Against All Odds

“Adam, I don’t see that there’s anything to straighten out. Anyway, you probably won’t enjoy lunch with me. I don’t care much for power executives and two-hour lunches.”

He spoke more slowly, and his tone suggested that he didn’t like what she’d said. Why did the worst in her always seem to come out when she talked to him? She reckoned that, no matter how much the corporate giant he was, he had feelings, and she didn’t want to hurt him.

“I take it you don’t care for executive men. Why?”

“It isn’t that I dislike them—I understand them.”

He winced, and she had no trouble figuring out what he’d thought of that. Not much.

“I wasn’t aware that we were all alike,” he replied with pronounced sarcasm. Then he asked her, “Melissa, when you signed our contract, did you know I was a member of the Hayes-Roundtree family in Beaver Ridge, Maryland?”

“Yes, I knew.” She’d been expecting the question and had wondered why he hadn’t asked earlier. That was one thing she had decided she liked about him—he didn’t waste time speculating if he could get the facts. “I run a business, Adam, and I try to give my clients good service. If I think I can find them the kind of employee they want, I take the job. I don’t hold one person responsible for what another did.” The words had barely left her mouth when she realized her mistake.

His low, icy tone confirmed it. “Moses Morris’s accusation was false and unconscionable, and that was proved in court.”

“I’m sorry I alluded to that. I’d rather not discuss it. As far as I’m concerned, the matter was over seventy years ago.”

“No. You won’t state where you stand on that issue, though you know it’s important. You’ll evade it just like you walked out of my office without completing our discussions the day I met you. Avoid the heat, lady. That way you can stay calm, unruffled, unscathed, and above it all.”

She couldn’t tell from his voice whether she had angered him or saddened him, but she wouldn’t let him browbeat her. “You’re very clever to have learned so much about me in the...let’s see, two and a half hours that you’ve been in my presence. The arrogance of it boggles my mind, Adam. Well, let me tell you that I hurt as badly as the next Joe or Jane, and I bleed when I get cut, just like you do.”

“Look, I didn’t mean to— Melissa, this was a friendly call. I wanted to get to know you. I... We’ll talk another time.”

Her gaze lingered on the telephone after she hung up, annoyed with herself for having revealed such an intimacy to Adam. She could hardly believe that he’d been so accurate. She’d gotten out of his office that morning to preserve her professionalism, but for reasons other than he’d said. His effect on her had been mesmerizing, and she’d had no choice but to flee or lose her poise. She couldn’t allow him to regard her as just so much fluff—she headed a flourishing business, and she wanted that fact impressed on him.

* * *

Adam replaced the receiver with more care than usual and stared at the blank wall facing his desk. He didn’t want to feel compassion for Melissa; she’d made a solid enough impression on him as it was. It was one thing to want her, but if he also began to care about her feelings, he’d be in trouble. He had close women friends, but he didn’t allow himself to become emotionally involved with them. One woman had taught him to need her, to yearn for her, but foolish boy that he’d been, he had believed her seductive lies and gone back for more. Her full breast and ripe brown nipples were the first he’d ever seen. She had guided his lips to them while she stroked him, and he’d gone crazy. How could he have known that she only wanted to humiliate him? After nineteen years her vicious laughter still rang in his ears. Not again. Yet his life lacked something vital: a loving woman with whom he could share everything, the deepest desire of his soul; a home warm with a woman’s touch, devoid of the chrome and black leather sofas that decorators loved. And children. He shook his head. Just so much wishful thinking.

He left work late, grabbed a hot dog from his friend, who sold them at a corner pushcart, and made his way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He enjoyed the concerts there. People went because they appreciated the music, not because it was the chic thing to do, and they didn’t applaud halfway through a piece. At intermission he strolled out to the hallway for a stretch and a look at the crowd. Was he seeing correctly? He wouldn’t have thought that Melissa would attend a concert alone. Maybe she was waiting for someone. He watched her, undetected, and saw that she didn’t have a date. Just as he decided to speak to her, she looked directly at him, surprise mirrored in her eyes, and flashed him a cool smile.

* * *

Melissa watched Adam walk toward her, a gazelle in slow motion, and resisted the urge to smile. He must collect women the way squirrels gather nuts, she mused. She told herself not to be captivated by his dark good looks, his blatant masculinity, but she sucked in her breath as he neared her and wished that she’d taken off her distance glasses at the beginning of intermission.

She couldn’t hide her surprise at seeing him there alone. What had happened to the New York City women that such a man as Adam Roundtree attended concerts by himself? She decided not to comment on it, not to rile him, since he seemed more relaxed, less formal than previously, though she sensed a tightness about him. Her heart lurched in her chest as his slow, captivating smile spread over his handsome ebony face. She wasn’t a shy person, but she had to break eye contact with him in order to control her reaction. When her glance found him again, he had nearly reached her, and she had to steel herself against the impact of his nearness. What was wrong with her?

Adam held out his hand to her, and she took it, but they didn’t shake—though that was what he seemed to have intended. Instead he held her hand, and they looked at each other. His gaze burned her until her nervous fingers reached for the top button of her blouse. What is it about him? she asked herself. He spoke first.

