Chosen

CHAPTER 9

Lance spends the afternoon giving me a grand tour of the house. Three floors of art, books, antique furniture and family history. A simple, pleasurable, uncomplicated exercise. I don’t recognize Lance in much of it, but it’s like visiting a museum. You don’t have to have a personal connection to what’s on exhibit to appreciate interesting things that represent the past.

Adele doesn’t join us.

While we explore, I watch Lance and listen to his thoughts. There’s no anxiousness in his manner, no nervousness about the party. He is neither alarmed nor disturbed at the prospect of attending. If anything, he is looking forward to it. He doesn’t hide the fact that he’s glad I will be accompanying him. I begin to feel that either Adele and Stephen are misguided in their concern or that my suspicious nature made me misconstrue what could be innocent remarks. Stephen because I’m a stranger being introduced into what is obviously a close-knit “family.” Adele because she is afraid I’ll hurt Rick. Asking me to watch out for him might have been another way to ask me not to hurt him.

We don’t see Adele again until just before we’re ready to leave the house. She’s on her way out, too. She’s dressed in black slacks and a fitted white top, a pair of simple flats on her feet. She’s knotted a bright silk scarf resplendent in jewel tones at her neckline. She looks me over. “That gown is perfect for you.”

Her compliment pleases me. I realize that I want her to like me. It’s silly and makes no sense, but I want her to like me. I reach out and touch the scarf. “That’s beautiful.”

She smiles. “It was given to me by my mother. It’s always been one of my favorites.”

Lance asks, “Adele, would you like to join us for a drink before the party?”

She shakes her head. “No. But thank you for the invitation. It’s my bridge night. Can’t keep the girls waiting, you know.”

She leaves through the front door. Her manner is relaxed, untroubled. No furtive glances my way, no whispered reminders of our conversation earlier. There’s a big SUV waiting in the driveway. When the driver sees Lance silhouetted in the doorway, she waves. I make out two other females sitting in the back.

“Do you know Adele’s friends?”

Lance closes the door. “Most of them. Sometimes she hosts the game.” He touches my arm. “She’s right about this gown. I don’t think you’ve ever looked more beautiful.”

His hands slide up my arms, his fingers begin to slip the straps off my shoulders.

The passion in his face burns through his fingertips, rages through his thoughts, stirs my own. “Maybe we should skip the party.”

His lips are so close. I raise myself up to meet them. His kiss is all the answer I need. I let the gown fall in a silken puddle at my feet. I kick off my shoes and stand before Lance naked and trembling and in a frenzy to get Lance naked, too.

He’s stripping off his jacket when his cell phone rings.

“Don’t answer it,” I breathe, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.

But he has the phone in his hand and by his expression, I know he recognizes the number. He pushes me gently away and puts the phone to his ear. He says nothing. In another few seconds, he snaps the phone shut.

“I’m sorry, Anna. We have to go. It’s important we’re not late.”

He stoops to retrieve his jacket.

“We have to go? This minute?”

But he’s reaching down for my dress. I snatch it up before he can. “Who was on the phone?”

He doesn’t answer the second question, either. I can’t get anything from his thoughts. I can forgive a lot of things, like the fact that he’s kept his true identity from me, but here I am, standing naked in front of him, and he’s pretending not to notice. The first time that’s happened. Embarrassment yields quickly to anger. I turn my back and yank the dress back up.

Lance makes a noise in his throat. “Talk about coitus interruptus, huh?” He traces a finger across my shoulders. “I am sorry, Anna. We’ll pick this up when we get home, okay?”

Something has changed. He’s trying to be flippant, but his thoughts are troubled. Irritation tempers to concern.

I face him, slipping into my shoes. “Was that Stephen on the phone?”

Still no answer. Instead, he holds out a hand. “Let’s get going.”

Now I’m wildly curious. Who could be so important that Lance would drop everything (meaning me) to hustle us out of the house? And why did his mood change so abruptly?