A Season for Love

by Heather Graham

  Drake's arms were around her as he held the reins, loose but secure. She and Drake were one, and one with the horse. The wind whistled by them, the sun splayed down upon them, and the scent of the sea filled their senses.

  Her life was a fiasco, but as they rode, Ronnie shared a brief, intimate pleasure with Drake. She realized poignantly how very much alike they were. They were both attuned to the joy of the wind, of the animal beneath them, of the wild and voluptuous summer beauty of the craggy island. And no matter what the tumult was between them on a mental or verbal level, they would always find harmony in their bodies, a rhythm that claimed them as they rode, a rhythm that would claim them eternally in one another's arms. . . .

  Drake brought the stallion to a trot as they broke the trail foliage on the return and approached the stable. Ronnie became even more acutely aware of the perpetually strong and secure arms that held her, of the heartbeat she knew better than her own, of the delicious scent that was uniquely his, as crisp and clean as the sea, as enticing and enigmatic as the wind. A scent entirely masculine. . . .

  The ride was over. The house loomed before her like a luxurious monstrosity. But she couldn't blame the house; the chains that bound her existed in her own heart and soul.

  Suddenly she couldn't bear another second with Drake touching her, so close, yet miles out of her reach. The days they had shared before in tentative friendship and disastrous discord had been shattering. She needed time to mend the cracks that were threatening to tear down the facade of indomitable marble she must have to maintain her existence.

  Black Satan stopped a few feet from the watering trough. Ronnie pushed Drake's arm aside and slid from the stallion, just catching herself from stumbling.

  She didn't look back at Drake but turned her steps toward the house. Drake made no attempt to stop her. She could hear him vaguely as he talked to the groom. The bay had indeed returned and was safely in her stall. Mr. von Hurst, having heard the horse had returned riderless, was beside himself with worry.

  Ronnie sighed with a breath that trembled. Drake could go and assure Pieter that she was fine. She had had it for the time being. Both of the willful men who tried to manipulate her life could go hang.

  She was a mess, mentally and physically. Bareback riding had left her jeans covered with bay and black hairs and the damp lather of the horses. Her feet were cold and aching from the wet shoes, and she was splattered with seawater and sand.

  A long, hot, revitalizing bath was in order.

  Despite her dishevelment she was able to sail coolly by Henri with a brief greeting of acknowledgment. "Mr. von Hurst is quite concerned, madam . . ." the butler called after her as she glided up the stairs.

  Ronnie paused a second, her hand barely touching the banister. "Mr. O'Hara will see Mr. von Hurst," she answered calmly, wondering idly what Henri was going to think of her grimy footprints on his shiny wood floors. "I'll be in my room," she added firmly, never more than now the mistress of the house. She started walking again, then, aware that he watched her in puzzlement, she turned, no sign of turmoil in her face. "I'll also have dinner in my room, please, Henri. You may convey my regrets to Mr. O'Hara and my—Mr. von Hurst—if he should appear."

  "Yes, madam, certainly. . . ."

  She stripped off her clothing haphazardly in her room and immediately filled the large tiled tub in her bathroom with near- scorching bubbles. As she soaked she was gratified to feel tension ebb away, and warmth replace bitter cold. Her eyes were dry now, resigned and very tired. She had thought herself too upset ever to sleep again, but the opposite sensations were engulfing her. All she wanted to do was sleep.

  She finally left the bath to dry herself with a large, snowy towel and slip into a floor-length burgundy silk caftan. Gretel appeared with her meal, a tender steak, which she surprisingly wolfed down. When she came to retrieve the tray, the slender housekeeper and cook glanced at her with concern.

  "Mr. von Hurst and Mr. O'Hara both send their regards," Gretel said slowly, careful to pronounce the English she seldom used. "They instruct you to take care not to catch cold."

  Ronnie gave Gretel a dry smile. "Mr. von Hurst went down to dinner tonight?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Thank you, Gretel." Ronnie watched the middle-aged

  woman leave her room and close the door before she chuckled. It was definitely a different night: the master had appeared and the mistress hadn't!

  Her chuckle turned into a catch in her throat, and she curled onto the fur spread of her bed without removing the cover. Exhaustion took its toll, and as her mind continued to race with worry and pain her body gave up. She drifted into a sleep so deep that she wasn't plagued by a single dream.

  The tapping on her door was light, so light that it was the persistence of the sound and not its echo that woke her.

  She lifted her head, puzzled, groggy, and disoriented, then, alarmed as the noise continued, she hopped to her feet and flew to the door and threw it open.

  Drake was standing in the dimly lit hall, as devastating as she had ever seen him. He had dressed for dinner in black velvet and white, an image of raw masculinity only semicivilized by nonchalant, but stunning, elegance.

