"My God, Ronnie," he murmured heatedly, "have I hurt you?"
"Oh, no!" she cried vehemently, encircling him with slender arms and drawing their bodies back together. "You are the most wonderful thing I have ever known. Please, keep holding me...." She smiled through that mist of tears, and he obligingly held her, comforting her now with security, smoothing back her tousled hair, soothing her with fingers that lightly stroked the contours of her back.
"I think I'm in love," he mused gently, aloud, amazed at the emotions she could create in his bewildered heart and mind.
She stiffened in his arms for a moment and relaxed. "Is that possible?" she asked softly. "If it is, then I too am in a kind of love." Abruptly she pulled from him, only to set herself above him on his chest, her huge blue eyes looking beseechingly into his. "May I have the night, Drake? Will you be mine until the sun rises in the morning?" Her tone was wistful and almost whimsical.
"I think I may be yours for eternity," he told her, bewitched by her loveliness and the honest poignancy of her sad plea.
Ronnie buried her face into the black mat of his chest, inhaling his scent deeply to ingrain it forever in her memory. The hair tickled her skin, and she rubbed her cheek against it. The moment was a dream, pure illusion, but she couldn't stop herself from cherishing that dream, from perpetuating it.
"Will you be strong and tender and gentle forever?" she inquired impishly, leaning to kiss his lips and delightedly feel the tingle of his mustache.
"I can't promise gentle forever," he told her gravely in return. "There is something about you that makes me feel very fierce. But whatever strength and tenderness I have are yours."
Ronnie smiled again and sighed contentedly, nestling back into his chest. Tomorrow would bring despair, but she would welcome that despair to have this day ... and this night to sleep beside this man. It was much more than she had bargained for, much more than she could have possibly imagined. And she would let nothing break this spell of enchantment. Not the torture of ifs, not the tremor of conscience.
They spent hours in her cabin, sometimes quietly lying beside one another, sometimes making love. They were slow and teasing and gentle, they were insatiably wild. And inevitably they talked, and in her dream world Ronnie answered questions without really answering. He knew a lot about her, but he really knew nothing. And it wasn't important. Facts could come later. He knew the things a lover should know—her smile, her touch, her mind, her heart.
They left the cabin as evening fell, hunger driving them to an intimate dinner with neither aware of other passengers around them. Dressed impeccably, they were the envy of all eyes that alighted upon them, eyes that believed in the illusion. They were an incredibly handsome couple, he unerringly masculine, she the epitome of feminine beauty and sophistication.
They were regal, their devotion charming. To anyone, they appeared as honeymooners, lost in the star-swept skies of their love, and in the Atlantic night. In mutual silence they toured the deck of the ship, basking in the lulling romance of the ocean breezes that leant enchantment to the illusion, and then returned to Ronnie's cabin, to delight in the pleasure of removing impeccable clothing.
And to make love into the night.
Drake slept well, satiated as he had never been in his life. His first statement had been playful—he had never really been in love. But now he was convinced—with a definite shade of bemusement—that he was. And the feeling was wonderful. As he held her to him, he wondered for the first time in his life how it would be to sleep and to awaken with this exquisite creature at his side every day of his life. He had thought he could never endure such monotony—but with Ronnie there would never be monotony. Only increasing wonder and discovery; increasing commitment and devotion.
He had no doubts that they had only begun something beautiful. She was still a marble beauty, reserved and—statuesque— when she walked and talked and moved. But in his arms she was radiant, a warm and sensuous woman. Only for him; the type he hadn't believed existed—a creature utterly lovely, utterly bright, and utterly worthy of trust. Cynicism that had bordered on the edge of any previous relationships had nothing to do with this one.
He actually wanted to marry her. Now. Not even having known her for more than the past three days. Not even having learned her last name. He didn't want to contemplate the idea of her ever being touched again by another man.
Drake O'Hara—playboy, cynic, hardened rogue of midwestern society—had fallen in love. It had come like a thunderbolt, but it was as sure as the moon in the night sky. And he did not deny the emotion, instead he reveled in it... mulling it over and over in his mind with awe.
That the beauty who had captured his heart with a single winning smile could be indulging in only a brief affair never occurred to him. She was too giving, too open, too willing. Too honestly passionate and caring.
And too often she had whispered and cried in the throes of passion that she too loved him. And so he slept well. Ronnie didn't sleep through the night. Not because she reflected on the misery of daybreak, but because she didn't want to lose one precious moment of having him beside her, of looking at him, of feeling the vibrancy of his rugged flesh touching hers. She memorized the planes of his face, with her eyes, with her fingers. She would never forget the depth of his dark-brown eyes; the twitch of his mustache when he half-smiled, and its grazing over her skin, sending shivers racing through her.
