Inner Harbor
Page 19

"An interesting companion for the evening."
No, he thought, watching her eyes. Something was just a little off. On impulse he slid over, cupped her chin in his hand, and laid his lips lightly on hers.
She didn't draw away, but allowed herself to experience. The kiss was easy, smooth, skilled. And very soothing. When he drew back, she raised an eyebrow. "And that was because?"
"You looked like you needed it."
She didn't sigh, but she wanted to. Instead, she put her hands in her lap. "Thank you once again."
"Any time. In fact…" His fingers tightened just a little on her face, and this time the kiss moved a bit deeper, lasted a bit longer.
Her lips parted under his before she realized that she'd meant it to happen. Her breath caught, released, and her pulse shivered as his teeth scraped lightly, as his tongue teased hers into a slow, seductive dance.
Her fingers were linked and gripped tight, her mind just beginning to blur when he eased away. "And that was because?" she managed.
"I guess I needed it."
His lips brushed over hers once, then again, before she found the presence of mind to lay a hand on his chest. A hand, she realized, that wanted to ball into a fist on that soft shirt and hold him in place rather than nudge him away.
But she nudged him away. It was simply a matter of handling him, she reminded herself. Of staying in control.
"I think as appetizers go, that was very appealing. But we should order."
"Tell me what's wrong." He wanted to know, he realized. Wanted to help, wanted to smooth those shadows out of her incredibly clear eyes and make them smile.
He hadn't expected to develop a taste for her so quickly.
"It's nothing."
"Of course it is. And there can't be anything much more therapeutic than dumping on a relative stranger."
"You're right." She opened her menu. "But most relative strangers aren't particularly interested is someone else's minor problems."
"I'm interested in you."
She smiled as she shifted her gaze from the entrees to his face. "You're attracted to me. That's not always the same thing."
"I think I'm both."
He took her hand, held it as the wine was brought to the table, as the label was turned for his approval. He waited while a sample was poured into his glass, watching her in that steady, all-else-aside way she'd discovered he had. He lifted it, sipped, still looking at her.
"It's perfect. You'll like it," he murmured to her while their glasses were being filled.
"You're right," she told him after she sipped. "I like it very much."
"Shall I tell you tonight's specials," their waiter began in a cheerful voice. While he recited, they sat, hands linked, eyes locked.
Sybill decided she heard about every third word and didn't really give a damn. He had the most incredible eyes. Like old gold, like something she'd seen in a painting in Rome. "I'll have the mixed salad, with the vinaigrette, and the fish of the day, grilled."
He kept watching her, his lips curving slowly as he drew her hand across the table to kiss her palm. "The same. And take your time. I'm very attracted," he said to Sybill as the waiter rolled his eyes and walked away. "And I'm very interested. Talk to me."
"All right." What harm could it do? she decided. Since, sooner or later, they would have to deal with each other on a different sort of level, it might be helpful if they understood one another now. "I'm the good daughter." Amused at herself, she smiled a little. "Obedient, respectful, polite, academically skilled, professionally successful."
"It's a burden."
"Yes, it can be. Of course, I know better, intellectually, than to allow myself to be ruled by parental expectations at this stage of my life."
"But," Phillip said, giving her fingers a squeeze, "you are. We all are."
"Are you?"
He thought of sitting by the water in the moonlight and having a conversation with his dead father. "More than I might have believed. In my case, my parents didn't give me life. They gave me the life. This life. In yours," he considered, "since you're the good daughter, is there a bad daughter?"
"My sister has always been difficult. Certainly she's been a disappointment to my parents. And the more disappointed they've become in her, the more they expect from me."
"You're supposed to be perfect."
"Exactly, and I can't be." Wanted to be, tried to be, couldn't be. Which, of course, equaled failure. How could it be otherwise? she mused.
"Perfect is boring," Phillip commented. "And intimidating. Why try to be either? So what happened?" he asked when she only frowned.
"It's nothing, really. My mother is angry with me just now. If I give in and do what she wants… well, I can't. I just can't."
"So you feel guilty and sad and sorry."
"And afraid that nothing will ever be the same between us again."
"As bad as that?"
"It could be," Sybill murmured. "I'm grateful for all the opportunities they gave me, the structure, the education. We traveled quite a bit, so I saw a great deal of the world, of different cultures, while I was still a child. It's been invaluable in my work."
Opportunities, Phillip thought. Structure, education, and travel. Nowhere had she listed love, affection, fun. He wondered if she realized she'd described a school more than a family. "Where did you grow up?"
"Urn. Here and there. New York, Boston, Chicago, Paris, Milan, London. My father lectured and held consultations. He's a psychiatrist. They live in Paris now. It was always my mother's favorite city."
"Long-distance guilt."
It made her laugh. "Yes." She sat back as their salads were served. Oddly enough, she did feel a little better. It seemed slightly less deceptive to have told him something about herself. "And you grew up here."
"I came here when I was thirteen, when the Quinns became my parents."
"Became?"
"It's part of that long story." He lifted his wineglass, studying her over its rim. Normally if he brought up that period of his life with a woman, what he told was a carefully edited version. Not a lie, but a less-than-detailed account of his life before the Quinns.