      “We ought to leave soon. Our reservation is for seven-thirty, and we are driving to Washington. It took me about forty minutes to get here. Do you mind if I tell Mrs. Mallory good-night?”

      “Of course not.”

      He headed for the kitchen. “Thank you for these wonderful cheese sticks, Mrs. Mallory. I’ve always loved them. Good evening.”

      “You’re welcome, and you come back soon. I’ve always got plenty of cheese sticks baked nice and fresh.”

      As if he had always done so, he grabbed Denise’s hand and they left. “When did you have time to buy a car?” she asked him as he opened the door to a new luxury car

      “I’m leasing it, but I’ll probably end up buying it after I settle in. I’ve decided to live in Washington and avoid that daily commute that I had when I lived in Baltimore.”

      “Have you found a place yet?”

      “Not yet. I have three or four places to check out.”

      By the time they reached Washington, he knew she liked classic jazz—the Louis Armstrong–Duke Ellington variety. She loved Mozart and disliked Wagner. She adored Italian Renaissance art, disliked contemporary art and loved Aretha Franklin and Luther Vandross.

      “I’d like a duplex apartment,” Scott said, “because I like the idea of having separate levels for entertaining and my bedroom and private quarters.”

      “You don’t want a house?” she asked.

      “No. I’d have to hire a live-in housekeeper to maintain the place, and I don’t want that.”

      At the restaurant, the maître d’ seated them and beckoned the sommelier. She and Scott decided not to order cocktails.

      “We’ll choose the wine after we order our meal,” Scott said to the sommelier. They both ordered the arugula salad, shrimp diablo, saffron rice and spinach. And for dessert, they ordered raspberries with kirsch and ice cream.

      “Did you order this because I did?” he asked her.

      “No. As a matter of fact, I order this every time I come here. It’s one of my favorite restaurants.”

      Scott’s eyebrow arched a bit at her comment, and she wondered what his reaction was to her preference in restaurants. She appreciated that he didn’t probe, and the more she got to know him, the more she liked him.

      Scott looked at the woman seated across from him. She had the elegance of a finely tuned Stradivarius, but she was, nonetheless, very approachable. He wondered how much of the latter was real and how much was for effect. They had much more in common than he would have imagined, and he found himself wanting to know her better. But something held him back, and it puzzled him. Always a man to keep his own counsel, he let his instincts guide him.

      “Where did you grow up?” he asked her, opting for a safe topic of conversation.

      “Waverly, Texas. My father’s folks have been Texans for generations, one of the first families of African-American ranchers in the state.”

      “Ranchers? And did you attend one of the exclusive Seven Sisters colleges?”

      “What an interesting question,” Denise said, genuinely surprised. “My parents wanted me to go to Bryn Mawr, but when I found out the ratio of female to male students, I balked and went to Princeton.”

      He leaned forward and hoped that his anxiety didn’t show. “How’d that work out?”

      “That’s where I developed my intolerance for snobs.”

      He couldn’t help laughing. “Did you fall in love with or marry any of them?”

      “No to both. But while I was getting my degree, I had a great time.”

      “Why doesn’t that surprise me? I can imagine that whatever the ratio of men to women at Princeton, you probably had your pick.”

      She lowered her gaze. “You’re too kind.”

      Sarcasm or humility? He wasn’t certain which. The waiter brought their food, saving him the need to reply.

      “You’re driving, and I know you don’t want to drink,” she said thoughtfully when Scott offered to order a bottle of wine. “I wouldn’t enjoy it if you couldn’t have any. By the way,” Denise said, changing the subject, “I belong to a group that’s putting on a big fundraiser in Philadelphia, and Velma Harrington is catering it. She’s incredible.”

      “Yes,” he said, as something played around in the back of his mind. He knew it was important, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

      They eventually finished the meal with espresso, and as they left the restaurant, he tried to remember what her mention of Velma Harrington had triggered. He shook his head in frustration.

      During the drive back to Frederick, she hummed along with the songs that played on the radio. She didn’t seem compelled to fill the time with idle talk, for which he was grateful. He had very little patience for meaningless chatter. He also liked the fact that, during the entire evening, she hadn’t once tried to flaunt her sex appeal. And he especially appreciated that the neckline of her dress wasn’t an advertisement for the milk industry.

      He hated having to spend an evening with his mouth watering over a woman’s cleavage. Usually if he liked her, he was tempted to hurry the evening along so that he could indulge. If he didn’t like her, it invariably annoyed him.

      He parked in front of the large brick house that she called home and walked her to the door. “May I have your key?” he asked. She handed it to him and stepped aside while he opened the door.

      “Would you like me to see if everything is okay?” he asked her.

      Her eyes widened. “Why, yes. Thank you,” she said calmly.

      He walked in, closed the door, locked it and handed her the key. “Stay here,” he said.

      It was a good-size house. Upstairs, he checked two bedrooms, a large office and three bathrooms, one of which had a big Jacuzzi and what seemed like endless closet space. He walked through the living, dining and breakfast rooms, then the kitchen and pantry, which revealed no surprises. He returned to the foyer and saw that she stood precisely where he had left her.

      “Do you have a basement?”

      “Yes, but do you think—”

      “Denise, I never half do anything.”

      After checking the basement, he bounded up the stairs and joined her in the foyer. “Thank you for a really wonderful evening. I’ve enjoyed being with you,” he said. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Good night.”

      He didn’t laugh at her wide-eyed look of surprise. But controlling the impulse to smirk cost him plenty. However, Denise was poised, and she quickly recovered