A Compromising Affair

A slight smile didn’t quite make it to her eyes. “I love politics, but not that much.”

He wondered at her seeming reluctance to tell him where she worked. “As long as you raise money for good causes, I’d say that’s a good thing.” If she didn’t want to open up, he’d find out what he wanted to know some other way.

“Where do your folks live, Denise?” he said, figuring the innocuous question would help continue their conversation. He had to get used to her name, since he wasn’t sure that it really suited her. She had an almost aristocratic air about her that he didn’t especially like, and women like that weren’t usually named Denise, but rather something like Caroline, Amanda or Allison.

Maybe he’d been away from African-American women too long. He told himself to stop trying to figure her out, that if she was interested in him, she’d open up.

She hadn’t answered him, so he decided to change tactics.

“Would you have dinner with me?” he said.

She looked him in the eye. “When did you have in mind?”

The heat from her fiery brown eyes seared through him. But if she could eyeball him, he could certainly do the same. “Friday, and as many times as you’d like thereafter.”

“You’re a bold man.”

He gave a quick shrug of his shoulders. “I don’t remember ever getting anything or anywhere in life by being timid, Denise. It’s not my style.”

“I certainly never imagined you were a man who passively accepted whatever circumstances he encountered,” she replied candidly.

He stared at her, mulling over the situation. “Where will you be next Friday between five-thirty and seven?” She gave him her address in Frederick, Maryland. “I’ll be there at six-thirty in jacket and tie.” The brilliant smile that covered her face surged through him like an electrical charge. The woman was beautiful.

“I’m looking forward to Friday.”

“So am I,” he said truthfully, while hoping and praying that he wasn’t shooting himself in the foot.

Chapter 2

Denise brushed her long, silky black hair until it shimmered. She curled it, brushed out the curls and let them fall softly around her shoulders. “At least it’s mine and not a weave,” she said to herself with a note of pride. She had inherited both her hair and her dark complexion from her maternal grandmother, who was a Shinnecock. Her father’s family had been mixed since slavery.

She didn’t want to overdress, but she wanted to look good. Scott Galloway was a strikingly handsome man, and she wanted to make an impression. When she’d looked into those dreamy grayish-brown eyes, half-hidden by long lashes that curled slightly at the ends, she’d felt as if a bolt of lightning had shot through her body. Leaning against a tree as if he didn’t have a care in the world, he’d taken her breath away. But she didn’t believe for one minute that he was as nonchalant as he appeared. The first time she’d met him, two years ago at a reception, they’d been sitting near each other at a round table. She couldn’t see much more than his profile. And he’d been so thoroughly peeved with her that he barely spared her a glance, or so it seemed.

She had always been attracted to very dark-skinned men. But Scott’s complexion, which was the color of shelled walnuts, gave him a polished, masculine look that got to her. And what a physique!

“Get your head on straight, sister,” she told herself.

“Those looks don’t mean a thing if that’s all there is to him.”

The thought amused her. Of course, he was a man of substance and, she imagined, had plenty of it. He seemed to have it all. Nevertheless, she wondered what his Achilles’ heel was. She had yet to meet a man who didn’t have one.

When the doorbell rang, she was wearing a short silk chiffon dinner dress that was a goldenrod color with insets that began where the hip stopped, and a rounded bodice that revealed no cleavage. Diamond stud earrings, black patent-leather pumps, a black silk purse and a dab of perfume completed her attire.

“How do I look, Priscilla?” she asked her housekeeper. Priscilla Mallory lived in Frederick, Maryland, but she commuted to D.C. when Denise was staying in Washington.

“Like you ever look anything but great. If he isn’t blind, he’s gonna be when he sees you in that getup. Real sweet, ma’am.”

Denise opened the door and thanked God for self-control.

“Hi. You’re punctual. I like that,” he said as he handed her a dozen yellow roses.

“Hi. You’re both punctual and a gentleman. Thank you. You chose the right color roses. I love yellow, and I adore yellow roses. Have a seat in the living room while I put these in a vase.”

She headed for the kitchen to find a vase. Decked out in a khaki-colored suit, a light shirt and burnt-orange tie, Scott Galloway was something to look at. “Go into the living room, Priscilla, and introduce yourself to Ambassador Scott Galloway,” Denise said to her housekeeper.

Priscilla’s eyes bulged and her lower jaw sagged. “Yes, ma’am. Yes, indeedy.”

Now, when did that happen? thought Denise. She entered the living room in time to see Priscilla putting a tray with two glasses of white wine and cheese sticks on the coffee table in front of Scott, who stood and extended his hand to shake hers.

“Ambassador Galloway, this is Mrs. Priscilla Mallory. She keeps thing in order around here.”

“I’m her housekeeper, Mr. Ambassador, and I take care of her like she was my own child.”

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Mallory. Thank you for the wine and cheese sticks. If you have any club soda, I’d like to add it to my wine. I’m driving.”

“Oh. You want a spritzer?” Priscilla asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

Denise hadn’t planned for them to spend time alone at her house, but it wasn’t a bad idea. She had learned more about Scott since he’d come through the door than in all the time she’d spent with him the previous Sunday at Judson and Heather’s barbecue. Good manners and a lack of ego came naturally to him, she surmised. She sat beside him and lifted her glass.

“Welcome to my home, Scott. Do you like these?” She pointed to the cheese sticks. “Priscilla makes them, and the house would be full of them if I encouraged her.”

“I love these things. I used to buy them at Dean & DeLuca. These are the first I’ve had since I got back. Mrs. Mallory must have some special recipe.”

“I’ll tell her you enjoyed them”

“We ought to leave soon. Our reservation is for seven-thirty, and we are driving to Washington. It took me about forty minutes to get here. Do you mind if I tell Mrs. Mallory good-night?”

“Of course not.”

He headed for the kitchen. “Thank you for these wonderful cheese sticks, Mrs. Mallory. I’ve always loved them. Good evening.”

“You’re welcome, and you come back soon. I’ve always got plenty of cheese sticks baked nice and fresh.”

As if he had always done so, he grabbed Denise’s hand and they left. “When did you have time to buy a car?” she asked him as he opened the door to a new luxury car

“I’m leasing it, but I’ll probably end up buying it after I settle in. I’ve decided to live in Washington and avoid that daily commute that I had when I lived in Baltimore.”

“Have you found a place yet?”

“Not yet. I have three or four places to check out.”

By the time they reached Washington, he knew she liked classic jazz—the Louis Armstrong–Duke Ellington variety. She loved Mozart and disliked Wagner. She adored Italian Renaissance art, disliked contemporary art and loved Aretha Franklin and Luther Vandross.

“I’d like a duplex apartment,” Scott said, “because I like the idea of having separate levels for entertaining and my bedroom and private quarters.”

“You don’t want a house?” she asked.