She had been starved; she was now sated. Still she would take more, even when that taking was lying awake through the night to absorb him—his scent, his feel, his breathing, his face in sleep. A tender smile lit her lips. Sound asleep, he was still imposing. The lines that were etched faintly around his eyes were relaxed, but he still looked formidable, as if his dark eyes could fly open at any minute and challenge with ferocity, as if his muscled length could spring instantly to action. She knew the strength of those muscles, but to her they were nothing but powerfully gentle.
Inevitably, morning came. Still she watched him, and when he did open his eyes, she made no effort to hide her surveillance.
She wanted to have him love her one last time.
The message was in her eyes, and he did love her, taking her into his arms naturally without words. The words came later as he caressed her; they were endearments. Then they were groaned commands; groans from the exotic pleasure that she gave him, and then fervent whispers that were returned with breathless moans.
Waking up was all that he had dreamed it would be. And holding her close after their tumultuous sharing was nothing but sheer, ultimate wonder, and the intimacy of helping her shower and dress, nothing but the contentment of a lifetime.
They would breakfast, and then the ship would dock.
Over coffee and toast, it was time for the facts. But before he could begin to ask she gave him her steady gaze and placed her slender hand over his. "Thank you, Drake. Thank you for this piece of heaven," she told him in her soft, melodious voice.
"Thank you?" He chuckled low in inquiry. "Babe, thank you for being! But our piece of heaven is just beginning."
She frowned and lowered her murky lashes, but not before he sensed the tragedy again in the depths of her crystal-blue eyes. When she looked up again, all warmth was gone from them. He was staring into ice.
"This was just a cruise, Drake. It's over," she told him firmly.
"Over?" His demand was harsh and guttural. He could feel his infamous temper rising in an uncontrollable flash. What was her game? His hand came over hers to grasp it ruthlessly. "What are you talking about?"
Ronnie didn't flinch, nor did she allow her gaze to waver, although she felt as if her insides were melting beneath the burning fury of coal that bored into her. She had never thought she could be afraid of him, of anyone for that matter, and yet she was frightened. It occurred to her belatedly that she had trifled with a man one didn't trifle with. But she couldn't have wanted any other, she couldn't have had her night of magic. She couldn't have fallen in love.
And she was in love, but she knew the tangles and variants of love. She was in love, and in love with being in love. It was precious, to be locked away in her mind and heart to sustain her.
But love was also something else; something else that was mutable, but irrevocable nonetheless. It was—oddly enough— loyalty and devotion even when the stars had long ceased to shine. It was enduring. It was emotional stamina.
"It's over," she repeated numbly.
"No." Drake denied her roughly. "You gave yourself to me completely last night. And I want you. I have no intention of letting you go."
Ronnie's chuckle was brittle, dry, and very bitter. "I'm sorry. I can't be your permanent mistress."
His grip upon her intensified until she was sure her bones would crack. In a moment the dark flames of his eyes would combust into hot red flames, and she would be staring directly at the devil.
"Mistress, woman! Be damned. I want to marry you!"
Her eyes fell. She could no longer face him. When she spoke, it was tonelessly, as if she were very far away.
"I can't marry you, Drake."
For a moment he eased, sensing pain beneath the jagged-glass hardness of her eyes and voice. There was something in her past that had created the glacial reserve that she could hide behind. But he didn't care what it was. He wanted to protect her, to nurture her, to guide her into a world of comfort and happiness.
"I'm rushing you," he said smoothly, and when she glanced at him again, she felt her heart catch in her throat. He was so handsome and virile before her in his perfectly tailored tan suit, the sleek darkness of his hair and eyes and the healthy glow of his tanned ruddy skin emphasized by its cool lightness. The arch of his brows was high as his lips twitched the corners of his mustache in a half-smile. The cooling arrogance of his temper was still discernible, but it was mellowed now to a sure command.
"Ronnie," he continued, rubbing a finger over the veins of her hand, "there are no can'ts, except that I can't let you go. You have to trust me, as you did when we met. I know you're fighting something, but I'll help you. I don't care about your past. I don't care about your present. I'll work mine into it. I don't believe that you don't care about me—as much as I care about you, no matter how ludicrous it is after only three days. I'll go as slow as you like. But you have to keep seeing me. I'll never convince you of my sincerity otherwise."
A torrent of sobs welled in her rib cage, threatening to spill forth. She had to build the wall, retreat, and then get away surely and quickly. The angle of his jawline was square and determined; nothing but the cold truth would keep him away, and she would have to risk his contempt whether it devastated her or not.
