A Season for Love

by Heather Graham

  "You dunk me one more time, Drake O'Hara," Ronnie dared, her eyes flashing with the brilliance of cut sapphires, "and I swear to God, you'll live to regret this day if it takes my entire lifetime!"

  Her threat elicited nothing but more laughter, and she attempted to stomp a foot in the water before realizing how ridiculous she must look. Her cap was long gone with the waves, her hair was half up and half down with straggling pins, and her elegant fawn-colored riding habit encased her in drenched dishevelment.

  Snapping her mouth shut for an instant, she drew herself to her full height and primly stiffened her shoulders. "Pray, Mr. O'Hara, be so kind as to tell me what you find so amusing about all this?"

  He crossed his arms over his chest and slowly let eyes that still glittered with laughter roam with ill-concealed mirth from her hair-plastered face to the spot where her breeches met the water. "Besides the obvious?" he inquired innocently.

  Gritting her teeth, Ronnie retorted, "Yes—besides the obvious!"

  "Okay, my dear, dear Mrs. von Hurst," he replied, his mockery light as he surveyed her. "It's rather an inside joke, but I'll try to explain." He shifted his weight to launch into his explanation, and as Ronnie glared at him she was forced to hide a grudging admiration behind the wall of her anger. Even soaked he was magnificent, his form outlined by his wet clothing, his hair and mustache so black, they glinted blue.

  "You see, I've always thought of you as a cat. So sleek, so smooth, so independent . . . incredibly lithe, remarkably agile. From the moment I first saw you, I thought you possessed that sophisticated feline mystique. By whimsy I think I've just discovered that to be a little true." He paused for a moment, and Ronnie realized that he had been slowly advancing on her. His words had astounded her. They seemed to be compliments.

  But that devilish twinkle was in his eyes. She began to back off further in to the water as he continued his approach.

  "A cat, Ronnie," he continued. "An aloof creature, seeking to be stroked occasionally, only at her own leisure. Sometimes even purring with pleasure. Sometimes baring claws that scratch deeply, but always, always, so terribly independent."

  He had woven a spell with his words as he came closer and closer. And even as she watched him with suspicion, he stopped directly in front of her and grinned, his teeth startlingly white against the damp mustache.

  "Now I'm absolutely convinced you are a cat. Only a drowned cat could look so pathetic when inadvertently drenched."

  Ronnie curled her lips over tightly clenched teeth, and her eyes blazed, shimmering like the sea beneath the sun. "Thank you, Drake," she enunciated with dry formality. "A cat, huh? I would watch it, then," she advised. "I've heard that cats are known to be exceptionally fierce when 'inadvertently drenched.'"

  "Are they?"

  "Oh, yes," she said pleasantly, basically back in control and wise enough to move with caution. "Especially when plagued by extremely dense, prying blackbirds." She certainly wasn't going to be able to use brute force against him, she decided dryly, but perhaps a little cat cunning. . . .

  "Prying blackbirds," he told her with an edge to his voice, "only pry when they don't understand. It's an effort not to be dense."

  She wasn't really listening, she was hiding a smile of satisfaction—he expected no retaliation. Shrugging dismissively, she stooped in the water as if to find a pebble in her boot, then leaned her weight abruptly against him as she shifted a foot behind his.

  The effect was marvelous. Totally unprepared, Drake fell backward with a splash. Her self-satisfied smile of victory, however, left her face and was replaced with a yelp. He had recovered enough to catch her hand before he went down, and a split second later she was splashing down on top of him.

  "Blackbirds can also be fierce when harassed by cats," Drake said, grinning as he maintained a grip upon her as they both surfaced. "Poor things. Especially when they fall prey to the deviousness of a cat. A second time." The grin suddenly left his lips. "Most especially cats who promise love in the dark, and forever in the daylight, while knowing all along that their promise of forever is nothing but a lark."

  He still held her wrist; she couldn't escape him. The color fled from her face, and she lowered her lashes, but she didn't flinch.

  "A part of me meant that, Drake," she admitted with a strange type of dignified pride. "I—I just never imagined—"

  "That I'd appear at your house?" he demanded sarcastically, his grip upon her wrist tensing painfully.

  "No." She straightened her shoulders and met his eyes. "I never imagined that you could possibly be serious."

  Drake stared at her silently for several seconds, then cast her hand away from his with a strangled curse. God, he told himself with contempt, he was falling for her again, for her words that meant nothing.

  "Oh?" he charged, knowing his anger rose even as he attempted to stay as cool as she was. "You're not going to ask my forgiveness—tell me you just went a little crazy? You had been contemplating leaving your cruel husband?"

