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but without any of the passion she’d once dared to imagine. And she had neither questioned his lack of demand nor her own passive acceptance of it, because she had been young, innocent and naive, contenting herself with his evident satisfaction, finding pleasure in the overall tranquillity of their lives and the orderly show of love that compensated for unleashed passion.
    Unleashed passion. Was that what she craved? Would she know what to do with it? How to handle it? Sighing, she stooped to lift the towel from the floor and wrap it around herself as she passed through to her room in search of underclothes. Unleashed passion, hah! The only thing to be unleashed this day was a very naughty fancy that was destined for frustration. With a swift if rueful headshake she cast the thought aside.
    But eight o‘clock found her dressed nonetheless and on her way to the hotel dining room as she had preordained. She wore a dress of black silk that was soft yet sophisticated, scooped at the neck and draping her body with just enough fullness to suggest the fragile femininity within. There were solitary pearls at her ears, a fine strand around her throat and an exquisite wristlet to match the delicate gold-and-pearl creation she wore on the third finger of her left hand. Her hair was caught up with twin clasps of silk, her makeup blended with a light but skillful hand. In an utterly unaffected way she carried with her an aura of distinction as she smiled at the maître d’ and preceded him to her table.
    Far beneath this stunning surface she quivered, however, filled with trepidation that he wouldn’t be there. It was a grand shot in the dark that she had made and she
suddenly wondered why she had ever allowed her fantasy such freedom. Some dreams were meant to remain no more than dreams. Perhaps this was one of them.
    â€œEnjoy your dinner, Mrs. Hunt” The maître d’s parting words inspired her. Mark Birmingham or no, she was going to try. Settling into her chair, she took several deep and calming breaths. But she was unable to appreciate the grace around her, the soft notes of the piano as its music strove to soothe her mind, the flicker of a slender candle bringing to life the brandy-hued rose that stood proudly before her in its sterling bud vase. Opening her menu, she made a pretense of studying the elaborate list of offerings. But the exotic titles merged meaninglessly into one another; her mind was very definitely elsewhere. Finally, unable to restrain herself, she risked a glance up through the shade of her lashes toward his corner, where evening’s atmospheric lighting had replaced the morning’s sun.
    Deanna raised her head higher and opened her eyes with the breathless realization that Mark Birmingham was at his table, nursing a drink and infinitely aware of her own arrival. His dark eyes locked with hers and he smiled a greeting. She smiled back almost shyly, lingering for a moment’s pleasure before lowering her gaze in defense against the potent attraction she felt But her brown eyes sparkled, her cheeks glowed, the pulse at her neck throbbed in excitement. It was an auspicious start for dinner, indeed, for the night itself.
    Deanna barely knew what she ordered or ate, only that it was the most delicious meal she’d had in months. The service itself was faultless, its pace properly relaxed to allow her to greet friends and the occasional well-wisher, as well as indulge in periodic visual exchanges with Mark. At some point she actually wondered why they kept their distance, why one didn’t approach the other and end
their separation. But then her mind moved one step further and she was suddenly frightened. Fantasy was one thing, reality another. What if her dream man turned out to be a bore? Worse, a brute? What if his teeth were false or his hair sewn on or the breadth of his shoulders artificial? What if, when she finally heard it, his voice had a high nasal twang? As it