"No!" Ronnie cried. "He'll know I've been discussing him and he'll be absolutely livid."
Drake shook his head emphatically, and Ronnie suddenly realized he was no longer gripping her hand but holding it soothingly, his fingers working tenderly over the pale lines of her veins. "I promise you, Pieter will know nothing. . . ." His voice trailed away as they both thought of the other implication of such a statement.
Drake cleared his throat and continued in a businesslike tone. "I'll talk to Pieter and convince him of what is really the truth— I can see his condition. But what I do need from you is everything that you can tell me. I want to know when he became ill, how the illness affects him, and what has been said so far by his doctors."
"That's a large order," Ronnie murmured. "Where do I begin?" She wanted to help Drake, knowing he was serious and reaching tentatively for the ray of hope he was giving her. And she would answer him as truthfully as possible, but there were certain things she simply couldn't reveal, certain things about which Pieter would rather die than have become known. . . .
"Start anywhere," Drake prompted her, "and I'll insert questions when I want you to go further."
Taking a deep breath, Ronnie began to talk, telling him that the disease had begun at a slow rate of acceleration soon after their marriage. It was a small white lie, one which she hoped would make no difference. Drake's few comments and questions were intelligent and well spaced, and before she knew it, she became immersed in her monologue, telling Drake the things that worried her most, confiding in him as she had never thought possible.
They never had to discuss a sex life at all. Drake knew Pieter and Ronnie kept separate quarters, and although Ronnie knew Drake still condemned her for her affair with him aboard the ship, he was tactful enough at the moment to make no remarks.
Ronnie stopped speaking suddenly and looked up into his eyes, which gazed intently at her. She wondered if she caught a spark of empathy, but it was gone so quickly, she assured herself that tenderness from him could only exist in her imagination. And yet, she felt good, as if talking had lifted a heavy load from her shoulders. She could easily hate Drake for his often disdainful treatment of her, but she also trusted him explicitly.
He was a hard man, a thorough man—a man she had stupidly fallen in love with—a man of fury and intensity, but one who would direct his energies tirelessly and relentlessly in pursuit of a goal. She felt a drained relief to know his goal at that moment was the life and health of Pieter von Hurst.
"It hasn't been easy for you, has it?" he asked, his tone surprisingly hard for his question.
"No, it hasn't," Ronnie replied bluntly, her voice every bit as matter-of-fact. Then the relief of having shared her burden washed through her and she impetuously grabbed his arm and stared into his dark eyes beseechingly. "Oh, Drake, do you really think there's any kind of a chance? . . ."
"Yes, Ronnie, I do. I believe there is always hope."
Hope. Ronnie dropped his arm and stared out to sea. For some things, perhaps, there was hope. Not for others.
Drake suddenly hopped to his feet with athletic agility and reached to give her a hand. "I've never seen Fort Sumter," he told her, still with a rather harsh, gravelly tone. "Can we go over? How do we get there?"
Ronnie stood beside him and answered his new line of questioning levelly, sounding something like an indifferent tour guide in relation to his manner. No matter what he said, no matter what had once gone on between them—no, not even the fact that they had become conspirators on Pieter's behalf—could change his opinion of her. For a wild moment of misery she was tempted to throw herself into his arms and explain everything, to unburden herself completely, to cry out that she wasn't a run-a-round wanton but a victim herself of desperate need . . . and love. But she could say none of those things. She simply couldn't do it to Pieter and, anyway, it wouldn't change things, she would still be Mrs. Pieter von Hurst.
Even with the slim ray of hope Drake offered, Ronnie would always be bound to Pieter by ties of her own morality. And so as her mind dwelt upon dreams unuttered she kept up a line of chatter about Charleston, talking as she led him to the Ferrari, which would be their transportation around town. She pointed out various old houses along the Battery as they drove to the ferry that would take them out to Fort Sumter, maintaining her cool, instructorlike stream of exposition.
As Drake listened to her, he struggled with an inward battle. He didn't mean to sound harsh each time he spoke; his cold brusqueness was a line of defense. It was impossible to look into the incredible blue depths of her eyes and not be touched—and painfully inflamed. He decided with a cruel twist of his lips that he was a masochist.
Every time he came near her, he was stricken with the wild desire to sweep her into his arms and take her with primitive passion—no matter where they happened to be. Remembrance of the satin softness of her skin, the perfect, harmonious fit her slender, lusciously curved form made with his body... being one with her... drove him to the brink of madness, and to a number of cold showers. And all the while he berated himself for his stupidity. She was Von Hurst's wife; a sophisticated woman who indulged in affairs for her own entertainment while married to the great, ailing artist. . . .
God, he groaned inwardly. Why the hell didn't she fit the part of the hard, calculating seductress? It would be so easy to forget her then... but no one could look into her unmasked, depthless, beguiling eyes and call her hard, or believe that she was—what she was.
