A Season for Love

by Heather Graham

  He wasn't coming to give her a tender, loving kiss.

  The stallion came to a rough halt about thirty feet from her. Drake was off the horse's back in an instant, his long strides carrying him swiftly to her. He gripped both her hands with thin-lipped determination and jerked her curtly to her feet, releasing her as she stood. Ronnie automatically rubbed sore wrists as she stared at him, inwardly strengthening herself as she noted the harsh irregularity of his breathing as he glared at her.

  They stood like that for several seconds, just staring at one another, both unaware of the sea that foamed over their feet or the horses that wandered aimlessly in the background.

  Drake finally spoke as he saw her chin begin to tilt. Even now, with her sable hair whipped by the wind and her jeans and tailored shirt spattered with water and wet sand, she was regal.

  "I want to know," he grated harshly, his words enunciated crisply between the clench of his jaw, "what the hell is going on here."

  Ronnie shrugged with cool eloquence. "Why are you asking me? You seem to be privy to more information than I. You also seem to be giving out more."

  "I didn't tell Pieter a damn thing he didn't already know," Drake growled with low menace.

  "But you did tell him something?"

  "I had to."

  Ronnie did laugh then, a short, bitter sound. "You once told me, Mr. O'Hara, that I did everything my husband instructed. How does it feel to find yourself in the same position?"

  It was the wrong question. Ronnie gasped with alarm as Drake's hands came to her shoulders, gripping them with barely controlled intensity. His eyes were a dark, savage fire as they seared into hers, seeming to scorch her soul. "I'll tell you how I feel," he clipped. "Used. Used in some travesty between the two of you. You were terrified that your husband would discover your little indiscretion. Because of his health, so you tell me. Well, I don't wish to blatantly insult you, madam, but your husband seemed ridiculously happy to hear about your outside affairs. He seemed thrilled for a good excuse to get himself an easy divorce.

  "Now, on the other hand"—his pressure on her shoulders increased as he pushed her back to sit in the sand and crouched before her, barely losing a beat in his dissertation—"I have you. You claim to love your husband, but you weave me into your little spell at the same time. I'm supposed to believe that you will do anything, sacrifice all, for the husband you so adore, while carrying on with me as if I were some sort of a stud service—and, oh, you forget to tell me the conditions!"

  His words had finally gone past the boundary of endurance. She instinctively followed one of the oldest impulses of time and slapped him with every ounce of seething strength she could muster.

  He appeared almost not to notice. He stopped for a single second, procured both her wrists with a not-too-gentle wrench, and continued speaking. "Now we have our bountiful little princess of charity faced with a divorce from a man she is benignly staying with because he is an invalid. A man she couldn't possibly have slept with for some time. A man who wants nothing more to do with her."

  "Let me go!" Ronnie hissed.

  "Uh-uhn, princess. You're going to hear this one out. Then you're going to do some talking."

  Ronnie made one quick attempt to extract her wrists from his grip, and then realized the futility of the effort. She went motionless, closed her eyes, and ground her teeth together.

  "There really is only one deduction that can be made here," Drake went on, his tone still harsh and bitingly academic. "Mrs. von Hurst may enjoy an occasional excursion into the carnal delights of life, but she is very fond of being Mrs. von Hurst. Luxury is easy to become accustomed to, even though our magnanimous lady claims she also loves me—our third party in this little drama. Being the humble lover, I even tried to convince Mr. von Hurst that a divorce was a bit drastic—that his beautiful wife found me merely a diversion and was still deeply in love with him. But I failed, madam. Your husband is cheerfully determined to be rid of you. He will get a divorce."

  "You are an idiot!" Ronnie hissed explosively. "A complete fool."

  "Obviously," Drake drawled, "I'm involved in this. But be thankful you did involve yourself with an idiot. No matter what Pieter does," he added with a bitter note, "I will take care of you."

  Ronnie laughed again. It was all so ridiculous. "Don't be absurd, Drake!" With his scorning attitude she'd die before he ever took care of her. "I repeat," she charged, her sapphire gaze challenging his dark one as she made a rash, foolish attempt to free herself, which only served to tighten his constricting hold, "you are an idiot. That entire scene in Pieter's room today was staged. I can guarantee you, my dear Mr. O'Hara, that I will never need you to take care of me. Pieter will not throw me off the island. Nor will he divorce me. He can't divorce me, because we're not really married."

  Shock did for Ronnie what all her struggles could not. Drake's hands went cold and limp; his bronze face went paper-white beneath the tan. In contrast, his eyes became blacker than the night, his mustache and hair perfectly etched lines of ink against parchment. The reddening imprint of her hand became clear against the high, angular line of his cheekbone.

  "What the hell are you talking about?" he rasped.

