Worse than all that, though, was the fact that he smiled—very knowingly—as he placed his glass back on the table. And then, more softly than she had ever heard him speak, he asked, "More important than that, though, what else are you good at, Mack?"
Chapter 6
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A dam never found out what Mack was good at. Not from her, at any rate. Not during dinner. Now, as he drove her home—after practically picking her up and carrying her to his car when she'd kept insisting she would walk to the El instead, alone; yeah, right—he still wasn't sure what he'd expected to find out when he'd asked her about her … goodness. But he hadn't been able to help himself in voicing the question. The way she danced around the subject of her husband—or, at least, her alleged husband—had driven him nuts. He still wasn't sure what the hell was going on.
Was she married? Was she separated? Had she ever actually had a husband to begin with? Adam honestly wasn't sure now. The absence of her wedding ring and the fact that she had never specifically answered him one way or the other about Dave the bulldozer operator really had him wondering.
Was she married? And why was he so obsessed with finding out the answer to that question?
As the Porsche rumbled confidently down a quiet street in Oak Brook, it murmured its contentment with the cool night air outside. Which was good, because nobody else was saying a damned thing. Even their conversation over dinner had been surprisingly sparse. Which was odd considering the animation of their discussions at Drake's, where there were definite parameters and boundaries to inhibit them.
But he and Mack hadn't been at Drake's tonight. Therefore, those parameters and boundaries were immaterial. There should have been neither restraint nor hindrance to the topics the two of them could broach. Yet that very freedom of speech had hampered them both. They'd forsaken the meaty subjects they normally tackled in favor of—Adam swallowed his revulsion—chitchat. As a result, they hadn't discussed much of anything at all.
Especially Mack's husband. Or lack thereof.
Was she married?
The question echoed again in his mind, and no amount of ignoring it would squelch Adam's curiosity. Over the past hours in Mack's company, he was inclined to think that no, she wasn't. Not just because of the absence of her wedding ring. And not just because she had sidestepped each of his questions regarding her spouse. No, it was because of the way she had been looking at him all night. As if she was going to forsake all the luscious tidbits on the dessert cart in favor of something else entirely. Yep, crème brûlée and tiramisu had nothin' on Adam Darien, if the look in Mack's eyes was any indication. No married woman would look at an unmarried man that way. No happily married woman, at any rate.
Was she married?
If she was, regardless of whether or not it was a happy union, Adam wasn't the kind of man to violate the marital bond—his own or anyone else's. He knew too well what it felt like to have such a trust betrayed, to be on the receiving end of spousal infidelity. If Mack was married, no matter the state of her matrimony, he wouldn't press his luck. Or her.
If she wasn't married, however…
Well, even then, he wasn't sure it was a good idea to get mixed up with her in anything other than a mixed drink capacity. Ultimately, they could wind up in a much more difficult position than simply being shaken or stirred. He and Mack had a nice friendship. Did he really want to mess with that?
"It's on the right," she said suddenly, scattering his ruminations. Her soft voice sounded unnaturally loud in the close confines of the previously silent car. "Number seventy-three, second to last from the corner."
Adam slowed the Porsche as he approached the quaint—he could think of no other word to use, even though "quaint" was one he normally, manfully, avoided—townhouse, coming to a halt beside a sleek Jaguar sedan. It was a quiet street, devoid of traffic at this hour on a Monday night. In the bluish-tinted light of a corner street lamp, he developed a quick visual impression of wrought-iron railings on tidy front stoops, window boxes full of bright chrysanthemums, beveled glass in bay windows, and lace curtains.
Townhouses around here didn't rent cheaply, he couldn't help but observe. And mortgages here were even more costly. Mack's address amounted to awfully nice digs for a bartender-student and her bulldozer-operator husband. If, in fact, these were her digs. And if, in fact, she shared the digs with a bulldozer-operator husband who may or may not be real.
Was she married?
Only one way to find out.
"I'll walk you up," Adam said, telling himself that the simple offer did not sound like a royal command.
He double-parked, flicked on his emergency flashers, and switched off the engine. Then he turned to find that Mack was already opening her door and scrambling out of the car—or, more accurately, fleeing from the car. The minute she was out, she hurried between two luxury sedans parked at the curb beside her toward the front porch of the building she'd identified as her home.
"Hey!" Adam called after her as he raced to catch up. He did so just as she cleared the top step and alighted on the front stoop. Unable to quite help himself, he curled his fingers around her elbow in an effort to slow her escape. The small action must have caught her off guard, though, because Mack stumbled a bit as he tugged her gently back. Instinctively, as he had earlier in the bookstore, he extended his other hand to once again prevent her from falling. This time, however, he was ready for her when she righted, straightened, and steadied herself. And this time,