She withdrew her hand from his and picked up her coffee cup with cool dismissal. "Drake, I can't—repeat, can't—continue to see you. It's out of the question."
"Really?" An imperious brow arched even higher, and his lips tightened into a caustic line. "And why not? What happened to I love you and forever?"
I do love you, Ronnie whispered to herself sadly, but you'd never understand, and even if you did, I could never explain. . . .
She took a sip of coffee and set the cup down briskly. "Oh, come, Drake," she said, "surely a man such as yourself has had his share of flings! Love is just a word. So is forever."
"We didn't spend a day and night exchanging words," he told her sardonically, drawing the hint of a hoped-for blush. No one could make love as she had without feeling!
But his angel of the night had turned back to marble by day. "We played the game to make something pretty of a physical attraction," she said cuttingly. With a wry and glacial smile she added, "To spend a night making love sounds much nicer than spending a night having sex!"
She hadn't anticipated what happened next. He set his ironclad fingers around her wrist and drew her to her feet in an undeniable gesture that was barely civilized despite the crowd in the dining room. He didn't stop for a second as he led, or rather dragged, her down the corridor and back to her cabin, ignoring her comments, whether they were demanding, angry, or scornful.
He stopped inside the cabin, after he had slammed the door and pinned her to it, claiming her lips, plundering her mouth savagely. His hands moved over territory he knew by heart, aggressively taunting, cradling breasts that were his, searching beneath material to find the answer he expected—flesh that heated to his touch, nipples that grew taut on contact.
Ronnie furiously pummeled against him and twisted her head to avoid his kiss. But his lips were clamped on hers. Her comparatively feeble struggles had no effect on his steellike determination to have his way. Her protests were muffled as his teeth grazed hers, pitted against them, and his tongue found the access to probe her mouth with heady command. Ronnie's attempt at words died, her mouth gave sweetly to his. She would never be able to deny him. A moment later she was arched against his chest, moaning as his fingers worked their spell upon her, twisting at the peak of her breast to send chills of pleasure racing down her spine as he held her in that relentless embrace.
Then he pulled away from her, using his hands and arms as inescapable bars around her. Eyes that were as dark as night seared into hers with ruthless demand.
"Now tell me again that this all means nothing to you," he grated harshly, his breathing as strained as hers.
She was shaking, panting, unnerved. God help her, she couldn't cry. But a lie would not suffice.
"All right!" she flashed in answer to his challenge. "It means something. It means something very wonderful. But it can't be!"
"Why not?" He would not soften now. He wanted answers. The ship was docked in Charleston Harbor. Time was running out. "Ronnie, I want to marry you."
A sob did tear from her throat. "I can't marry you!" she cried, the ice finally melting from her eyes as they stared tremulously into his. "I can't marry anyone. I'm already married."
But she wasn't! her heart cried out.
She was, for all intents and purposes. Discovering the false validity of a piece of paper didn't change anything. And yet she knew in the back of her mind, no matter how irrevocable the future, that the discovery had allowed her this wonderful day. She had used it to rationalize her actions. . . .
Legally, she was free.
But her freedom was empty; the ties that bound her had never had anything to do with legalities.
And none of it could ever be explained to Drake, who stared at her now with deep, piercing fury. . . .
"I am married," she repeated aloud, wrenched from the pain of longing by the staunch reminder to herself of what must be.
Drake emitted a single, explosive oath. If he had been burned to cinders by the roaring heat of lava, he couldn't have been more shocked or wounded. He had been duped in the worst way possible; he had given everything to someone else's restless wife. Trust, he thought cynically, as his arms dropped to his sides. What a fool. He had thought he had found the one woman he could love, cherish, and trust eternally.
He stepped away from her, still looking into her eyes, now seeing nothing but traitorous blue; magnificent, treacherous, radiant blue.
He had been used by a conniving witch he had deemed the soul of honesty.
The look alone that he gave her could have shattered a shell of lighter stuff. But even as she felt herself agonizingly ripped asunder inside, as if her heart had been torn from her body, Ronnie stood still.
Composed as marble.
If he touched her again, she would break. But he didn't touch her. She had the feeling that he controlled his temper because he feared what he might do if he let it loose. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his broad shoulders appeared imposingly massive. But it was his dark face that set her blood racing. His glowering eyes were daggers; his mouth a white line of condemnation. His teeth were clenched together; she could see the twisted angle of his jaw as he ground them against each other.
She wanted to throw herself into his arms and explain. It was unbearable that he hate her so. But for all t
he rogue she had assessed him to be, she learned swiftly now that he was a man of certain morals. Affairs were fine. Extramarital affairs were unthinkable.
A Season for Love Page 3