A Season for Love

by Heather Graham

There would be nothing faulty about the marriage this time. It would be legally registered in the State of South Carolina.

  Pieter and Drake both rose simultaneously and came to her with swift strides—an amazing accomplishment for Pieter. Startled from her reflections, Ronnie dropped the document on the desk, her eyes widening with confused alarm as the two men seemed to swoop down on her like vultures. She emitted a little gasp as they neared her, and almost imperceptively they slowed, and Pieter smiled. A quick glanced passed between him and Drake, and Drake changed course, walking across the room to Mr. Simmons—nowhere near her.

  Had she imagined that he was coming for her? Ronnie wondered fleetingly. His change of direction had been so smooth. . . .

  "Don't bother reading the thing, Veronica," Pieter instructed, securing a pen from the desk and slipping it in to her fingers. "I have more business to take care of, so I'll need you simply to hurry. And don't forget to use your, ah, proper name."

  Proper name—maiden name. Uneasily Ronnie leaned over and signed Veronica Jane Flynn. Pieter immediately slid the paper from her and retrieved his pen, sighing. "That's that," he said with satisfaction.

  Did the room reek of tension, or was she falling prey to the desolate life on the island and becoming paranoid? Pieter smiled at her benignly, Mr. Simmons casually glanced out the window, and Drake stood near him, quietly questioning him about growth along the Battery. Picture perfect. She must be growing paranoid. Drake had not been coming for her, he had just happened to rise along with Pieter.

  With the document in his hand, Pieter suddenly seemed to wilt before her. The normal pallor of his face took on a gray tinge, and for a moment Ronnie feared he would crumple to the floor. Ronnie forgot all the peculiar behavior surrounding her; she even forgot that Pieter usually shrugged off her touch sharply. She gripped his arm with naked concern, supporting him.

  "Thank you, my dear," he murmured. "I think I do need a little help over to my chair."

  He had spoken softly, but Drake was at his side in a minute, nodding to Ronnie over his head with unspoken instructions in his eyes. Together they led Pieter back to his chair by the window.

  "Thank you," Pieter murmured again.

  Once more Drake's eyes met Ronnie's. The mutual agreement they had shared so swiftly in regard to Pieter was gone. The hostility was back. Burning, scorching hostility. The look was deadly, but she couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the flame. Thankfully Mr. Simmons broke them apart.

  "I think that's all that I need," the older man said cheerfully, taking the paper from Pieter and placing it in his neat nondescript briefcase. "Mr. von Hurst"—he shook Pieter's hand— "I'll return in three days. Mrs. von Hurst, if you'll escort me out . . ."

  "Certainly," Ronnie replied, "Pieter?”

  "You'll come right back here, please," he commanded.

  "Excuse me," Drake interrupted. "Perhaps I should see Mr. Simmons out. I'm sure that whatever you have to say to your wife must be personal, and I can leave you two alone now—"

  "No!" Pieter protested firmly. "I want you here, Drake."

  Ronnie was surprised by Pieter's vehemence, and stunned by his words. She felt an uncomfortable coldness implacably settling in her limbs. Pieter hadn't wanted her to read the paper. What in hell had she just signed?

  "Pieter." Drake set his jaw with the protest. "I don't think—"

  Pieter lifted a hand weakly, and Ronnie had a slow dawning, and astounding suspicion, of what was going on. He was feigning part of his illness now, using it deviously to manipulate Drake. He knew the other man—the stubborn, indomitable, Black Irishman—had a will to fight anything, except his weakness.

  "Drake, please," Pieter insisted, and if she didn't know him better, Ronnie could have sworn he hid a satisfied smile. "Mr. Simmons is waiting, Veronica."

  "Yes," Ronnie said, challenging him with a hard stare. "Yes, I'll be right back. Mr. Simmons . . ."

  She exited the room politely with the lawyer and waited until they were halfway down the staircase before turning to him bluntly. "Mr. Simmons, what did I just sign?"

  Brilliant color flooded the older man's face, and he began to stutter. It was obvious he hadn't expected the question. He lowered his head and hurried down the remainder of the stairs, stalling for time.

  "Mr. Simmons," Ronnie persisted, keeping pace with him as he stretched his strides to reach the door. "You are an attorney, sir. I believe I have just put my signature upon something important without proper legal counsel."

  "Mrs. von Hurst—Veronica." Simmons still seemed to be fumbling with her name, but then he was aware of the circumstances. "Please speak to your husband. To—uh—Pieter."

  Ronnie sighed with exasperation. "Can you answer me one question, please? Is Mr. O'Hara aware of anything?"

  "Oh, no, no!" Simmons was able to assure her. "I just arrived —I drew the papers up long ago. Mr. von Hurst summoned you for your signature as soon as I entered the room."

  Ronnie was sure from Simmons's conspiratory and sympathetic look that he was placating her for all the wrong reasons. He imagined that she found her invalid marriage a horrifying embarrassment; after all, she had been living with Von Hurst for five years, a situation not actually shocking in the society of the eighties, but still not entirely palatable to the Bible Belt of the Old South. She hid a dry smile. She was far too concerned about Pieter to give a damn about propriety, but Simmons couldn't possibly comprehend her feelings. He could imagine what he wanted.