  "No." Ronnie didn't move. He had jokingly told her—before the conversation had turned grave—that she looked like a drowned cat. But she didn't. Pale, more regal than ever with her pride wrapped around her with her admissions, she still looked like marble, perfect, intricately sculpted marble. He was still in love with her, he still wanted her so desperately. Contempt was his only defense. He wanted to believe that she loved him, no matter how wrong.

  "I have never once contemplated leaving Pieter," she said tonelessly.

  There was misery to her voice, but truth; something so honest that he wanted to pull her comfortingly into his arms. But pain fed the fuel of his anger, the inner reminder that she had used him.

  "Ahhh . . ." he murmured cruelly. "A greedy cat."

  Ronnie felt as if she had been struck. Her entire body seemed to shudder uncontrollably. But she couldn't let Drake move in too closely—she had already offered what she could, an offering he disdained. "Have it your way, Drake," she said, shrugging.

  He turned his back on her in the water, staring across the cliffs of the island. They must look like two idiots, he decided remotely, standing in waist-high surf, talking circles around each other. He had apologized for his treatment of her when they started out, and now he was back to it. It was sheer frustration that drove him, and he knew it. He hated home wreckers; he liked, respected, and admired Von Hurst.

  If the man was a macho idiot who beat his wife, Drake could like himself better. But Von Hurst wasn't an idiot, nor was he insanely cruel. He loved his wife. The relationship wasn't right, but whatever the depths of emotion, Ronnie also cared for Von Hurst. Whether that caring was tempered by a vicarious hold on wealth and position, Drake just couldn't tell. . . .

  Yet it was hard to question her beautiful, steadfast eyes; hard to convince himself she didn't love him, too. . . . For a moment he clenched his fists painfully at his side. With effort he released them. He turned back to find her motionless, watching him, still pale, still determinedly dignified.

  "Sorry," he said simply, mentally giving him himself a shake. He would get to the bottom of everything, and he would live by his apology. She visibly relaxed at his abrupt change, and more than ever, he wanted just to touch her. "Oh, no!" he cried, quelling a grin.

  "What?" she demanded quickly, concerned.

  "My drowned cat is drying off!"

  With the supple strength of a born athlete, he was swiftly upon her, lifting her in his arms a last time to dunk her thoroughly. She clasped her fingers over his head and dragged him down, too. They both emerged sputtering and laughing, their arms wound around one another as their eyes met. Such a contradiction! Ronnie thought, anger sparking in her. "Now, what do you find so vastly amusing?" she demanded haughtily, warily thinking of his lightning change of mood.

  He sobered in an instant and his voice was strange when he answered. "You almost had me convinced that you were marble," he told her quietly. "I had begun to believe that I had imagined there had been a woman
who walked, talked, and breathed with beautiful life and warmth. . . ."

  He withdrew his arms tiredly and strode out of the water, whistling for the horses as he reached the shore. Ronnie stared after him, chewing her bottom lip. His shirt and jeans were plastered to his body, and it was impossible not to feel a tug at her heart and senses as she observed the striking tone and pride of his physique. But it would also be impossible ever to explain all that she felt. Still, all anger seeped from her, and she determined to grasp whatever straw of friendship that she could from him.

  Ronnie began to chuckle, emerging from the water as Drake captured the bay, restored its saddle, and then went after the stubborn stallion.

  Drake scowled at her as he made a second attempt to catch Black Satan's trailing reins. "You want to let me in on your amusement?" he inquired wryly.

  Inclining her head toward the horse, Ronnie smiled. "Just the obvious."

  Drake didn't look at her, but his own smile slipped slowly back to curve his lips. He moved one hand to gently pat the stallion's neck while the other snaked out to secure the reins. "Need a boost up?" he asked Ronnie.

  She thought about saying yes just for an excuse to feel his touch, but she shook her head. "No, thanks. I can manage."

  They began the ride back to the house in a silence that was strangely comfortable. Nearing the stable yard, Ronnie stopped him.

  "Drake."

  "Yes?" He turned to her expectantly.

  "I—it's my turn to apologize. I could have been really hurt. Thank you."

  He gave her a cocky, devilish grin that mocked his own emotion. "'Twas nothing, my marble beauty. A pleasure."

  Their eyes met for an instant and then they both looked away.

  Neither had anything more to say. They had reached the stable, and the strange, compelling interlude was over.

  Chapter Five

  Pieter did not appear for dinner that night, only his note of apology upon a filigreed silver tray. And, of course, the note was addressed to Drake, not Ronnie.

  She watched as Drake's dark eyes scanned Pieter's flourished script quickly as they waited in the salon, and she did not avert her gaze when his eyes rose from the paper to her.

  "It seems," he said laconically, absently folding the sheet of monogrammed note paper, "that your husband wishes a few days of rest. It's his suggestion that we spend the day in Charleston tomorrow."

  Ronnie's fingers curled over the arm of her chair. She was sure Pieter was not issuing a suggestion but a command.

