A Season for Love

by Heather Graham

  "The boat," he said. "That Boston Whaler. Is it Dave's private property, or can I take it out?"

  "Ah, no," she said quickly, rebounding from the incident. "I mean, no, the boat is for anyone's use. You're welcome to take her out. Just let Dave know you're going."

  Drake wasn't looking at her, he was carefully covering the marble. "Want to join me?"

  "What?" she murmured again, this time surprised.

  "Damn, Ronnie," he said with a trace of amusement, "your eardrums must have turned to marble. I said, do you want to join me?"

  "My eardrums are just fine," she assured him dryly. "It's simply that I find your invitation a shade peculiar."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" she repeated, amazed.

  Drake laughed and looked around the room. "Is there an echo in here? I believe why was my question."

  Ronnie sighed with exasperation and began to inch toward the door. "No, I don't want to join you. I want to avoid you as much as possible, and you know it, and you know exactly why. I don't think we make the most congenial of companions."

  She had reached the door, and it appeared that he was advancing on her, but he wasn't. He reached for the knob. "Do you mind," he inquired politely. "I'd like to get by."

  His acceptance of her refusal should have pleased her, but she felt curiously deflated. "Excuse me." she quickly stepping aside. Again she became disoriented.

  Again she stepped on the drapery. And again it fell to her feet. She closed her eyes in rueful dismay, wondering cleakly why she should have chosen this day in her life to suddenly lose coordination. She felt Drake move to her feet and once more chastely red-rape her.

  Her eyes opened slowly. His were inches away, bright with laughter.

  "If I didn't know better, Mrs. von Hurst," he said with dryly feigned chastisement, "I'd say you were trying to seduce me."

  And she was doing a hell of a good job of it, he told himself. Far more beautiful than any statue ever created, the sight of her nakedness could tempt a cloistered monk. He knew her skin was like velvet. Even when frozen with dismay she stood proud, her breasts blossoming high and firm, her slender waist a handle of nature that knotted his fingers with memory. She was shadows, contours, curves, mystery, and enchantment. She was driving him nuts.

  But she was as tormented as he was; he knew the trauma in her eyes so well. In spite of himself, he teased, he laughed, although the sound was a half guttural groan from deep in his chest.

  She, however, did not find his teasing so amusing. He could see trauma simmering to anger. "Go on, Mr. O'Hara," she hissed, "you can get by now."

  He felt his teeth grinding into his jaw. Damn her and her imperious reserve. Here he was, making light of a situation to save her feelings, and she was unsheathing her claws. "You first, Mrs. von Hurst," he drawled mockingly. "I'll make sure you get down the hall clothed."

  "Please," she bit back, "it isn't necessary."

  Drake didn't budge. Belatedly Ronnie saw by the hardening of his firmly squared jaw and the chilling intensity that swept into his eyes that she had made a mistake to snap at him. She was even dimly aware that her anger had been uncalled for. But despite the fact that the fault was her own, she had been humiliated, and humiliation could best be appeased by anger. Understanding the situation was going to do little to help her now.

  "I insist, Mrs. von Hurst," he grated harshly, taking her elbow forcefully and propelling her out the door. "A lady should precede a gentleman."

  "I didn't know we had any present," she remarked beneath her breath.

  He heard her. "Ladies, you mean?" He purposely misunderstood with a cutting, cynical tone. "Oh, come, Veronica. I would never refer to you as anything less than a perfect lady."

  "Gentlemen," she retorted. "And I don't think I shall ever refer to you as one!" He was walking quickly, and she was breathless. It was difficult to keep up with his long-legged stride and keep herself wrapped to avoid any further disastrous mishaps.

  He stopped at the door to her room and pushed it in before giving her a light shove inside. "I'll see you at the boat in thirty minutes," he said casually.

  "You will not!" she promised, swinging the door shut only to have him prevent its closing with a quickly outstretched arm.

  "Yes, I will," he said confidently. "We all know that Mrs. von Hurst does everything Mr. von Hurst orders."

  Ronnie sucked her breath in sharply. He was observant; he was almost correct. But he was no better at denying Pieter than she was.

  "What's the matter with you?" she retorted. "You have a will and a stubborn tongue—I can certainly vouch for that. You can say no. You should have today; you should have yesterday—"

  "I didn't want to," he said simply.

  "And anyway," she continued, her wrath rising, "Pieter did not tell me I had to go out on the boat with you. He asked me to work. I worked. I'm done. Finished. You go out on the boat if you want."

  Drake wasn't sure himself what had gotten into him; she was right, they should stay far away from one another. But the anger he hated but could never quite control had him in its grip. He wanted to break her. He wanted to take her forcefully into his arms and make love to her with wild passion until she admitted she wanted him as badly as he wanted her.