A woman with needs, a part of his mind told him. One who endured a lonely, demanding life. One who sincerely cared for Pieter. But he had been deceived by her once, used by her once, because he had trusted the character and soul in those eyes, which had held him a willing prisoner of her grace and beauty.
He couldn't lower his guard to her for a second. She was Von Hurst's. But deep within himself he struggled with another thought If—an incredible if—he could ever make her his, she would probably do the same—run around. She had learned the lesson, and surely cheating could only become easier and easier. He didn't even have any idea of how many escapades she had carried on like the one they had shared.
He shook himself mentally. She wasn't his. He had no right to be angry with her; her affairs or lack of them were Pieter's concern. Her husband's concern. He lashed out at her because of his own frustration and a haunting desire that overwhelmed him that could never be fulfilled again. . . .
Recognizing what ripped him apart—and admitting the root of his anger—suddenly calmed him. She was here with him today because he had forced her hand, both to quiz her on Pieter, and also to take a form of punishment out on her—to force her to be near him. Perhaps he wanted to force her to suffer as he did, because he loved her still every bit as much as he hated her for shattering the illusion of trust and happiness he had created with her upon his pedestal. . . .
"Drake."
He started as she said his name, obviously for a second time. "This is it," she said quietly as he stared at her blankly in return. "The ferry."
"Oh." Drake uncoiled his length and hastened dexterously from the car, suddenly determined to be courteous. But she was out of the driver's seat before he could reach her door. Not daunted, he slipped an arm through hers. The glance she gave him, peering at an angle through fringed lashes, was skeptical, to say the least.
"I'm opting for a pleasant day," he told her smoothly. "A tourist out with a native to see the sights. No past, no concerns. Deal?"
Ronnie slightly arched a doubting brow and pursed her lips in a small smirk, but nodded. "No past, no concerns."
And an hour later, as they crawled around the cannons and ruined brick of the island fort, she lost her cynicism and began to believe him. He was out to be charming.
They linked arms as they ambled about, occasionally listening to the guides, occasionally referring to the informative pamphlets, and reading aloud to one another. They discussed the war and the battle that had rocked Fort Sumter over a century ago, a
nd from there the conversation progressed easily to present times. Without innuendo, Drake quizzed Ronnie on life in Paris, and she in turn discovered that he was well traveled and had a host of amusing anecdotes relating to difficulties for Americans in various European cities.
By the time the ferry took them back to the harbor, they were both comfortable with their strange truce. Drake assuredly plucked the keys from Ronnie's hand as they returned to the Ferrari, murmuring with a quiet firmness, "I'll drive."
"Oh?" she teased, obediently slipping into the passenger seat as he opened her door, "and where are we going?"
"I do know the town a little bit," he retorted. "And I know precisely where to go for dinner, dressed as we are."
Ronnie glanced ruefully at the jeans they both wore. She hadn't thought that they would be dining out, but they had passed lunchtime without thought, and she realized she was ravenous. She was also happy to continue the day. It had had a shaky start, but the afternoon had been so pleasant; a sweet interlude of a dream coming unexpectedly to life. In time they would return to the island, her coach would turn back into a pumpkin, her prince would turn back into Drake, and she would turn back into Mrs. Pieter von Hurst.
But the bewitching time was midnight, wasn't it? she thought, closing her eyes dreamily. Drake was taking her to dinner. It was a pity they weren't dressed. She would love to dance every second away and, like Cinderella, not lose a precious second, but leave on the stroke of twelve. . . .
"Where are we going?" she asked, her lips slightly curled from the whimsy of her imaginings. "There aren't any really nice dinner spots I know of where we can go like this."
Drake sent her a dancing ebony glance. "It takes a tourist!" he groaned with mock disgust. "We are going to a little private club near the city center. A casual place with impeccable stuffed mushrooms and the tenderest steak tidbits you'll ever sink your teeth into. And"—his sizzling coal gaze came her way again as if he had read her mind—"they employ a top forties band that is great. They lean a little toward hard rock, but they are good, and lots of fun. Any objections?"
Ronnie shook her head and lowered her lashes to hide the extreme pleasure his words had given her. "No—no objections. It does sound like fun."
The club really wasn't little at all, Ronnie realized as they entered the comfortable redwood establishment. Like so many night spots, the decor was dark, basically black and crimson, and the lighting dim. It was split into several sections, with the band and dance floor a half level below the dinner tables. Ronnie approved of the design immediately. It was possible to talk with one's partner while intimately dining without being drowned out by the music, and then equally possible to fully enjoy the dancing and music without intruding on a voracious diner!
They were led up a short flight of thickly carpeted stairs to a secluded booth in a corner. The smiling hostess seated them across from one another, and Ronnie was grateful as she sank into the plush booth. It would be too easy to forget she was just a Cinderella if she had to sit next to him and feel the heat from his body vibrate along the side of hers. And she was sure Drake never really forgot who she was, no matter how pleasantly he behaved toward her.
