Drake's eyes flicked only briefly. He had known from the moment he saw her that site was a cool woman of determined purpose. Still, the cloak she wore was an enigma, as mysterious as her stately beauty.
"What shall I bring you to drink?" he asked, his voice carrying that husky timbre he couldn't quite control.
It wasn't the type of question to cause confusion in such an independent lady, but it did. She frowned. "Oh, ah, I don't know. . . ."
"Pina coladas," he decided quickly, again surprised by the surge of protection that assailed him.
She visibly relaxed, making him realize just how overwrought she had been.
"A pina colada sounds lovely," she told him.
Drake wasn't fond of the rum and coconut drink himself, but to keep her company, he ordered two. It was, after all, a cruise.
The four-hundred-passenger cruise ship left Charleston Harbor Friday afternoon and would return to its berth early the following Monday morning. Three days of relaxation, with the majority of passengers being businessmen or professionals with little time to spare from hectic schedules. Drake had taken the time himself simply to unwind. He had imagined nothing more than a few hours of sun, fine food when the mood took him, and three peaceful nights rest upon the lull of the Atlantic. He hadn't come for companionship, but rather to avoid it.
And now this. But he was already thoroughly enchanted; he could have refused her no more than he could have asked the sun not to shine. They had spoken so little, but he was dimly aware that her soft, husky, southern-cultured voice would later seep into his dreams.
"A pina colada," he said, sitting poolside, his long, tanned legs dangling in the water. She smiled lightly at his return and hopped lithely from the water to join him. Her arm brushed his as she sat alongside him, their naked thighs touching. The contact was jolting, almost shattering, as if a jagged bolt of lightning had struck from a clear sky to sear through them both.
Ronnie inhaled a sharp breath, meeting Drake's dark gaze, perpetuating no pretense at the intensity of the purely physical pleasure she was experiencing. That which had been hidden away so long it had almost been forgotten, rose to the surface with a crippling poignancy. Just to be beside this man was excitement enough to send waves of heat washing through her—a heat that felt so damn good. She was, after all, a mature woman, so long denied. And even though the reason for her denial was a part of her heart, she couldn't fight this intrinsic beauty that had been granted her.
"Thank you," she said, taking the drink he offered her, once more aware of the beauty of the power of masculine hands. "To the cruise," she offered, tipping her glass to his.
"To the cruise," he repeated solemnly, his black eyes smoldering into pits of raven coal. A saint would be shaking on a pedestal with her so near. "And to you, Ronnie."
"Thank you," she murmured again, and he thought he perceived a soft blush. "Drake..." she said, in afterthought, seeming to twirl his name on her tongue as if she savored it. Averting her eyes for a moment, she took a sip of her drink. "Where are you from, Drake?" she queried.
He could have sworn she was somewhat anxious, which was peculiar, because conversation didn't really seem to interest her.
"The Midwest," he replied, sure that his answer pleased her. 'Chicago. How about you?"
She smiled again, and this time the curl of her lips lit a true warmth into her eyes. "That's obvious, isn't it?" Her chuckle was as low and melodious as her voice.
"Yes, it is," he answered, his grin deepening to disclose a cleft in his chin she'd yet to discover. "But from where in the South?"
"Oh, ah—Georgia."
She was lying, but why? At this point he had no desire to challenge her. Sitting together, talking, was taking away the initial edge. She had tensed when she lied—a dead giveaway. But other than that, she had begun to truly relax in his presence, as if she had made a decision to trust him completely Despite her cool sophistication, that trust drew out all his male instincts. Somewhere on a level beneath conscious thought, it was registering with him that she was all he had ever wanted in a woman. Assured yet reserved, aloof yet incredibly warm. He had the feeling that he had touched upon the tip of an iceberg—and that a wealth awaited him beneath the surface. That wealth would be a host of wonders—intelligence, loyalty, and wit to match her rare beauty and poise.
When she spoke, the mystical blue of her eyes was enchantment; when she laughed, it became a shimmering pool of the deepest enticement.
And yet she held that reserve, so he agreeably tread slowly. She shied from personal conversation; they discussed the world and society at large. Time, space, land. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, but he had never wanted more to woo a woman, to cajole and to please, to care for and to protect.
That evening it was dinner. Just dinner. When he left her at the door to her cabin, he barely brushed her lips.
His rewards were great—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and delightful times in between, the next day. She hesitated each time she gave him a yes, as if she struggled inwardly. But he asked nothing of her. He was willing to wait for her, for whatever time she needed. He was planning on a long-range assault, and the stakes he slowly realized he was seeking were infinitely high.
Another night passed with his softly brushing her lips at her cabin door; a night that ended a day in which they had both veered from personal queries.