  "Surely you've seen Charleston," she murmured.

  He shrugged, tapping the note against a casually crossed knee. "Not much of it, really. I came here to see Pieter. I was a few days ahead of schedule, so . . ."

  His sentence trailed away, but Ronnie knew the ending. Flushing unhappily, she lowered her eyes to the upholstery of her chair, where she watched a long glazed nail trace the pattern of the brocade material.

  "I think we should go into Charleston," Drake said with a firm determination that made Ronnie's heart leap unexpectedly. His tone held an underlying menace. She was sure she was in for the third degree again, which Drake wouldn't administer in the house with the possibility of others listening in.

  Stiffening, she answered indifferently. "If you wish." She resented him heartily. He must realize that if she protested, Pieter might become suspicious. Why the hell couldn't he do the gentlemanly thing and disappear into the blue—or at least think of sound reasons to reject his host's "suggestions" when he threw the two of them together?

  "Yes"—he looked her squarely in the eye—"I do wish."

  Henri appeared to announce dinner, and Drake rose mockingly, offering her his arm. Ronnie clenched her teeth as they entered the dining room together and sat down to their lone meal. Drake's conversation became impersonal and polite—the front he extended for Henri and Gretel as they entered and exited the room.

  Ronnie knew his smooth mask would not slip, but she ate and spoke in stilted misery anyway. Each time she glanced his way she caught his dark eyes upon her, pensive and calculating. And she shivered with new apprehension of the morning to come.

  Dave Quimby took them into Charleston Harbor on the boat at ten o'clock. Pieter kept a Ferrari parked in a private lot, and Ronnie suggested they pick up the car and head first for the old slave market.

  Drake firmly shook his head. "I think we should start with a walk along the Battery. I want to talk to you."

  Ronnie sighed with sheer exasperation, her gaze upon the shimmering harbor and the multitude of boats rocking lightly in their berths.

  "Drake, you can talk to me until you're blue in the face! There is nothing that I can tell you."

  "There's plenty that you can tell me," he insisted grimly, taking her elbow and starting briskly down the walk by the sea. "And 1 definitely intend to get some answers."

  Powerless against his hold, Ronnie had no choice but to accompany him.

  "For a man who proclaimed he'd never touch me with a ten-foot pole," Ronnie complained with bitter sarcasm, "you're doing quite a job on my arm." Though long-limbed herself, she was panting to keep up with his brisk pace.

  "Merely expression," he replied laconically. "I think we both know to what type of touching i was referring." He halted abruptly. "This looks as good a place as any." Bowing sardonically, he dusted sand from the seawall. "Sit, if you will, please, Mrs. von Hurst." At her hesitance he raised a mocking brow. "Or might we crease our designer jeans?"

  Ronnie glared at him coldly, then pointedly drew her eyes to the label of his black jeans before returning her eyes to his and caustically replying, "I don't know, might we?"

  The darkness of his eyes suffused with a flame of mirth as his mustache twitched in a way she was beginning to know very well. "My dear Mrs. von Hurst," he replied gallantly, "I do give you credit for a marvelously ticking little mind." He crouched to the wall, deftly flinging his legs over the edge while dragging her down beside him. He didn't release her hand as she joined him with little choice, her attitude less than gracious, her teeth grinding.

  He smiled at her annoyance. "This is a lovely view," he commented, his mustache tilting with a full grin. "The sea, the sky, the mist, Fort Sumter rising in the distance. Nice place for a talk."

  Ronnie kept her gaze on Fort Sumter, rising in the mist as he had pointed out. "Lovely," she agreed dryly. "Talk any time you like."

  "How long has Pieter been ill?"

  Ronnie shrugged, determined to give him nothing. "Awhile."

  Drake muttered something inaudible beneath his breath and his grip on her hand jerked painfully. "Damn it, Ronnie! I already know the man is desperately ill. I'm not asking you for the sake of conversation—I think I can help."

  The explosive sincerity of his voice was undeniable. Ronnie glanced at him, reading the intensity of his dark stare, then shook her head with appreciative but sad resignation. "Drake,

  I told you before. There's nothing that you can do, nothing that anyone can do."

  "Ronnie," Drake said forcefully, "you're being fatalistic. I can help. I know a man from the center at Johns Hopkins who specializes in just this type of thing, the wasting diseases—sclerosis."

  "But Pieter has seen dozens of doctors!"

  "So he should see a dozen more."

  Ronnie mulled his words slowly through her mind. Drake was right; she and Pieter had given up, accepted the inevitable. They should have never allowed themselves to do so. Such a fight should be fought to the bitter end. "How do we get Pieter to see this man, and will he see Pieter?"

  "The doctor will see Pieter," Drake said assuredly, softening his features to a grin again. "He's an art lover. Pieter—well, leave him to me."