by Nora Roberts
You’ve only got ten days left. He leaves in ten days, she reminded herself. She sighed.
The sigh was as much for herself as for the inn’s fate. I wish he’d never come. I wish I’d never laid eyes on him. Scowling, she headed back towards the inn.
“That face is liable to turn guests away.” Startled, B.J. stared at Taylor as he blocked the doorway. “I think it’s best for business if I get you away from here for a while.” Stepping forward, he took her hand and pulled her across the lawn.
“I have to go in,” she protested. “I . . . I have to phone the linen supplier.”
“It’ll keep. Your duties as guide come first.”
“Guide? Would you please let me go? Where are we going?”
“Yes. No. And we’re going to enjoy one of Elsie’s famous picnics.” Taylor held up the hamper he held in his free hand. “I want to see the lake.”
“You don’t need me for that. You can’t miss it. It’s the huge body of water you come to at the end of the path.”
“B.J.” He stopped, turning directly to face her. “For two days you’ve avoided me. Now, I’m well aware we have differences in our outlook on the inn.”
“I hardly see . . .”
“Be quiet,” he said pleasantly. “I am willing to give you my word that no major alterations will be started without your being notified. Whatever changes I decide upon will be brought to your attention before any formal plans are drawn up.” His tone was brisk and businesslike even while he ignored her attempts to free her hand. “I respect your dedication and loyalty to the inn.” His tone was coolly professional.
“But . . .”
“However,” he cut her off easily, “I do own the inn, and you are in my employ. As of now you have a couple hours off. How do you feel about picnics?”
“Well, I . . .”
“Good. I’m fond of them myself.” Smiling easily, he began to move down the well worn path through the woods.
The undergrowth was still soft from winter. Beneath the filtered sunlight wild flowers were a multicolored carpet, bright against their brown background of decaying leaves. Squirrels darted up the trunks of trees where birds had already begun to nest.
“Do you always shanghai your companions?” B.J. demanded, angry and breathless at keeping pace with Taylor’s long strides.
“Only when necessary,” he replied curtly.
The path widened, then spread into the grassy banks of the lake. Taylor stopped, surveying the wide expanse of lake with the same absorption that B.J. had observed in him earlier.
The lake was unruffled, reflecting a few clouds above it. The mountains on its opposite edge were gently formed. They were not like the awesome, demanding peaks of the West, but sedate and well behaved. The silence was broken once by the quick call of a chickadee, then lay again like a calming hand on the air.
“Very nice,” Taylor said at length, and B.J. listened for but heard no condescension in his tone. “A very lovely view. Do you ever swim here?”
“Only since I was two,” B.J. answered, groping for a friendly lightness. She wished he would not continue to hold her hand as if he had done so a thousand times before, wished hers did not fit into his as if molded for the purpose.
“Of course.” He turned his head, switching his study from the lake to her face. “I’d forgotten, you were born here, weren’t you?”
“I’ve always lived in Lakeside.” Deciding that setting up the picnic things was the most expedient way to break the hand contact, B.J. took the hamper and began spreading Elsie’s neatly folded cloth. “My parents moved to New York when I was nineteen, and I lived there for almost a year. I transferred colleges at mid-term and enrolled back here.”
“How did you find New York?” Taylor dropped down beside her, and B.J. glimpsed at the bronzed forearms which his casually rolled up sleeves revealed.
“Noisy and confusing,” she replied, frowning at a platter of crisp golden chicken. “I don’t like to be confused.”
“Don’t you?” His swift grin appeared at her frown. With one deft motion, he pulled out the ribbon which held her hair neatly behind her back. “It makes you look like my adolescent niece.” He tossed it carelessly out of reach as B.J. grabbed for it.
“You are an abominably rude man.” Pushing back her newly liberated hair, she glared into his smiling face.
“Often,” he agreed and lifted a bottle of wine from the hamper. He drew the cork with the ease of experience while B.J. fumed in silence. “How did you happen to become manager of the Lakeside Inn?”
The question took her off guard. For a moment she watched him pour the inn’s best Chablis into Dixie cups. “I sort of gravitated to it.” Accepting the offered cup, she met the directness of his gaze and realized he would not be content with the vagueness of her answer. “I worked summers at the inn when I was in high school, sort of filling in here and there at first. By the time I graduated, I was assistant manager. Anyway,” she continued, “when I moved back from New York, I just slid back in. Mr. Blakely, the old manager, recommended me when he retired, and I took over.” She shrugged and bit into a drumstick.
“Between your education and your dedication to your career, where did you find the time to learn how to swing a bat like Reggie Jackson?”
“I managed to find a few moments to spare. When I was fourteen,” she explained, grinning at the memory, “I was madly in love with this older man. He was seventeen.” She gave Taylor a sober nod. “Baseball oozed from his pores, so I enthusiastically took up the game. He’d call me shortstop, and my toes would tingle.”