Talk and questions that delved could come later. They simply savored one another's company.
On Sunday afternoon they sat together by the pool again, uniquely comfortable in a companionable since.
Ronnie's eyes were only half open as she regarded the water, dazzling as it rippled beneath the sun. She was being foolish, and she knew it. But she hadn't been able to refuse Drake, because she didn't want to. She closed her eyes tightly for a minute, against pain, against remorse, against guilt. It might be wrong to want to feel, to cherish this being alive and young and vibrant near this extraordinary man, but in the end, what difference did it make? She would never see him again; who could she hurt but herself?
And how much worse could she possibly hurt?
For years now she had learned to tolerate pain, withdrawing from it into an inner shell. She had learned to be strong; she had learned to turn her cheek. She had done it, because underneath it all she knew she was desperately needed . . . and despite all, still loved. And though her love had changed as the love given to her had, it was still there, along with the memories she could not betray.
This wasn't betrayal, her heart suddenly raged with a surge of rebellion that brought tears to her eyes. She deserved this little happiness she had found. Everyone needed something... or else they cracked. And she couldn't crack. No matter what, she couldn't crack. . . .
She was the wall that was leaned upon.
Except now, with Drake. It still made her slightly nervous to have his undivided masculine attention after having been denied such attention for so long. He held her arm, he took her hand, he guided. It was wonderful. It would be so easy to become accustomed to having his strength ... to his taking any weight from her own shoulders. . . .
"What's wrong?" he suddenly asked, his perceptive dark gaze upon her with instant concern.
She blinked, marveling at how quickly he could read her slightest change of mood. She couldn't allow him to read her so well.
"The sun," she told him with a quick smile. "I left my glasses below."
He insisted they go and get them. She laughed and said she would go herself, but he was determined to accompany her, and he was a very difficult man to dissuade. Impossible, actually, to dissuade.
He followed her into her cabin, and she made a hasty show of searching for her sunglasses.
But suddenly she froze as she delved through a dresser. She could feel his eyes; she could feel his heat. He made no movement, he didn't touch her, but the very air of the cabin seemed charged with an electrical current that was naturally sensual, irrefutably real.
God
, how she wanted him, needed him.
It was wrong--It was a dream, yet she so desperately needed that dream.
She straightened, dropping all pretense. Their eyes met. And then, with no further thought, she shortened the space between them and flew into his arms.
They engulfed her, with love, with need, with security, with tenderness.
"Oh, Ronnie," he groaned hoarsely from his chest, "what do you want?"
"I want you to make love to me," she told him honestly, tilting her chin up at him with pride.
She was blatantly honest, beautifully honest, and as her gaze remained amazingly steady there was a tremulous hint of yearning in her tone. A sweet, sweet poignancy.
"Lady," he murmured, his whisper brushing over the top of her hair, "you have got me."
With standing impudence and warmth, her arms clung tighter, relishing in the feel of taut bronze muscles. They constricted and rippled at her touch, drawing a barely perceptible groan from him. Abashed at her brazen impetuousness, Ronnie slipped away for a moment, shaking her wet head in an effort to cover the crimson coloring that was sneaking up her cheeks. What must he think? That she was starved?
She was.
But though her honesty didn't bother her—she could never have played the scene with hypocritical coyness—the urgency that was building within her did. They had the rest of the day, the night. That was it—the dream would be over. It shouldn't matter what he thought of her, but it did.
"Ronnie."
His voice rang with a gentle command, and as she turned back to him, she saw that there was a tenderness in his coal-dark eyes. "You're wonderful," he told her gravely, his look emphasizing his sincerity. "Like a beautiful breath of fresh air. Please don't be ashamed. Not with me. I love it that you want me . . . that you come to me."
He extended his arms to her, and she rushed back to them, choking a sob as she buried her head into the crisp black hair of his chest, finding that sense of comfort in his powerful hold that she craved emotionally as her body craved his physically.
No, she would deny herself nothing today. She would take until she was satiated; she would give for all that she was worth. And then keep giving.
She tilted her head back with all this in the iridescence of her eyes. She brought her fingers to lock into the rich thickness of his black hair, touching it with devouring reverence. His eyes began to smolder once more as they bored into hers, still carrying that infinite tenderness. His lips touched upon hers softly, the touch of his mustache tickling delightfully. These things she savored sweetly for a cherishable moment, her own mouth pliant, her lips moistly parted. Then a brushfire began, a longing, a yearning, a needing, of such intensity that it stole her breath away. It took her from the confines of the cabin to a haven where sight, sound, and reality were all lost in abandon to one overwhelming sensation—him.