“The auditorium is barely half full. Why don’t we sit together for the remainder of the concert?” She didn’t want to sit with him, and she didn’t want him holding her hand. Tremors ploughed through her when he touched her. She eased her fingers from his—feeling as though he’d just branded her—opened her mouth to refuse, and had half turned from him when another familiar voice caught her attention. Gilbert Lewis sauntered toward them.

“Yo, Melissa. I saw you sitting by yourself. I’m going for a drink, mind if I join you?” The man glanced up at Adam. “Or are you busy?” She wondered if he would have suggested it had she been alone.

“Excuse me, Gilbert. I’m with Mr. Roundtree.” She watched Gilbert Lewis walk away and thought how long she’d waited for that small measure of revenge. Small, but priceless. If a man saw a woman with Adam Roundtree, he knew he didn’t have an iota of a chance. The lights blinked, signaling the end of intermission, and Adam touched her elbow to guide her to their seats. She stepped away, but he trapped her.

“Have a good look at me, Melissa, so that you won’t try this trick with me again. I’m not accustomed to being used, Melissa, because nobody dares it. If you didn’t want that man’s company, you could have told him so. You said you’re with me—and lady—you are with me. Let’s get our seats before the music begins.” He walked them to their seats. Chastened, she explained.

“Adam, if you knew how much that scene meant to me, you wouldn’t grumble.”

His tone softened. “Are you going to tell me?”

She laughed. “You’re a hard man, aren’t you? Not an inch do you give.”

His shrug didn’t fool her that time, because his eyes denied the motion. “If it suits you to think that, I wouldn’t consider disabusing you of the idea.” At least he smiled, she noted with satisfaction. They took their seats, and she turned to him as the curtain opened. “You realize, of course, that if I didn’t want to sit with you, I’d be over there somewhere, don’t you?” She nodded toward some empty seats across the aisle. He patted her hand, and his words surprised her.

“I should think so. If you were the type to allow yourself to be steamrollered, you’d be less interesting.”

They stepped out of the great stone building, J. Pierpont Morgan’s grand gift to the city, and into the sweltering night. Several men removed their jackets, but not Adam. Her glance shifted to him, cool and apparently unaffected. She wondered how he did it. She had the impression that he didn’t allow anything, including the weather, to interfere with his adherence to the standards he’d set for himself.

The swaying trees along the edge of Central Park provided a welcomed, if warm, breeze as they walked down Fifth Avenue, but as though they had slipped into private worlds, neither spoke until they reached the corner and waited for the light to change.

“It’s early yet,” Adam observed. “Let’s stop somewhere for a drink.” If he hadn’t been staring down at her, she reasoned, saying no would have been easier. But a smile played around his lips almost as if he harbored a delicious secret—she didn’t doubt that he did—and the twinkle in his eyes dared her to be reckless.

She voiced a thought that tempered her momentary foolhardiness. “Adam, if anybody in Beaver Ridge or Frederick saw us walking together, they’d be certain the world was coming to an end.”

“Why?” he asked, taking her arm as they crossed the street, “we’re not holding hands.” She was grateful that he wasn’t looking at her and couldn’t see her embarrassment, but she needn’t have worried, she realized, because his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Melissa, why did you agree to find a manager for me if you knew who I was?”

“What happened between our grandfathers was unfortunate, Adam, and it is one legacy that I don’t intend to pass on to my children. I’ve never been able to hate anyone, and I’m glad, because hatred is as crippling as any disease. Believe me—I’ve seen enough of it. Anyway, why shouldn’t I have taken your business?” she hedged, unwilling to lie. His large retainer had been her salvation. “I operate a service that you needed and for which you were willing to pay.” She looked up at him and added, “It’s tempting to walk through the park, but that wouldn’t be safe even with you. How much over six feet are you, Adam?”

“Four inches. How much under it are you?”

“Four inches.”

He stopped walking and looked down at her. “How much under thirty are you?”

“Two years.” Her lips curled into a smile. “How much over it are you?”

“Four years.” He grasped her hand and threaded her fingers with his own.

Each time she was with him, he exposed a little more of himself, she realized. His wry wit and unexpected teasing appealed to her—she liked him a lot. Pure feminine satisfaction enveloped her. Here was a man who was strong and self-reliant, sure of himself, who didn’t need to blame others for his failures, if he had any. She shook her head as though to clear it. Adam Roundtree could easily become an addiction. And she knew that part of his appeal was his contrast with her father. Adam was direct, fair, but her father tended to be manipulative, at least with her. Adam was a defender, but for all his accomplishments, Rafer Grant was a user.

“Where are we going for this drink? We’re walking toward my place, but we could go over to Madison and find a café or bar. There’s no reason to go further out of your way.”

“Stop worrying, Melissa. I recognize your status as my equal—well, almost.” A glance up at him told her that the twinkle carried humor. “We are walking my way. I live on Broadway just across from Lincoln Center.” When she showed surprise, he slowed his steps.

“Where do you live, Melissa?”

She laughed. “Four blocks from you, in Lincoln Towers.”

They took the bus across Central Park, stopped at a coffeehouse on Broadway, and idled away three-quarters of an hour.

“How long have you lived away from home?” he asked between sips of espresso.

“Since I left for college. A little over ten years.”

“Do you miss it?”