Taylor’s burst of laughter startled a slumbering blue jay who streaked across the sky with an indignant chatter. “B.J., I don’t know anyone like you. What happened to the toe tingler?”
Overcome by the pleasure his laughter had brought her, she fumbled for the thread of the conversation. “Oh . . . he . . . uh . . . he’s got two kids and sells used cars.”
“His loss,” Taylor commented, cutting a thin wedge of cheese.
B.J. broke a fragrant hunk of Elsie’s fresh bread and held it out to Taylor for a slice of cheese. “Do you spend much time at your other hotels?” she asked, uncomfortable at the personal tone the conversation seemed to be taking.
“Depends.” His eyes roamed over her as she sat cross-legged on the grass, her soft hair tumbling over her shoulders, her lips slightly parted.
“Depends?” she inquired. He stared a moment at her and she fought not to fidget under his encompassing gaze.
“I make certain my managers are competent.” He broke the silence with a smile. “If there’s a specific problem, I’ll deal with it. First, I like to get the feel of a new acquisition, determine if a policy change is warranted.”
“But you work out of New York?” The trend of the conversation was much more to her liking. The tension eased from her shoulders.
“Primarily. I’ve seen fields in Kansas that looked less like wheat than your hair.” He captured a generous handful. B.J. swallowed in surprise. “The fog in London isn’t nearly as gray or mysterious as your eyes.”
B.J. swallowed and moistened her lips. “Your chicken’s getting cold.”
His grin flashed at her feeble defense but his hand relinquished its possession of her hair. “It’s supposed to be cold.” Lifting the wine bottle, Taylor refilled his cup. “Oh, by the way, there was a call for you.”
B.J. took a sip of Chablis with apparent calm. “Oh, was it important?”
“Mmm.” Taylor moved his shoulders under his cream colored tailored shirt. “A Howard Beall. He said you had his number.”
“Oh.” B.J. frowned, recalling it was about time for her duty date with Betty Jackson’s nephew. Her sigh was automatic.
“My, you simply reek of enthusiasm.”
Taylor’s dry comment brought on a smile and a shrug. “He’s just a man I know.”
Taylor contented himself with a slight raising of his brow.
The sky was now an azure
arch, without even a puff of cloud to spoil its perfection. Replete and relaxed, B.J. rolled over on her back to enjoy it. The grass was soft and smelled fresh. Overhead, the maple offered a half-shade. Its black branches were touched with young, tender leaves. Through the spreading cluster of trees, dogwoods bloomed white.
“In the winter,” she murmured, half to herself, “it’s absolutely still here after a snowfall. Everything’s white. Snow hangs and drips from the trees and carpets the earth. The lake’s like a mirror. The ice is as clear as rain water. You almost forget there’s any place else in the world, or that spring will come. Do you ski, Taylor?” She rolled over on her stomach, her elbows supporting her head to smile at him, all animosity forgotten.
“I’ve been known to.” He returned her smile, studying the soft drowsy face, rosy from the sun and the unaccustomed wine.
“The skiing’s marvelous here.” She tossed back her hair with a quick movement of her shoulders. “Snow skiing’s so much more exciting than water skiing, I think. The food at the inn brings the skiing crowd. There’s nothing like Elsie’s stew after a day on the slopes.” Plucking a blade of grass, she twirled it idly.
Taylor moved to lie down beside her. She was too content to be alarmed at his proximity.
“Dumplings?” he inquired, and she grinned down into his face.
“Of course. Hot buttered rum or steaming chocolate.”
“I’m beginning to regret I missed the season.”
“Well, you’re in time for strawberry shortcake,” she offered in consolation. “And the fishing’s good year round.”
“I’ve always favored more active sports.” His finger ran absently up her arm, and B.J. tried hard to ignore the pleasure it gave her.
“Well.” Her brow creased as she considered. “There’s a good stable about fifteen miles from here, or boats for rent at the marina, or . . .”
“Those aren’t the sports I had in mind.” With a swift movement, he dislodged her elbows and brought her toppling onto his chest. “Are they the best you can do?” His arms held her firmly against him, but she was already captured by the fascination of his eyes.
“There’s hiking,” she murmured, unaware of the strange husky texture of her own voice.
“Hiking,” Taylor murmured, before altering their positions in one fluid motion.
“Yes, hiking’s very popular.” She felt her consciousness drifting as she gazed up at him and struggled to retain some hold on lucidity. “And . . . and swimming.”
“Mmm.” Absently, his fingers traced the delicate line of her cheek.
“And there’s . . . uh . . . there’s camping. A lot of people like camping. We have a lot of parks.” Her voice faltered as his thumb ran over her lips.
“Parks?” he repeated, prompting her.
“Yes, a number of parks, quite a number. The facilities are excellent for camping.” She gave a small moan as his mouth lowered to tease the curve of her neck.
“Hunting?” Taylor asked conversationally as his lips traveled over her jawline to brush the corner of her mouth.
