A Season for Love

by Heather Graham

  "Thank you, yes," Ronnie replied coolly, rising, still refusing to glance his way. "I did enjoy the cruise. Pieter"—she moved swiftly to her husband to drop a quick kiss on top of his thinning blond head, certain he would not brush her aside with company in the room—"I'm going up, if you don't mind. Mr. O'Hara"— she finally lifted her eyes to Drake's with a daring shade of defiance—"I do hope you'll forgive me. However, I'm sure that you and my husband have a multitude of things to discuss." With the regality of a queen, Ronnie then sailed from the room with her head high.

  "I wonder," she heard Pieter murmuring absently as she closed the salon doors behind her, "if I'm fair to Ronnie in many ways. ..."

  Ronnie grimaced as she started up the spiral stairway. Pieter couldn't know it, but his statement had probably given his guest quite a laugh.

  The headache she had invented was pounding away in her skull as she reached the sanctuary of her room. Rubbing her temple assiduously, she kicked off her shoes and haphazardly began shedding her clothes, heedless for once of where things fell. She lay in her bed, clad only in her lace bra and panties, fighting the waves of nausea that assailed her and simultaneously discarding her idea to drink herself into oblivion.

  The highballs, wine, and cognac she had already drunk hadn't done a thing to improve the situation, they had only added physical torture to mental! If she just lay still, very, very still . . .

  Somewhere along the line she must have dozed off. She awoke with a start—and the immediate tingling, uncanny perception that she was not alone in the room. A scream rose in her throat, but before she could give vent to the sound a hand clamped tightly over her mouth. She knew instantly the scent and touch of the hand, as she did the deep voice that hissed, "Hush, it's me.

  Shivering with both outrage and fear, Ronnie pushed at his hand and struggled into a sitting position, meeting his sinister dark gaze in the light of the moon with her own eyes snapping sapphire glints. "What are you doing in here!" she hissed furiously in return, wishing she had thought to draw down the covers before she had plopped on the bed. Her instinct was to grab something to clutch to herself, but there was nothing available.

  "I haven't come to assault your dubious virtue," he commented dryly, his hips perched beside hers on the bed. "I want to know what's wrong with Pieter."

  Ronnie's lashes fell, but she was quick with a comeback. "1 think you could have found a better time to discuss Pieter!"

  "Oddly enough, my dear Mrs. von Hurst, this seems to be the only time I can guarantee having an audience with you alone."

  Ronnie blinked rapidly, highly aware of her state of undress, whether he was or not. Apparently he already knew beyond a doubt that she and Pieter did not share a room.

  "Pieter has not been well," she said quickly.

  "Obviously," Drake drawled. His arms on either side of her, not touching her, held her as if between bars. His dark face, ruggedly swarthy in the moonlight, moved within inches of her own. "What's wrong with him?" It was a demand, not a question.

  Ronnie clenched her teeth, meeting his stare silently as she played for time to think of an appropriate answer. His gaze momentarily left her face to sweep over her form and the cream of her silky skin displayed enticingly by the expensively cut underwear. Chills as vibrant as tiny electrical shocks seemed to prick at Ronnie's flesh, but his gaze returned to hers, cold and disinterested. "Well?"

  "Drake," she began haughtily, "I'd appreciate it if you left my room. My husband—"

  "Your husband isn't coming anywhere near here, and you and I both know it," Drake cut in coldly. "How long has Pieter been ill?"

  "If you're concerned for Pieter, you'll get out," Ronnie retorted.

  "I'll be happy to leave," Drake promised sardonically, "as soon as you answer my questions."

  Ronnie blinked again, then released an exasperated sigh. She couldn't tell him anything, but she had to get him away from her. Her outrage was fast losing its intensity; the temptation to reach out and touch his harshly squared jaw was seeping through her to obliterate reason.

  "I cannot discuss my husband's condition," she said flatly, fixing her vision upon his jacket sleeve. "Yes, as you have so brilliantly observed, Pieter has been ill. If you wish further answers, you'll have to ask him."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" Ronnie ejaculated, her voice rising with desperate annoyance at his persistence. "Because I have given Pieter my oath not to discuss him with anyone!"

  "It would seem you have given him other oaths that you have seen fit to break," Drake grated harshly, pulling from her, his hand trailing a path insinuatingly across her midriff as he did so.

  "Please, Drake," Ronnie begged, lowering her voice again with acute misery. "This is Pieter's house."

  "I see—the place makes a difference."

  "You wouldn't understand."

  "I understand too well."

  "Drake—"

  "Don't fret, Mrs. von Hurst I wouldn't touch you with a ten-foot pole." He stood abruptly, making her feel far worse and even more vulnerable as he towered above her, his broad shoulders rigid. "Is Pieter under a doctor's care?"