  "Pieter and I are not really married," Ronnie repeated furiously. She was no longer in the least bit numb, but in the full heat of a long-withheld rage herself. She jumped to her feet, still careful to put a little distance between Drake and herself. "I told you, that entire scene was staged for your benefit. I suppose Pieter used the term divorce because he was afraid you would think less of me for living with him for all these years. It's a pity the poor man doesn't realize there is no way you could possibly think any less of me."

  She had moved down the beach as she delivered her stunning retort, hoping to escape the touch that sent shivers down her spine even as it imprisoned her with demand.

  But there was no escaping him today. He was on his feet with agile, lightning speed, and by her side to grasp an arm. "Don't walk away from me, Veronica—you're far from done."

  "The hell I'm not!" she asserted. "You seem so great at judging everything. You take it from here!"

  "Sit, Ronnie," he grated, "or shall I help you?"

  She hesitated just a moment too long, which was foolish. She knew he never made idle threats. A slight movement of one of his powerful thighs swept her feet from beneath her and she was in his arms, being lowered back to a sandy seat. Just to be certain she didn't move again, Drake crooked an elbow over her waist and settled his head into his hand. His weight was held off her, but it was a very effective prison nonetheless. There was no way she could move the bar of his arm or push past the broad chest that hovered in front of her. "I'm listening," he reminded grimly as she stared at him, silently seething.

  "All right, your honor," she grated mockingly. "But you're not going to understand—"

  "I'm dying to understand," he interrupted dryly. "Try me."

  Ronnie sighed and clenched her eyes shut for an instant. It was ridiculous, but in the midst of all this, her fingers itched to reach out and touch the crisp, smattering strands of black curls that rose above the two open buttons of his silk shirt. She was tempted to draw a tender line along that of the mustache that could quirk with his laughter, tease her flesh with exotic torment. . . .

  Her eyes flew open. They met the relentless dark glare of his.

  "Pieter and I were married in Paris as I told you," Ronnie said. "We came here right after—Pieter didn't want to be seen anymore. It was very rough on him at first, as you can imagine. He was impossible for a long time, but—contrary to what you believe—I did love him. Maybe not in a way you would condone, but I did and do love him. About a month ago he went into a period of brooding, and I finally learned it was about me. He got this thing in his head that he had ruined my life and he wanted to give me a divorce so that I could have a life of my own. He contacted his attorney, and consequently discovered that our marriage wasn't valid, because the notary who had performed the
ceremony wasn't a notary at all." She smiled dryly. "He wanted a secret ceremony to avoid the press, and it was so secret, it wasn't even real."

  "Go on," Drake prodded briskly as she fell to silence.

  "That's about all there is to tell," Ronnie said blandly, focusing on the waves behind Drake rather than on his eyes. "I told Pieter from the beginning that I wouldn't leave him. Whether we were or weren't married was irrelevant. I consented to be his wife in Paris because I knew that he loved me, and he needed me very desperately. I don't think that that has changed. Pieter has simply decided that I want you, and he is determined to give you to me."

  Drake became the still one. He was silent for so long that Ronnie forced her gaze from the sea back to him. She became aware of a chill as she watched his face, and she wasn't sure if it came from the damp sand and her soaked feet or not. He had regained his color, and he was in complete control now of his actions. The face she stared upon was hard and implacable, darkly grim, giving away nothing.

  "You knew you weren't married at the time of the cruise," he finally said. His tone was no more readable than his face. Did he intend to forgive her on a legality? She couldn't allow such a falsehood.

  "I knew about the marriage being invalid," she said bitterly, forcing herself to meet his demand squarely without tears forming in her eyes. "But"—her voice grew hard with the effort to be cold—"don't go absolving me of adultery or 'game playing,' as you call it. Whether that marriage in Paris was legal or not, I entered into it with wide-open eyes. I made all the vows. So you see, to me, I was married. I was Mrs. Pieter von Hurst."

  "Then why me?" he asked hoarsely.

  Ronnie swallowed carefully, and despite herself, she could answer in no more than a strained whisper. "I—I never intended there to be a you. Pieter forced me to take the cruise—you are right; he can use his illness to get just about whatever he wants— because he assumed a taste of freedom would make me agree to allow him to die alone. He feels the end is near." She had to stop for a minute to breathe deeply in order to continue without sobs choking in her throat. "When I met you, I thought we would share a drink. I knew what I was coming home to, and knew that no matter what Pieter did, I couldn't just walk out on him. I never thought I would see you again. And I—and I—" God, it was so hard to explain! "I just wanted you so badly." Her voice wasn't even a whisper, it was a feeble gasp for air.

  Drake lifted his head and straightened himself, releasing her from the prison of his body. She stared at the sea; he stared at the cliffs. His long, strong hands moved to his face, and his fingers tiredly massaged his temples.