“I, yes. I think . . . what did you say?” B.J. closed her eyes on a sigh.
“I wondered about hunting,” he murmured, kissing closed lids as his fingers slid under her sweater to trace her waist.
“There’s bobcat in the mountains to the north.”
“Fascinating.” He rubbed his mouth gently over hers as his fingers trailed lightly up her flesh to the curve of her breast. “The chamber of commerce would be proud of you.” Lazily, his thumb ran over the satin swell. Pleasure became a need as warmth spread from her stomach to tremble in her veins and cloud her brain.
“Taylor.” Unable to bring her voice above a whisper, her hand sought the thick mass of his hair. “Kiss me.”
“In a minute,” he murmured, obviously enjoying the taste of her neck, until with devastating leisure, he moved his mouth to hers.
Trembling with a new, unfamiliar hunger, B.J. pulled him closer until his mouth was no longer teasing but avid on hers. Warmth exploded into fire. His tongue was searching, demanding all of her sweetness, his body as taut as hers was fluid. He took possession of her curves with authority, molding them with firm, strong hands. His mouth no longer roamed from hers but remained to devour what she offered. The heat grew to an almost unbearable intensity, her soul melting in it to flow into his. For a moment, she was lost in the discovery of merging, feeling it with as much clarity as she felt his hands and mouth. Soaring freedom and the chains of need were interchangeable. As time ceased to flow, she plunged deeper and deeper into the all-enveloping present.
His hands took more, all gentleness abandoned. It flashed across the mists in her brain that beneath the control lay a primitive, volatile force from which she had no defense. She struggled weakly. Her protests were feeble murmurs against the demands of his mouth. Feeling her tense, Taylor lifted his head, and she felt the unsteady rhythm of his breathing on her face.
“Please, let me go.” Hating the weak timbre of her own voice, she sank her teeth into the lip still tender from his.
“Why should I do that?” Temper and passion threatened his control. She knew she had neither the strength nor the will to resist him if he chose to take.
“Please.”
It seemed an eternity that he studied her, searching the smoky depths of her eyes. She watched the anger fade from his eyes as he took in the fair hair spread across the grass, the vulnerable, soft mouth. Finally, he released her with a brief, muttered oath.
“It appears,” he began as she scrambled to sit up, “that pigtails suit you more than I realized.” He took out a cigarette and lit it deliberately. “Virginity is a rare commodity in a woman your age.”
Color flooded her cheeks as B.J. began to pack up the remains of the picnic. “I hardly see what business that is of yours.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he countered easily and she cursed him for his ability to retain his composure so effortlessly while her entire body still throbbed with need. “It will simply take a bit more time.” At her uncomprehending stare, he smiled and folded the cloth. “I told you I always win, B.J. You’d best get used to it.”
“You listen to me.” Storming, she sprang to her feet. “I am not about to be added to your list. This was . . . this was . . .” Her hands spread out to sweep away the incident while her brain searched for the proper words.
“Just the beginning,” he supplied. Rising with the hamper, he captured her arm in a firm grip. “We haven’t nearly finished yet. I wouldn’t argue at the moment, B.J.,” he warned as she began to sputter. “I might decide to take what you so recently offered here and now, rather than giving you some time.”
“You are the most arrogant—” she began. Her voice sounded hopelessly childish even to her own ears.
“That’s enough for now, B.J.” Taylor interrupted pleasantly. “There’s no point saying anything you might regret.” He leaned down and kissed her firmly before helping her to her feet. With an easy swing, he reached for the hamper. B.J. was too dazed to do anything but meekly follow him as he led the way toward the homeward wooded path.
Chapter 7
Once back at the inn, B.J. wanted nothing more than to disengage her arm from Taylor’s grasp and find a dark, quiet hole in which to hide. She knew all too well that she had responded completely to Taylor’s demands. Moreover, she knew she had made demands of her own. She was confused by her own reactions. Never before had she had difficulty in avoiding or controlling a romantic interlude, but she was forced to admit that from the moment Taylor had touched her, her mind had ceased to function.
Biology, she concluded, darting Taylor a sidelong glance as they approached the skirting porch. It was simply a matter of basic biology. Any woman would naturally be attracted to a man like Taylor Reynolds. He has a way of looking at you, B.J. mused, that makes your mind go fuzzy, then blank. He has a way of touching you that makes you feel as though you never had been touched before. He’s nothing like an
y other man I’ve ever known. And I asked him to kiss me. Color rose to her cheeks. I actually asked him to kiss me. It must have been the wine.
Soothed by this excuse, B.J. turned to Taylor as they entered the side door. “I’ll take the basket back to the kitchen. Do you need me for anything else?”
“That’s an intriguing question,” he drawled.
B.J. shot him a quelling glance. “I have to get back to work now,” she said briskly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me?”
B.J.’s dignified exit was aborted by a flurry of activity in the lobby. Curiosity outweighing pride, she allowed Taylor to lead her toward the source.