“And just where do you come from, Aurora Rose Kavanaugh?”
“Certainly not from Fifth Avenue.”
“Where then? I want to know all about you. It’s not every day a beautiful woman drops from the heavens onto my lawn.”
Both his interest and the compliment seemed to fluster her.
“We probably should place our order,” she said, retreating behind her menu. This resembled the thickness of a pamphlet,with page after page of entrées listed in French and mercifully translated into American.
Miss Kavanaugh appeared capable of employing the menu as a shield for an indefinite length of time, so Zeke took matters into his own hands. He beckoned to the waiter and ordered for both of them, his own appetite dictating a list comprising vegetable soup, lobster salad, oysters scalloped in the shell and for the main course tenderloin with Madeira sauce, Lyonnaise potatoes, green peas and stuffed eggplant, with apple fritters for dessert.
“That sound all right to you, Miss Kavanaugh?” he asked, belatedly consulting Rory. From behind the menu, he could just see her nod.
Zeke quickly dispatched the task of selecting a wine, choosing not only a red Bordeaux, but also a bumper of champagne to be served beforehand. With that the waiter retrieved the menus and Miss Kavanaugh was obliged to come out of hiding.
Zeke shifted a small vase of flowers out of his way so that he had a more clear view of her face. Resting his elbows on the table, he glanced across at her and smiled. “Now where were we? Oh, yes, we were talking about you.”
“I thought we came here to discuss my balloons.”
“Balloons?” he murmured, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips. She had the most delectably shaped mouth, perfect for kissing. When that same delectable mouth pursed into an expression of impatience, he forced himself to snap to attention.
“Oh, yes, your balloons. Tell me, have you been with the circus long?”
She heaved a deep sigh. “Only for one afternoon. I told you before, Mr. Morrison, I am not a circus performer. I have my own balloon company.”
As a waiter trundled the ice bucket with champagne forward and began to discreetly fill their glasses, she reached for her beaded purse. The reticule had been retrieved for her from the balloon’s soggy depths, Consequently both the purse and the business card she proceeded to hand Zeke were a little damp.
Zeke was more interested in watching the way the lamp’s glow played against the silken curls of her hair, highlighting that sheen of red he was sure gave the spice to her temper. But he wrenched his gaze away long enough to glance at the card.
Transcontinental Balloon Company
The name meant nothing to him, sounding like mere fanciful nonsense. But the address of the company startled him. It was located not far from the dockside where he had once worked in his youth. He passed quickly over that, moving on to the last printed line on the card.
“Seamus Kavanaugh, President,” he read aloud with an inquiring glance at Aurora.
“My father,” she said, the word laden with a mixture of sadness and fierce pride. “I never had the cards changed after his death last year.”
“I’m sorry,” Zeke said awkwardly. “Not about the cards. I mean about your?—”
“I know.” She cut him off quickly as though she did not want her grief touched upon. He could understand that. He had more than a few painful memories of his own he didn’t like paraded in the sunlight.
She continued in a brisk businesslike manner. “I am the president of the company now. We have been manufacturing and flying balloons for nearly seven years.”
“How interesting.” Zeke tucked the card carelessly away in his coat pocket. “But do we have to keep on being so formal? Why don’t you call me Zeke?”
“Well, I—” She had seemed so self-assured a moment ago discussing her balloons, but his request had discomposed her again. While she fortified herself with a gulp of champagne, Zeke pressed his advantage.
“And wouldn’t it be all right if I called you Aurora?”
She made a face. “Good heavens, no! If you must—that is, I am usually called Rory.”
“But I think Aurora is a lovely name.”
“You wouldn’t if you had had to endure years of the neighborhood kids teasing and chanting ‘Aurora Borealis.’”
Zeke grinned. “I will admit it doesn’t sound very Irish. How did you ever come to receive such a moniker?”
“It was all my Da’s idea.” Rory paused and stole another sip of her champagne. This was not what she had come here to talk about tonight. The waiter was already serving the soup, and hardly a word had been said about her balloon company. Still, she supposed she must engage in some polite conversation, so she permitted Zeke to coax from her the story of her birth and christening, of how long her parents had waited for a child, of the pain and disappointment of so many miscarriages, of how her coming had been awaited with so much hope, so much fear.