Drake too had obliterated all conscious thought that didn't have to do with the splendor in his arms. He had meant to be nothing but completely gentle, but the thirst of her response to his first soft touch inflamed his blood to boiling in heedless seconds. Her body molded to his as he kissed her, his tongue probing, plundering, and then ravishing. Never had he come across a woman of a more beautiful, natural sensuality. The satin of her skin was alive and warm, vibrant against him. Her breasts were pressed to his chest firmly, only the scanty bikini top separating the flesh that demanded to touch flesh. He fumbled for the tie as they locked together in that first devastating kiss. Slipping the offensive material away, he allowed it to fall haphazardly to the floor. A groan rumbled from deep within his throat as he felt her hardened nipples now press into his chest with exotic demand. His hands had to experience the pleasure. Fingers that had developed an extra sensitivity crept between the melded bodies to fondle and caress, circling, grazing, finding a firm fullness that swelled beneath his mastery.
He broke the kiss because he had to see her. He had to stare into the beautiful blue eyes that were dilated with passion, had to watch the rapid rise and fall of those perfect proud breasts, had to view with insatiable hunger the exoticism of still hardening, rose-tipped nipples beneath the play of his callused, foraging thumbs.
Funny that he had ever thought of her as marble. Marble was cool, cold to the touch. There was nothing cold about her. She was alive with titillating warmth, vibrant, vital, beautiful, breathing flesh and blood. . . .
"Exquisite," he gasped aloud, bringing forth from her a radiating sigh of sweet gratitude that was the most potent intoxication he could imagine. He lifted her into his arms, aware that his desire was raging out of control, but also aware that she needed that savage demand from him. And there was nothing that could ignite a man more than the sure knowledge that he was wanted as badly as he wanted. . . .
Although his body decried him, he had to pause as he slipped the bikini briefs from her undulating hips. Again, he had to see her. Against the starched white of the sheets, she was a golden goddess. Her waist, as he had known, was minuscule, her hips flared in a perfect curve, her breasts magnificent mounds of divinity. Her legs were uncanny, long, slender, majestically shapely.... His assessment was a slow, self-induced torture, but he couldn't tear his eyes away, not even with the anticipation of touching her again, of taking her as his own completely.
"Drake!" She called his name imploringly, arms outstretched, to break his hypnotic state. And she watched him with awe as he cast aside his own swim trunks to lower himself beside her.
She touched him without hesitancy, free of inhibition, weaving a spell upon him that would never be broken. He had never known a woman to offer so much, to elicit, to respond with such sweetly delicious abandon and unwavering passion. Their hands simultaneously explored what their eyes had discovered, and warmth was soon the blue-gold fire of a blazing inferno.
The forces that catapulted them into the spiraling whirlpool of heedless desire were brought to a primeval level. Man and woman, locked together in the oldest, most beautiful gift of the gods. And as in those times of old, it was man who had to conquer. Conquer with giving and taking the ultimate surrender.
Drake couldn't have recognized the feeling at the time, but his protective attitude had been joined by possessiveness. She had become his, and as if she could be in truth a prize sent from heaven for him alone, he sought to know her completely before establishing the claim that was bursting within him. His kisses, soft and explorative, greedy and demanding, rained down upon her. They circled her breasts, tasting the sweet nectar of chlorine mingled with that of her sweet self; they grazed over her hips, savoring the undulation, and over tender thighs that quivered in delight.
Ronnie thought she would soon go mad from the ecstasy he had created. He was so beautifully, magnificently male. So strong, so powerful, so overwhelming. She had forgotten these wonderful sensations that now engulfed her like the waves of the ocean. Her fingers dug into the breadth of his back, marveling at the shudders that convulsed his shoulders, heedlessly basking in their masterful command. She allowed herself the irresistible wonder of falling into the awesome spell of his compelling domination, almost fainting with sheer glory when he finally took her to himself as one.
But she was relentlessly taken from the moment of near oblivion, caught in a rhythm of stroking satin that demanded reciprocation. Cries tore from her throat as her body responded of its own volition, arching to his, writhing madly. His hands held her hips, guiding them to his will—held her still when they reached a simultaneous, ardent shattering, and she again seemed to lose consciousness for a few seconds, unable to assimilate completely the quivering wonder and beauty of their coming together in pure, delicious ecstasy.
Drake couldn't leave her, couldn't break the physical tie that bound them. Knowing that his weight crushed her, he still covered her body, his hands raking her hair as he whispered feverishly of how he adored her. His thumbs traced the exquisite sculpture of her face until he found the moistness of tears, and then, only then, did he finally pull away to look at her
with tender curiosity, his heart wrenched apart.
A Season for Love Page 2