  Ronnie stared at him for a timeless second, unable to speak, enmeshed in the enigmatic, compelling demand of his dark eyes. Everything she had ever wanted stood towering in her doorway, motionless yet so very alive; arrogant and hard, yet strangely haunted and tender.

  "I'm leaving in the morning," he told her, the assured timbre of his voice barely touched by a husky catch. "I came to say good-bye."

  She had known the moment would come, but it caught her completely unaware. Her body congealed on her and she seemed detached from it, as if she had no control over limbs that felt like stone.

  She finally forced a stiff nod, not trusting herself to speak. "Oh, God, Ronnie!" he emitted in an explosive rasp. The door was pushed aside with a spontaneous shove, and Drake was in the room. She was enveloped into shaking arms that felt like a bands of steel, and her cheek rested against the warm velvet texture of his jacket.

  "Ronnie," he whispered, his hand stroking hair that was as silky as her caftan.

  She looked up into his eyes. The vivid sapphire blue that met his gaze was clear but tremulous. Her lips were quivering, parted, sweetly moist.

  He lowered his own to them, tenderly, lightly, reverently. He drew away, searching out her eyes, then the band of his arms tightened around her, and she was crushed to him, his kiss this time passionate, giving, taking, thirsting, bruising with intensity.

  He would devour her.

  Yet she met him with equal fervor, her fingers clinging to his broad shoulders, her nails digging into velvet. She noticed no pain as his lips consumed her, only the hunger and need that grew within both of them like wildfire. She accepted, she demanded in return, her tongue seeking his in a harmonious duel of longing that deepened with endless space. His fingers wound tightly through her hair, arching her neck, holding her for his driving demand in a grip from which she desired no escape. And when his mouth finally left hers, it moved tenderly down the exposed length of her throat, tasting, touching, flowering soft butterfly kisses.

  He suddenly released her, only to lift her into his arms. Ronnie was delirious with him, drugged in the sensuality that was his tenderest touch as well as his passion. She was ready to forget everything. . . .

  But she sensed a withdrawal from him as he laid her gently on the fur spread. Not the harsh withdrawal he had often displayed before, but a controlled, determined withdrawal that wrenched apart her heart and left it as torn and bleeding as his. Wild, passionate lovers, they were oddly, uniquely, moralists. It was Pieter's house.

  He touched her forehead with his lips and moved away. For a moment longer he watched her, drinking in, absorbing, her beauty: the exquisite form molded by the silk caftan; the burnished sable hair softer, more lustrous, than the fur it was spread upon; the clear blue eyes, clearer than the sky, deeper than

/>   indigo; her face, delicate, regal, more finely sculpted than any piece of marble, ingrained with indomitable character.

  The woman who had taught him the meaning of love, of loyalty and devotion.

  He turned and left the room, a panther disappearing into the night.

  Ronnie watched him go with a sense of emptiness that was overpowering. Her fingers moved shakily to her bruised lips, to the flesh still feeling the ravishment of his mustache and slightly rough cheeks.

  She didn't cry—the pain was beyond that. And she didn't sleep again that night.

  Chapter Nine

  "I thought I'd never live to say it, Veronica, but you do look like hell."

  Ronnie glanced up sharply from her third cup of coffee, praying the caffeine would put life in her veins.

  Pieter looked surprisingly well.

  She attempted a smile for him. "I thought I'd never live to say it," she retorted, "but you are a conniving, devious, and very, very wonderful man." She sobered. "But it's no good, Pieter. I'm going with you to Maryland."

  He had been standing too long, even for the good health he was displaying. He took a chair beside her and tenderly touched a lock of her hair with a sigh. "I expected that you would fight me. You and Drake."

  Ronnie closed her eyes, stricken afresh with a tug of war in her mind that was half guilt and love for Pieter, and half pain and love for Drake.

  "Forgive me, Pieter," she murmured quietly. "I never meant to hurt you—"

  "Veronica," Pieter interrupted, lifting her chin. "You are a priceless gem, so very rare, so very fine. I have nothing to forgive."

  "Oh, Pieter, it wasn't right—"

  "No!" he protested with a righteous vehemence that reminded her fleetingly of the great artist and man he had been before the illness had played havoc with his emotions and mind. "What wasn't right was us, Ronnie. Me in particular. The years you gave me, a sick old man clinging to a goodness and youth too devoted to do anything other than accept self-centered abuse. But no more, Ronnie. I will never throw you out of this, your home, and I will love you as my dear friend for the rest of my life and thank the gods for the time that you gave me. I will be delighted to take you to Maryland with me, as my very good friend, but we never will make our marriage legal. You and Drake are very right for each other, Ronnie. You will make him a marvelous wife."

  She had thought herself cried out, but the encouragement, coming from the man she had betrayed, brought a flow of wetness down her cheeks. "Pieter . . ."

  "There, there," he soothed, able to touch her now with his newly directed love. As husband and wife they were stilted strangers; as friends they could care with unstinting empathy. "Don't cry, Ronnie. Your future will bring all the happiness you have been denied. You must marry Drake."