  "Yes," Ronnie whispered, snatching her pillow from behind her back to clench over her torso. "The best."

  Drake spun on his heels and quietly padded across the room to the door. He paused for only a second, his hand on the knob. In the darkness she could still see the burning glitter of his dark eyes. "Don't be a hypocrite, Ronnie. The pillow bit was definitely unnecessary. There isn't an inch of you I don't know better than the back of my own hand." His gaze raked over her one last time, fathomlessly. "See you tomorrow."

  Then he was gone, and she was left to lie awake for the rest of the night, alternately feeling as if she were as hot as lava and then as frigidly frozen as a bleak stretch of Antarctic ice.

  By morning Ronnie's nerves were sadly on edge. She was grateful when she dressed and cautiously walked downstairs to find herself alone in the dining room. There was no evidence that Drake and Pieter had eaten and left, but then she didn't expect to find any. Henri would have removed an empty coffee cup before the china had time to grow cold.

  Intuitively certain that she would have a respite of peace, Ronnie decided she was famished. Making up for the meals she had barely touched, she piled her plate high with the cheese blintzes that were Gretel's specialty, lavishing them with thick mounds of strawberry jam and sour cream. She also prowled through the remaining chafing dishes, adding to her plate crisp slices of bacon, smoked Virginia ham, and a spoonful of the grits that Pieter considered "animal mash" but consistently ordered for the morning buffet. It was one of the small courtesies his continental mind tolerated for his born-and-bred southern wife;

  one of the little niceties that tugged at Ronnie's heart. No matter how bitter, withdrawn, and cruel Pieter had been at times, she knew he never intentionally used her as a scapegoat. Remembering the little things, the trivial things like grits, was Pieter's way of apologizing, of telling her that he did appreciate all that she did, the untiring devotion she gave to him.

  Because, despite the fact that Pieter seldom allowed her near him, and often exploded against her when she was, she had allowed him to keep the two things a desperately ill man needed most fervantly: his dignity and pride.

  Reflecting on Pieter now, Ronnie wondered if she would have actually married him had he not become so sick. With Pieter, she had always responded to respect, ardor, and compassion with respect, ardor, and compassion. Her brief, shining love for Jamie had been very different. They had both been young Americans finding the wings of adulthood and romance in the spirited streets of Paris. They were both explorers, adventurers. They fought with a verbal vengeance, and patched up their quarrels with tears and passion.

  She could honestly say that she had loved Jamie. And Pieter had a part of her heart that he would hold forever, Yet neither began to compare with the intensity of emotion she felt for Drake. His touch stirred senses she hadn't known existed; the mere sight or soun
d of him sent her mind reeling. But it was more than a physical draw. During that one day that now played havoc upon her world in memory, she had come to love him for the man he was, for the honesty of his word and his actions, for the tenderness only a man of his character could freely display

  Damn it! she thought with annoyance. It wasn't safe to think about anything anymore! All roads led to Drake O'Hara.

  "Goodness, woman! How the hell do you stay so thin eating like that?"

  Ronnie's eyes flew to the doorway, where Drake stood, dressed in a casual short-sleeved shirt and black pants, one hand stuck in a pocket, the other bracing his frame as he lightly leaned against oak paneling. His lips were curled in a half-smile that tilted his mustache to a rakish angle, making the harsh contours of his face devilishly charming.

  She wondered if the look was a form of peace treaty. He acted as if they had never exchanged words—or anything else for that matter.

  Determined not to be the one to cast oil upon still waters, Ronnie answered him with the polite truth. "I don't usually get quite this carried away."

  Drake smiled in return and walked to the buffet to pour himself a cup of coffee. Lifting the silver pot, he arched a brow to her. "Can I refill your cup?"

  "Please." Ronnie pushed her coffee cup forward and watched as the dark liquid rose in a cloud of steam. She added cream and sugar to her coffee as Drake sat in the chair beside hers.

  "This is a beautiful place," Drake commented.

  "Thank you."

  "Where are you really from?"

  Ronnie shot him a wary glance, but the question was straightforward. At her look his lips curled even further, lightening his eyes. "I mean, you are from the South."

  Slightly amused by her own rush to be defensive, Ronnie suppressed a full-scale grin and nodded. "Durham, North Carolina."

  "Did Pieter choose Charleston for you?"

  "No," Ronnie told him, glad for the comfortable normalcy of their conversation. "He owned this place long before I met him. I believe he bought it on his first trip to the States."

  "Well," Drake mused, idly stirring his spoon in his coffee, "you fit it well. But then you also—" He stopped, and Ronnie bit her lip. His first nontaunting compliment had been unintentionally marred. She was sure he had been about to say that she had also looked well upon the cruise ship.

  Not wanting to let the easy repartee that had come between them dissipate, Ronnie ignored the abrupt end of his statement.