  But if Drake knew nothing about the paper, why had he jumped to prevent her from reading it? She hadn't imagined his action—it wasn't paranoia.

  Simmons, awed by the straightforward, cool confidence of the elegant young woman, suddenly found himself spilling far more than he intended. "I assure you that the document is in your best interests and protects you completely. I admit, Mr. von Hurst did plan to trick you, and that he did ask Mr. O'Hara's assistance. . . ." Simmons's voice trailed away inaudibly. Von Hurst was the main client of his office—the main income. He wasn't to be offended, and if that had meant joining in a small deception . . . Oh, well, he hadn't stopped her from reading the paper. . . .

  "Mr. Simmons," she charged him bluntly. "That was not an application for a wedding license, was it?"

  "No," he murmured unhappily, praying she would ask him nothing more.

  She didn't. "Thank you for that much honesty, Good afternoon."

  Very unhappily Simmons left the house and started down the path for the Boston Whaler, his ticket off the island.

  Ronnie watched him for several seconds and then turned with forceful steps to the staircase. It was time for a confrontation, and she was ready to battle Pieter. There would be no more humoring.

  She charged into Pieter's room without knocking, startling both men who awaited her. Casting a quick, hostile glance at Drake, she turned the flow of her force to Pieter. Her voice was a low, controlled growl. "I insist on knowing what is going on here!"

  Pieter smiled. "I'm divorcing you, Ronnie."

  His reply momentarily stunned her. How could he be divorcing her when he knew they weren't really married?

  Then she understood completely. Somehow, Pieter knew. He knew that she was in love with Drake, and was determined to play matchmaker. This announcement in front of Drake was a show. The tides were changing again. Pieter was trying to take care of her, at his own sacrifice. She loved him for it, but she couldn't let him do it. Tears misted in her eyes as she approached him, facing him squarely. "No, Pieter, I simply won't let you do it."

  He turned from her, and in his life he had never been more callous. He had to be. "I'm afraid you have no choice, my dear. You have just signed a document absolving me of any responsibility for you. I will be leaving shortly for Maryland and this Johns Hopkins doctor Drake has arranged for me to see. I want you off the island before I return."

  Ronnie knew Pieter; she knew what he was doing and her heart went out to him. Nobility fit him well.

  Drake gasped,
and Ronnie cast him a quick glance. He didn't know what was going on. His countenance was brilliantly hard, his eyes laser-sharp diamonds. He was seeing the great Pieter von Hurst cruelly strip his wife of everything. "Pieter," he began harshly. "Lord, man, this is extreme. What we had was a brief affair ... the woman really loves you."

  It was Ronnie's turn to gasp. Drake had told Pieter about their shipboard romance.

  "Oh, God! Pieter!" Tears streamed down Ronnie's face for the man she had called husband, the man she had hurt so badly, who was now staging this whole thing for her benefit, not realizing how Drake despised her for the affair to begin with ... and how she despised him now for the pain he had caused with his admission. She rushed to the huge fan-backed chair in which Pieter had wearily sat. "I'm so sorry, Pieter," she cried, clasping his terribly gaunt hand once again with no thought of being rejected. She caught his sad blue gaze, strong now with his determination, and her tears continued in a waterfall torrent. She couldn't stop them. "Pieter," she choked, "you still can't do this, I won't let you. . . . Oh, Pieter . . . you can't. I know that you need me "

  He looked at her with love and tenderness. "No, Ronnie. No more."

  Drake couldn't see his host's eyes, only the humble tears in Ronnie's. And he was furious. Von Hurst had tricked him into admitting the affair, smoothly bribing him. He would go to Johns Hopkins only if Drake would accede to the fact that he was in love with Pieter's wife. And with the admission necessary to offer the great artist life, Drake had felt his rage rise at Ronnie, who had deceived him from the beginning. Ronnie, who had no life with Pieter . . . Ronnie, who had sworn her love for him. ... Ronnie, who, now offered complete freedom—no, forced into complete freedom—was groveling at the feet of the man who had callously cast her out. Good God, he was being used by both of them! But what hurt him most was the fact that she didn't turn to him. He couldn't love her as Von Hurst's wife, but if Von Hurst was sworn to repudiate her . . . she should accept it. Supposedly she loved Drake, too.

  Drake could literally feel his heart harden. He had been deceived all along. Ronnie cared for Pieter, desired him, but really gave her love to no one. There could be only one reason that she pleaded so fervently with Pieter: She liked being Mrs. von Hurst. She couldn't part with the prestige and promised wealth.

  She was still crying, and oddly, Von Hurst was trying to soothe her. "I know what I'm doing," he told her.

  "Oh, Pieter" was all that she could mumble. She stumbled to her feet, still murmuring, "No, I won't let you. . . ."