A silence fell between them after they placed their drink orders, and Ronnie pretended a great interest in her menu while sneaking covert glances at Drake. He was marvelous—though somewhat chilling—Just ftHoek'-ar Tonight he almost matched the decor of the club; his snag jeans were black, his casually tailored shirt black-and-red-patterned. The top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a V of crisp black hair upon his chest. Matching it all were his eyes, seeming of the deepest, darkest, ebony fire. With his wavy dark-brown hair and devilishly curved mustache, high, gaunt cheeks and foreboding but fascinating profile, he had already drawn the recurring gazes of the club's female patrons.
Yet it was more than looks that brought eyes to him like magnets. A sense of indifferent confidence was part of Drake. He emanated a totally male assurance, and something even more intriguing: that beguiling, mesmerizing look of the devil—a dangerous look, as compelling as fire. . . .
A hand, long and broad and sporting neatly clipped nails, suddenly swept away Ronnie's red-tassled menu. "You're reading upside down," Drake told her dryly, adding as she flushed and parted her lips for an explanation, "And you don't need to read anyway. Trust me, I won't lead you astray."
Glad of any excuse to bypass his observation of her upside- down reading habits, Ronnie inanely murmured, "I trust you." Then, alarmed at the multiple meanings her tone could give to the simple words, she chatted on at an impetuous rate. "Stuffed mushrooms, right? And the most tender steak tidbits in the world. Served, I assume, with some type of deliciously seasoned dipping sauce. And the mushrooms—stuffed with fresh crab- meat, delicately tipped with bread crumbs, and basted in seasoned butter to tempt, tease, and fully arouse the palate—" She broke off in confusion, wondering where she had found such words of description for food.
Drake was laughing. "They should hire you to write the menus. You just made a casual dinner sound like an erotic experience."
His laughter broke off abruptly, and it was he who stared down at his menu. They could both easily remember an erotic experience. Thankfully then-drinks arrived at table-before an uncomfortable silence could lengthen. Drake glanced at Ronnie only once as he gave their orders. He already knew she preferred her meat rare, sour cream for her baked potato.
Ronnie staunchly pulled her flustered demeanor together as Drake placed the order for their meal. A long sip of the brandy alexander she now had before her helped her regain a measure of aloofness, necessary with their words taking on unintentional insinuation. She didn't want to mar the day with a tense exchange of hostilities should one of them step too far.
The sweet, mellow taste of her drink hid but didn't diminish the combinad potency of the brandy and crème de cacao, which were mixed with only a hint of cream. A second sip steadied her while giving her the illusion of relaxation as a languorousness misted the world around her, taking away all the sharp edges. She almost giggled but stopped herself. She was floating on two sips of a drink, and she could only credit the sensation to her completely empty stomach.
She didn't want to giggle right now, though; she wanted to wear her cool image, her Mrs. Pieter von Hurst image. A giggle just wouldn't fit. Nor would the rumble in her stomach if it became loud enough to be heard. . . .
Placing an elbow on the table and resting her chin on her knuckles, Ronnie smiled distantly, unaware that the sparkling, wistful mist in her eyes was soft and bewitching. "Tell me," she said conversationally, "something about Drake O'Hara." She idly picked up the swizzle stick that had been in her drink and pushed absently at the floating nutmeg. Ruefully, her eyes then on the drink, she added, "You know a little too much about me, and I knew nothing about you. Except that your home is Chicago."
He quirked a brow as she met his eyes again. "Not fair. I don't really know anything about you. Not about the real Ronnie who hides behind the marble mask. I know nothing about your past, about your own dreams."
Ronnie bit down lightly on her lower lip in an imperceptible movement of an eyetooth. It was a damn good thing he knew nothing about her dreams. They were as far fetched as a piece of the moon.
"You first," she told him. "Were you born in Chicago?"
"Right in the heart," he replied wryly, lounging back in the booth, one finger running idly up and down the icy moisture on the side of his rock glass. "I grew up in a suburb, Des Plaines, and then picked up my B.A. at Northwestern." He grimaced ruefully. "My major was actually business, but I was offered an art scholarship to the University of Florence. I picked up a master's degree there and became passionately involved in what I had previously decided—wisely, as my parents had instructed —to be only a hobby: sculpture. It was impossible not to become aggressively and passionately involved, not with the works of Michelangelo and other great Italian masters within reaching distance. I used to spend hours in the Medici Ch
apels, just staring at his work on the tombs."
"I don't understand," Ronnie interjected. "You must be very good. Pieter says so, and he never flatters anyone, and you received a scholarship. Why do you only dabble in sculpture now?"
Drake shrugged. "Actually, I don't just dabble. I work under another name. Mero."
A Season for Love Page 11