  He couldn't do that. He was stopped by his own morals as well as her denial. It was crazy—but then, he was a little crazy. Being in the house had slowly been driving him mad. He couldn't have her, but he wanted to be with her. Stupid and contradictory as it was, Drake was certain that she did love him in her way, and that that love would last forever.

  As he looked at her, his face mirrored none of his feelings. It was indomitable, ruthless. A devil-like tiace—rawly hand's harperous. Even more dangerous when he smiled sk-wfc

  "You mean Pieter didn't ask you yet? It must have been an oversight. I'll go speak with him."

  Ronnie really wasn't sure if he would go to Pieter, but she wasn't up to another meeting with him. It would be absurd. She would wind up promising anything. . . .

  Soon, she promised herself, soon she would put her foot down. She won with him when she had the strength. More accurately, she won with him when she knew she was doing the right thing for his health.

  Time was ticking by as she stared at Drake frigidly, indecisively. Why was he doing this to her? Didn't he realize how she loved just to be near him, to hear him talk, to watch him breathe? Maybe he did; maybe that was his way of tormenting her.

  Yet she could have sworn that he had enjoyed yesterday as much as she had. He had held her as they danced with such genuine tenderness . . . but he had kissed her with repudiating violence. The best of their times together were destined to end that way.

  Still, her choices were few. "I'll be at the boat in thirty minutes," she told him.

  He made no effort to stop her as she slammed the door.

  She had intended never to forgive him, and she hadn't really, she assured herself, as the Boston Whaler cut through the foamy indigo waves of the Atlantic. It was the sea that had broken the animosity between them; the swiftly changing depths of the mysterious ocean and the cleansing, healing salt wind.

  It was impossible to be angry with anyone while speeding through the fascination of these elements. Especially when that someone was the devil's own spawn—a dark pirate at home in the wild winds, his angled, arrogant profile a dark bastion to challenge Neptune himself.

  They had spoken briefly and curtly when they started out, but within fifteen minutes both were laughing gaily, recklessly. They spent an hour skimming over the open ocean in haphazard patterns, switching turns at the helm in unspoken agreement.

  It was a glorious afternoon, hot for late summer in Charleston, but tempered by the relentless cool breeze that was part of the water sport. Drake had been farseeing enough to plan a basket lunch, but Ronnie was the one to suggest a sheltered alcove where the boat could be anchored while they ate their meal.

  "No rocks!" Ronnie assured Drake as he watched her in silent doub
t while she maneuvered the Whaler within twenty feet of the shore. "If she beaches, the tide will be with us. We can push her back out."

  A moment later, with the anchor secure, Ronnie doffed the jeans she had worn over her bathing suit, rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, and hopped over the bow. The water, which came to her midriff, was delightfully cool after the heat of the sun. Shielding her eyes with a hand, she looked back to Drake. "Want to hand me the basket?"

  He did, then hopped down beside her, holding a sheet procured from the cabin high above his head. Together they walked through the water to the beach.

  "We're about a mile from where we brought the horses the other day," Ronnie remarked a little nervously. Drake hadn't said anything as he spread the sheet on the sand, and she was wondering if she should have suggested the alcove.

  He nodded, looking down the beach. "That's about what I figured." He pulled his damp sport shirt over his head and tossed it to a corner of the sheet before taking the basket from her knotted fingers, setting it down, and sitting beside it. Rummaging through the interior, he found a cold-pack, unzipped it, and produced two bottles of Heineken. "Beer?" he queried her. "I hope it isn't too plebeian for your taste, but it seemed right for a boat excursion."

  "It's fine," Ronnie said briefly, ignoring the mild taunt as she accepted the icy bottle. She seated herself on the other side of the blanket and once more bemoaned her impulsive suggestion. They had had no difficulty communicating aboard the Boston Whaler, but now conversation was stilted. They were also too close, too surrounded by primitive elements, and too near a state of undress. Drake now wore only a pair of cut-offs, and she wore only her rather skimpy bathing suit and the wet shirt.

  She didn't move her head, but her eyes moved sideways. She wished she could ask him to put his shirt back on. He looked so much like that day she had first seen him by the ship's pool, casual but imposing, his bronze skin stretched tautly over a torso that was compellingly broad and sleekly muscled.

  Ronnie looked quickly back to the sea. His savage kiss of last night seared her lips afresh with memory. His repudiation chilled her despite the heat of the sun.

  "Why on earth did you insist I come with you?" she demanded suddenly.

  He shrugged, and his eyes met hers. "I don't really know. But don't tell me you're not enjoying yourself. Your eyes light up like diamonds on that boat."