  Then, with her beautiful sapphire eyes glinting like a multi- faceted crystal chandelier, Ronnie turned a weary, scorning gaze to Drake. The air between them was thick and charged with tension.

  She was angry enough to stare Drake down, angry enough to meet his contempt—angry enough to really boil him in oil, if only she had a big enough pot.

  But she also felt as if she were bleeding within, and the room was closing in on her. She couldn't bear any of it anymore. Ripping her eyes from the electricity of Drake's, she strangled a sob and raced out of the room, down the staircase, and out of the house.

  Both men were silent for several minutes after she left the room. Drake began to pace, running his fingers through the raven wings of his hair. Damn Ronnie! How could she have put him in a position like this? Morally, he was bound to argue that the man keep his wife—a wife Drake's heart felt to be his.

  "Damn it, Von Hurst!" he finally exploded. "I don't think you understand Ronnie—"

  "I understand her perfectly, O'Hara," Pieter responded. "And I understand you, my friend." Pieter sighed wearily. He was not all that good at being generous. It was becoming harder with the two of them fighting him. "Always follow the command of your heart, Drake. There is a season in life for everything. In this season of my life I am following my heart."

  "Von Hurst," Drake began heatedly, "if you're following your damn heart, keep me out of it! You used me today—"

  "Yes." Pieter waved a hand that was truly growing weak. Watching the younger man was tiring. He was a panther on a leash, exuding vitality, restraining himself. Von Hurst knew Drake would love to bash his fist in his face. He also knew he wouldn't do it.

  "Would you go find . . . Veronica, please," Pieter requested. "I do not want her alone." His wife. His dearly beloved wife. He would never use the term again. "You will find her by the sea. She has probably taken one of the horses."

  Drake stormed out of the room gladly. He wasn't sure it was such a good idea for him to find Ronnie at that moment, but it wasn't a particularly good idea for him to stay with Pieter. In his present mood he wanted to throttle them both. He felt like a volleyball they had been passing back and forth, and for the life of him, he couldn't begin to figure out what the hell was going on. He had spent the morning convincing Pieter that he should see another doctor. Pieter then had charged him very politely with having an affair with his wife, never once losing his temper. To the contrary, he had seemed pleased. ... He had assured Drake then that he would see the doctor. Then he had become excessively weak and begged Drake to help him force Ronnie's hand, and then the attorney had appeared. Then Pieter, who hadn't even been angry, was telling his wife he was divorcing her . . . then . ..

  The entire situation was mad, and he couldn't even get out of it. He was too involved—and too much in love, as well as frustrated, confused, and terribly furious—and suddenly, very, very determined to find Ronnie. They were going to have it out once and for all.

  His fists clenched into iron vises at his sides, Drake stalked down the stairway in pursuit.

  Chapter Eight

  Pieter did know Ronnie much better than she would have ever guessed.

  Her first instinct was to run to the stables and to the bay mare. Startling the elderly groom, she slipped a bridle over Scheherazade's head herself and shunned the idea of a saddle, grasping the mare's mane to swing herself astride in a reckless but practiced leap.

  Her second instinct was to race to the sea. She followed the trail through the lower foliage until she broke out on to the beach. There she gave Scheherazade free rein, and allowed the pounding of the surf and the horse's thundering hooves to drown out the throbbing in her head.

  Finally Ronnie realized she was overtaxing the mare, and she reined in. Scheherazade slowed obediently and came to a halt.

  Ronnie slid from the horse's back and walked numbly to the water's edge, heedless of the waves that saturated her loafers, washing over them like slender, receding tentacles. She sat and lay backward, throwing an arm over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

  Not since Jamie's death, so many years before, had she been at such a loss. And not in the five years of their pseudomarriage had she ever felt closer to Pieter, Yet never in her life had she encountered the love she felt for Drake—an emotion that overwhelmed all else, including her own will.

  It was such a fiasco. She knew damn well that Pieter would never force her off the island, and she also knew, no matter how noble his gestures, that he would need her to endure the trauma of once again searching for hope.

  She felt the approach of Black Satan reverberating in the sand even before she heard the sound of his galloping hooves, and she winced. She was in no mental condition to do battle with Drake.

  Twisting her head and covertly opening an eye beneath the shade of her arm, she watched with an almost detached admiration as the horse and rider came nearer. Black Satan, huge, powerful, and magnificent stallion, like a war horse of another era, thundered down the beach. His rider was equally powerful, equally magnificent. As if it had been staged, Drake was in black today: black jeans and a black silk shirt, with sleeves that rippled in the wind. Drake too had shunned the use of a saddle, and he seemed to sail down the beach, one with the stallion. A black knight.

  So much for Cinderella tales, she told herself grimly. She would have laughed if she didn't fear the laughter would turn to hysteria. This was certainly no fair prince coming to wipe out the misery of the past with
a single kiss of loving tenderness. It was Drake, his dark, brooding scowl a countenance as foreboding as his appearance. She could already see the dangerous gleam of anger glinting like black diamonds in his eyes.