Grady's Wedding Read Online Free Page A

Smithsonian and in full view of our national monuments. It wouldn’t seem right, now, would it?”
    “No, it wouldn’t. Dinner is definitely in order,” he said slowly, and relief that he’d followed her light lead shot through her.
    Or something shot through her.
    “Well, c’mon, then.”
    As they continued on toward his car and then back through the city to a tiny Italian restaurant up Connecticut Avenue, her spiel would have done a tour guide proud. She couldn’t remember a word of it later.
    She was no fool. She knew the men who found her attractive were the ones who liked a sense of humor, a sharp wit, a good listener, an undemanding presence in their social lives. And there wasn’t one she didn’t remain on friendly terms with after she let them know that was all it ever would be.
    Grady Roberts didn’t fit that mold. She knew from Tris and the others the kind of women he favored. She’d seen it herself with that redhead at Tris and Michael’s wedding. Her mirror told her she was attractive enough: decent figure, clear skin, regular features, shiny hair. Her face wouldn’t send small children crying for their mothers, but neither would it have strong men—especially outright handsome strong men like Grady—quaking in their boots.
    Besides, Grady related to women like a shooting star— brief, intense and no residuals once it had burned itself out.
    No thank you.
    So she ate with him and she talked with him and she laughed with him. But she insisted on paying for her dinner, so there’d be no mistaking this for anything resembling a date.
    And when he pulled up in front of her building, she gave his shoulder a quick pat and threw a wave over her shoulder as she went inside, so there’d be no mistaking them for anything other than friends.
    * * * *
    And he let her.
    Twenty hours later he stared out his hotel room window at the embassy across the street flying some blue-and-white flag he didn’t recognize, and he shook his head. What had gotten into him?
    First, he rushed the first kiss. Then he’d stumbled through the evening like a sleepwalker, letting her rule the conversation with amusing anecdotes of her family’s history without once approaching anything close to personal. All right, he hadn’t expected a kiss quite that . . . quite that much of a kiss.
    But today, while sailing the Chesapeake with a business prospect, he’d gotten a better perspective.
    He could—he would—get things back on track. Because he did want to get to know her better.
    He dialed her home number.
    A machine with Leslie’s voice, the bit of drawl warming up the succinct message about the number he’d reached and the way to leave a message, answered.
    “Leslie, it’s Grady. I’d like to take you out for dinner tonight, but since you’re not there I’ll give you a call later, or you can give me a call at my hotel.” He left the number and time, then hung up with a strange reluctance.
    Restless, he walked toward Dupont Circle. The soft spring evening had brought people out, couples slipping past him two by two. In every conceivable combination of humanity they sat on front steps, lolled on park benches, perched on the sides of cars, laughed in front of ice-cream shops, shared a bicycle.
    Room service and a channel-hopping binge that finally located Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant whiled away the night. Twice more he reached Leslie’s machine.
    She wasn’t available at her office when he called late the next morning during a break from his appointments.
    With fifteen minutes until his five-thirty flight, he tried one last time from the airport. She was in a meeting, did he want to leave a message? No, no message.
    * * * *
    “And if we can get the coverage I’m hoping for in The Post—”
    Interrupted by her own office telephone, Leslie made an apologetic face at her two visitors and answered.
    “Public Relations, Leslie Craig.”
    “Hi, Leslie, it’s Grady.”
    He’d caught her by surprise. The message