  "You're capable of being charming on a boat," Ronnie admitted bitterly, digging her toes in to the sand. "It seems shorelines don't agree with us." She could feel herself winding up for an argument, and the prudent thing to do would be to find a sandwich and fill her mouth, but she couldn't control her harsh words. "Really, Drake. It amazes me that you find my behavior so atrocious. It never occurred to me that your type of man cared whom he sought for a rendezvous. I am not, after all, your wife."

  "It's lucky for you, Ronnie, that you're not," Drake snapped scathingly.

  "Really?" It was impossible to ignore such a blatant challenge no matter what the repercussions. "I suppose I would have been crucified by now?"

  "Possibly."

  "You'd condemn without a hearing?"

  "I believe that marriage means fidelity."

  So do I! she wanted to reply, but it would be ludicrous and laughable. "I suppose you had the perfect marriage yourself," she said derisively, immediately sorry that she had intentionally set out to wound him.

  He stared at her calmly, but Ronnie intuitively knew that if his fingers hadn't been so tightly clenched around his knees, they would have been around her throat. "No, I didn't have the perfect marriage. I was only twenty-two at the time; rash and temperamental. We both took pleasure in outside flirtations when we fought, which was often. It was too late when we realized what we were doing to one another, how serious the games we played were. I swore when Lisa died that I'd never inflict such a relationship on anyone again—nor have it inflicted on me."

  Ronnie could think of nothing to say to the direct reply she hadn't expected, but she didn't need to reply, she had gotten Drake going. His fingers left his knees to lash out for her arm, and she was dragged to the sheet so that he could heatedly stare over her, his weight half pinning her down.

  "That's why I find your behavior so atrocious, Ronnie," he bit into her. "I spent fifteen years swearing I'd never marry again because it always involved games. Then I met you, and I believed you were guileless, completely sincere. You talked about love and forever. God, what a fool you made of me! Then I find out that you're not only married, but married to one of the greatest artists of our time. A man desperately ill. What were your promises for, Ronnie? Were you putting me on hold until Pieter kicked the bucket? That really wouldn't have been necessary, you know. I'm not worth quite what Von Hurst is, but my finances are fine."

  Ronnie had remained stunned and still as he began his unleashed tirade, but the last was simply too much to tolerate. Where she had been chilled, she began to boil. She was shaking like a dry leaf in a winter wind. She exploded with a single word that well described what she thought of him, then went into a frenzied struggle against him. A worthless frenzied struggle.

  His weight held her still and his arms fended her flailing limbs easily.. He didn't even have to put forth much effort. He didn't speak, but smiled at her grimly until exhaustion brought her still again, panting, her eyes only challenging him with a blue ice that was as sharp as a glacier.

  For several seconds she lay still, breathing, staring at his dark eyes. Then she twisted her lips into a smile as grim as his and sweetly hissed another sound expletive. "You're right, Drake," she finally told him, "absolutely right. I'd much rather be a widow wallowing in money than anyone's wife."

  Drake released her roughly and stood, staring out at the sea, his hands planted on his trim hips. Ronnie watched his profile for a minute, cut sharply against the blue of the day, darkly rugged and uncompromising. Then she closed her eyes wearily. Nothing could change the facts.

  Drake remained standing, watching but not seeing the sea and sky as he fought an inward battle for self-control. He didn't really know what he was after, except that he felt there had to be some sort of explanation. He wanted her trust. He wanted her to make him understand how she could have sworn such ardent love to him while knowing all along she would return to another man. He would so gladly understand, because in spite of everything, all logic, all absence of future, he loved her. He wanted to shake the truth out of her, but she didn't break, she didn't even bend. She tossed his accusations right back in his face. All he could do, he thought bitterly, was his best for her husband. His damnedest to restore that husband's health. Possibly restore her to his arms.

  He couldn't really believe she was after the Von Hurst fortune. But then, why not? She had deceived him once into believing in forever. She could still be deceiving him—and Von Hurst. He was a fool to drown himself in the crystal-clear blue of her eyes.

  Ronnie felt Drake's weight as he lowered himself back to the sheet. She flinched slightly and heard a mirthless laugh. "Relax," he told her dryly, "I'm not going to attack you with a ham sandwich."

  She opened her eyes to find him collecting the beer bottles that had spilled into the sand while he chewed on a sandwich. "Your choices are ham and cheese and egg salad," he said brusquely. "Which will it be?"

  "I'm not particularly hungry," she murmured, rising on an elbow.

  He tossed a wrapped sandwich to her. "Eat anyway," he told her curtly. "I don't want you getting seasick on the way back."

  "I don't get seasick," Ronnie protested as he handed her another beer.

  "No," he said almost musingly. "I guess you wouldn't."

  Was it a form of apology? Ronnie wondered. Perhaps the best he could do under the circumstances. Not an apology, she decided; at best, an armed truce. She began to chew her sandwich automatically. Let him lead the conversation; perhaps he could keep them off forbidden topics.