First Impressions

been empty. Vance realized now that without her, it would have always been unfinished.
    There would be no living there without her—no living anywhere. Fleetingly, he thought of the large white house in an exclusive Washington suburb—the house he had bought for Amelia. There was an oval swimming pool sheltered by a white brick wall, a formal rose garden with flagstone paths, a clay tennis court. Two maids, a gardener and a cook. When Amelia had been alive, there had been yet another maid to tend to her personally. Her dressing room alone had been larger than the kitchen where Shane was now fixing soup and sandwiches. There was a parlor with a rosewood cabinet Shane would adore, and heavy damask drapes she would detest.
    No, Vance thought, he wouldn’t go back there now, nor would he ask Shane to share his ghosts. He had no right to ask her to cope with something he was only beginning to resolve himself. But he would have to tell her something of his former marriage, and of his work, before yesterday could be buried.
    “Shane . . .”
    “Sit down,” she ordered, busily pouring soup into bowls. “I’m starving. I skipped lunch this afternoon bargaining for this wonderful Sheridan table. I paid a bit more for the clock than I should have, but made it up on the table and the saltcellars.”
    “Shane, I have to talk to you.”
    Deftly, she sliced a sandwich in half. “Okay, I can talk and eat at the same time. I’m going to have some milk. Even I can tell that instant coffee’s dreadful.”
    She was bustling here and there, putting bowls and plates on the table, poking into the refrigerator. Vance was suddenly struck with the picture of his life before she had come into it—the rush, the demands, the work that had ultimately added up to nothing. If he lost her . . . He couldn’t bear thinking about it.
    “Shane.” He stopped her abruptly, taking both of her arms in a strong grip. Looking up, she was surprised by the fierceness in his eyes. “I love you. Do you believe it?” His grip tightened painfully on the question, but she made no protest.
    “Yes, I believe it.”
    “Will you take me just as I am?” he demanded.
    “Yes.” There was no hesitation in her, no wavering. Vance pulled her toward him.
    A few hours, he thought, squeezing his eyes tight. Just a few hours with no questions, no past. It’s not too much to ask.
    “There are things I have to tell you, Shane, but not tonight.” As the tension drained, he loosened his hold to a caress. “Tonight, I only want to tell you that I love you.”
    Sensing turmoil and wanting to soothe it, Shane tilted her face back to his. “Tonight it’s all I need to know. I love you, Vance. Nothing you tell me will change that.” She pressed her lips to his cheek and felt some of the tightness in his body loosen. Part of her wanted to coax him to tell her what caused the storm inside him, but she was conscious of the same need for isolation that Vance had. This was their night. Problems were for the practical, for the daytime. “Come on,” she said lightly, “the food’s getting cold.” The fierce hug she gave him made him laugh. “When I fix a gourmet meal, I expect it to be properly appreciated.”
    “I do,” he assured her, kissing her nose.
    “Do what?”
    “Appreciate it. And you.” He dropped a second kiss on her mouth. “Let’s go into the living room.”
    “Living room?” Her brow creased, then cleared. “Oh, I suppose it would be warmer.”
    “Exactly what I had in mind,” he murmured.
    “I tossed a couple of logs onto the fire when I came downstairs.”
    “You’re a clever soul, Shane,” Vance said admiringly as he took her arm and steered her from the room.
    “Vance, we have to take the food.”
    “What food?”
    Shane laughed and started to turn back, but he propelled her into the sparsely furnished, firelit room. “Vance, the soup’ll have to be reheated in a minute.”
    “It’ll be terrific,” he told her as he began to unbutton the oversize shirt she wore.
    “Vance!” Shane brushed his fingers away. “Be serious.”
    “I am,” he said reasonably, even as he pulled her down on the oval braided rug. “Deadly.”
    “Well,
I’m
not going to reheat it,” she promised huffily while he leaned on an elbow to undo the rest of the buttons.
    “No one would blame you,” he told her as he parted the shirt. “It’ll be fine cold.”
    She gave a snort. “It’ll be dreadful cold.”
    “Hungry?” he asked