  "And what of you?" Ronnie charged through her tears.

  "I am going to return to Paris," he told her, "for whatever time I do have. I am going to face the world. I am going to live as the great Pieter von Hurst!"

  Ronnie smiled with sad admiration. "You are the very great Pieter von Hurst," she said softly.

  "But first"—there was actually a twinkle in his pale blue gaze—"I shall attend your wedding. The papers will love it! We will tell them that we are divorced, of course. I will allow no scandal attached to your name!"

  "Oh, Pieter!" Ronnie laughed. "You are the priceless one! I don't care about scandal, I care about your health. I care about—"

  "Drake O'Hara." Ronnie flushed unhappily, and Pieter continued. "Please, Ronnie, no more sadness. You gave me all I could ever ask for—the spring of your life. But it's winter now for me, Ronnie, summer is left for you. A season for you to love."

  "Pieter!" Ronnie protested. "I will not accept winter. And though you want now so much to give, you can't give me Drake.

  He's gone. There are other things between us that can't be settled."

  "He'll be back," Pieter said with conviction. He cleared his throat, and his next words took a great effort. "I have never held you in my arms, Ronnie, not as a man, but if I had, I know I would defy heaven and earth to hold you again."

  Ronnie winced inwardly, flicking away the final trace of tears with her lashes. The immediate future was before them, and nothing would alter the course she planned to take.

  "I think," she said, rising in a businesslike fashion, "that we'll have to discuss Paris and my future at a later date." She poured a fourth cup of coffee for herself and the first for Pieter, adding the heavy cream he liked. "We have a doctor to see first."

  "Yes," Pieter said lightly. "We have a doctor to see." He drummed thin fingers on the table. "Ronnie?"

  "Yes?"

  "Whether the prognosis is good or bad, I am returning to Paris. Alone."

  She nodded, her fingers trembling slightly as she set the coffee cups down. He reached out bony fingers to clasp her hand. "The prognosis may very well be good."

  She nodded again, gulped her coffee down, mindless that she scalded her tongue, and left the dining room on a mumbled pretext of packing.

  Pieter watched her, praying for her sake more than his own that the prognosis would indeed be good.

  Four weeks later they were again sharing coffee, again talking as they had so belatedly learned to do.

  But the dining table was different, the place was different, even the lifetime and dimension seemed to be different.

  They were celebrating Pieter's forty-third birthday, and the celebration was a real one. Just that afternoon Ronnie had held his hand in hers as they waited for the verdict from a team of doctors. Their hands had been clammy together, but their expressions stoic. Only the two of them knew how their hearts beat with hope—a hope granted this time. The disease was still incurable, but new treatments could give Pieter an unknown lease on life. A life far easier. With new medication, his existence could be almost normal.

  Now they sat in the coffee shop of their hotel, looking out of the veranda on the magnificent display of fall colors that were adorning Maryland in a natural beauty. It wasn't the peak of autumn yet, but the reds and golds of the trees had never seemed brighter, nor the grass greener.

  And Ronnie was laughing. Pieter hadn't seen her laugh during the entire month. Her eyes, though, even as her lips curled, remained haunted. And he knew why, but he couldn't reassure her. He could only play God so far.

  He reached a hand across the table and enveloped hers. "I would like it very much, Veronica," he told her, "if you would go upstairs and don your prettiest gown. An old and grateful man would like to take you to dinner."

  "Old, never," Ronnie protested. Pieter now was ageless. He was still going to die, and he knew it, but as he pragmatically told Ronnie, they were all mortal, all subject to only so many years of life. He had been given many more and he intended to live each day to the fullest.

  "Well, then, you must dress up for a very dear friend."

  "I'll be glad to." She squeezed his hand back.

  "Go on now," he persisted. "I shall call at your door in an hour."

  Ronnie left him and returned to her room, which was actually a luxury suite. She wasn't really in a mood to dress elaborately for dinner—the last weeks had been filled with tension and strain during the day and fitful dreams of yearning and loss at night— but it was Pieter's birthday, and he was a new man, so like the kind and mature patron who had adopted her and Jamie all those years before.

  She mechanically stripped off her tailored navy suit and adjusted the water for a shower. Beneath the steaming spray of heat and mist, she wondered what she would do. Pieter had given her the island, but she didn't intend to return to it after he left. The house off Charleston could bring nothing but somber memories. She would have stay"! with Pieter if he had wished it, but he was adamant, and determined that they split soon. Dependency, he informed her, was no life for either of them. He was putting all his affairs in order, and although he would have to return to Maryland several times a year, Paris was going to be his home. He had finished the marble
series with her as his model before they had left, and he had given the press release that stated he and Ronnie were divorcing. It was wonderfully worded. She would always be "his dearest and most beloved friend."