  She lifted her cup and sipped her coffee musingly. "I've never been to Chicago. What is it like?"

  "New York"—Drake grinned —"except that it's Chicago."

  Ronnie laughed, and Drake went on to describe the city, extolling the virtues of the midwestern metropolis, but also giving a blunt appraisal of the problems and drawbacks. "It's a good city for artists," he ended. "The community supports the theater and the visual arts."

  Ronnie chewed thoughtfully on a last piece of cheese blintz. "Charleston is much smaller, but I would say it's a supportive community." She found herself talking about the charm of southern living, unaware that she became more and more animated as she spoke, and beautifully charming. Drake again found himself fascinated by her voice and her every movement. She was such a complex creature. So cold with that tragic reserve, part warm with a wealth of spirit and vitality. He began to forget his reason for seeking her out.

  "Ah, I've found you both!" Pieter broke in from the doorway. "Ready?"

  "Yes, I am!" Drake declared, rising and moving to Ronnie to pull back her chair. "Ronnie?"

  She glanced to her husband with a hint of confusion.

  "The sitting," Pieter explained with a hint of exasperation. "I'd like to work now. The afternoons drain me, I'm afraid."

  "Oh," Ronnie murmured uneasily. She rose and followed Pieter with no further comment, her spine straight, her shoulders squared. She knew now why Drake had called his unspoken truce and she wasn't sure whether to be grateful or suspicious. He had known the idea of posing before him and Pieter had disturbed her, and he had tried to ease the situation. But had it been an act of kindness, or was it self-beneficial?

  It really didn't matter. An hour later Ronnie had already endured the misery she had expected, and had withdrawn from it, setting her mind as far away as possible. She was posed upon a settee, holding her position exactly as she had been long and laboriously trained to do. A single movement could send Pieter into a tirade.

  Stiff muscles meant nothing to him in his pursuit of art. When she modeled, Ronnie knew, she lost her identity completely. She was nothing more than a tool to Pieter. He would set her up with fingers of ice and bark commands until she was perfect in his mind's eye.

  Today had been worse than usual.

  She was actually clad with a fair amount of respectability. She held her drapery high over her breasts, and Pieter had tucked it securely over her legs. Only her back was visible, but it was a visibility that would inherently make one nervous. To turn one's back on anyone for any length of time was to feel uncomfortably vulnerable. Especially when that back was the topic of conversation. Pieter was instructing Drake in planes and angles and curves. Clinically. She might have been an inanimate object . . . and certainly not his wife.

  All her reserves of inner strength were called upon as Pieter asked Drake to learn by sense of touch. And she had to wonder sickly as she stared straight ahead, not breathing, blinking, or daring to move an eye covertly what Drake was thinking and feeling as his hands moved over her back, their touch fire to

  Pieter's ice She was amazed that her body followed the strict dictates of her mind, and that she neither flinched nor constricted into a mass of helpless quivers.

  But finally, after vaguely listening to two hours worth of discussion on her own contours and the virtues of Venetian pink marble, Pieter let out a drawn sigh. "I believe I've pushed a bit too far. We'll quit for the day."

  A haze of grateful tears welled in Ronnie's eyes to be instantly flicked away. She fought the urge to gather her drapery and shoot from the room like a bat out of hell and rose gracefully instead, calmly heading for the door. She even risked a cool glance in Drake's direction, but his eyes were on the tools he was carefully cleaning. Thank God for small favors. . . .

  * * *

  By the end of the week, however, Ronnie had learned to be grateful for Drake's presence in the studio. She had sneezed once, and Pieter's chisel had gone flying across the room. Drake's shocked stare had brought Pieter to the instant contrition he normally wouldn't have found for hours.

  The entire house seemed to breathe new life with Drake in it. Although Ronnie was careful never to see him alone, she began to look forward to mealtimes, when she knew she would see him. Since the moments they had shared at the breakfast table on the day after his arrival, he had made every effort to be constantly cordial, if distant. And now that the initial shock of his arrival had subsided, Ronnie had regained the composure to act the collected hostess of her training and old-time southern background. She learned a new discipline, one that allowed her to be remotely yet perfectly polite while still enjoying the sight and sound of Drake's lean body and the mellow twang of his deep voice when he spoke.

  The nights were still hell. She couldn't forget the fact that he slept just down the hall, and her body would burn as she tossed and turned, engulfed with longing, yet awash with shame. Sometimes when she finally slept, she would awaken again with a start, and she knew that she expected—and hoped—Drake had entered the room. And it was so stupid, because she also knew he would never enter again, and that if he did, it would be senseless. He wanted no further part of her; he had made that clear. And even if he did want her, she couldn't want him. . . .

  It was a pity that the existence she had learned to tolerate with complacency had been so completely shattered.

  Pieter cut the session extremely short on Friday morning. Startled, Ronnie took an uneasy look at her husband.