  "How many other 'cruises' have there been?" he asked obliquely.

  The question should have made her angry, but it didn't. Her anger was spent; her heart was torn in pieces.

  "No other cruises, Drake. That was it."

  He still wasn't looking at her and he asked his next question almost absently. "Do you really love me, too, Ronnie?"

  Her throat constricted completely. He had stripped her veneer, plundered the depths of her life. It would be foolish to lie now, foolish to hold on to any false pride. Things were out in the open now, but they hadn't changed. Nor did she feel Drake's basic beliefs could change. Of her own admission, she had carried on an affair while still being, in her own mind, a married woman. It was a vicious circle. She couldn't leave Pieter despite his noble gestures; Drake would never trust her, even if she could leave Pieter. So none of it mattered . . . except that it did. She did love Drake with all of her heart, and now she couldn't bear a lie between them. Soon enough the time would come when she would never see him again.

  "Yes." All of the warmth and yearning of the love she bore him came out in the barely audible whisper of the word.

  Drake rose to his feet, a little unsteadily. He continued looking out at the cliffs, his profile as ruggedly indiscernible as the terrain he surveyed. He didn't soften, he offered her no tenderness.

  He turned back to her and grasped her hands almost as roughly as he had originally. She came to her feet, and only then did his eyes meet hers.

  "I'm going to marry you, Ronnie," he told her in a voice that was devoid of any emotion.

  "No," she murmured in confusion. "You still don't understand. You can't."

  He shrugged, peculiarly remote. "Yes, I can," he said distantly, "and I intend to."

  Ronnie shook her head, her brows knit in confusion, her teeth nervously chewing the tender flesh of her lower lip. She was sure he had lost his senses, but he portrayed nothing to her now, not anger, not mockery, not sympathy, not love. He spoke with the absent courtesy of a casual acquaintance.

  "You're not listening, Drake," Ronnie said firmly. "When Pieter leaves for Maryland, I'll be with him. I can't leave him to face hope—and possible disappointment—by himself. I will be with him."

  Drake ignored her and let loose a shrill whistle. Black Satan obediently left the outcrop of grass he had discovered and trotted to the man, as acquiescent as a well-trained and beloved dog.

  Soul mates, Ronnie thought with a shade of resentment for both man and animal. The fiery horse and arrogant man did deserve one another.

  Drake swung over the stallion's back with expert ease. "Where's Scheherazade?" he asked her curtly.

  Ronnie searched the area quickly with a sweep of her eyes. Her resentment for Drake's charismatic influence over the usually aloof Black Satan increased as she realized she had been deserted by Scheherazade—an animal she had owned for five years.

  "Probably back at the stable, munching sweet alfalfa," she answered in annoyance.

  "Then you'd better hop up," Drake suggested, sliding back to give her room over the horse's withers.

  Ronnie stared at him uneasily. He hadn't responded to her announcement that she would be leaving with Pieter; in actuality, he hadn't responded to much of what she had said at all.

  He had given her his bland yet determined offer of marriage, and then nothing else. He had ignored her commitment to stay with Pieter. Probably because he preferred it that way, she thought with dry misery. He might now believe that she did love him, and he might even still love her in return, but he didn't really want marriage. It was probably a moralistic, noble gesture —the type Pieter was proving to be so proficient at.

  She was back to her vicious circle, and suddenly just as happy as Drake to drop the subject, which had so recently overshadowed all else. She wasn't, however, very happy to mount the black stallion with Drake. She was drained and more vulnerable than she would ever have him see her.

  He held the reins with one hand and offered her the other. "Mrs. von Hurst—" He caught himself. "But that isn't your name, is it? What is your surname?"

  "Flynn," Ronnie murmured, touching his hand but not accepting it. "I, uh, can't jump up that way," she explained with lowered lashes. "Black Satan is a lot higher than the bay—"

  "Take my hand," Drake interrupted impatiently.

  She did so and was surprised to find herself lifted high enough to swing a leg over the animal's neck and shoulders, in front of Drake. Careful of Black Satan's comfort, she scooted back to unnerve her own well-being. She fit like a glove to Drake's body, and was able to feel the slightest twitch of his muscles, from his strong thighs to the shoulders that sheltered her back. She could feel the expansion of his broad chest against her flesh with each breath, the thud of his heart. She could almost feel the racing of his blood through his veins. . . .

  "Ready?" he queried crisply.

  She nodded, and he nudged the stallion toward home. Black Satan, knowing the direction indicated offered a meal, tossed his huge, well-sculpted head, snorted, and attempted to take the bit between his teeth.

  Drake was ready for him, clearly the master, but he allowed the horse a fleet canter. Ronnie clamped on to a handful of the sleek black mane, her thighs, like Drake's behind them, holding Satan while they moved with him.