Warm Hearts

by Barbara Delinsky

  Sagging against the jamb, she closed her eyes. Then, hit by a wave of dizziness, she gave up even the idea of a cooling shower. Suddenly nothing mattered more than lying flat. Turning, she stumbled back to the bed. The thought that the man whose body had warmed its sheets moments before might have a god-awful social disease was totally irrelevant to the situation. Her legs simply wouldn’t hold her any longer.

  With a soft moan she curled on her side, then, forgetting her company, rolled onto her back, clutching her jersey to her stomach with one hand and throwing the other arm across her eyes. When, moments later, the same arm that had led her toward the bathroom lifted her to a half-seated position, she groaned.

  “Let me rest,” she whispered, but her protector had other ideas.

  “First, aspirin,” he said gently. “Are you taking anything else?” She shook her head and docilely swallowed the tablets, washing them down with the water he’d brought. “There.” He took the glass from her and eased her back onto the bed. Then he reached for the waistband of her tights and began to shimmy them over her hips.

  “What are you doing?” she cried in alarm and squirmed away. When she tried to sit up, though, a firm hand pressed her flat. For the effort she’d made, her only reward was the sight of the pale blue briefs that ringed his hips. With strong, knowing hands he proceeded to peel the tights to her toes and off.

  “Better?”

  By twenty degrees at least. “Oh, yes.”

  “Want a shower now?”

  She shook her head and rolled to her side again, pulling one of the pillows against her for comfort. “Not yet. I think I’ll just lie like this for a while.”

  “Then I’ll shower. Where are your bags?”

  Her eyes were closed, his voice distant. If the man wished to rob her, she couldn’t stop him. Her total concentration was on finding relief from the aches and pains that seemed to have suddenly invaded her body. “Upstairs.…”

  If she was aware of the pad of footsteps on the stairs going up, then down, she made no sign. Nor did she turn her head when the faint hum of an electric razor filled the air, or when the spray of the shower rang out, or when the rustle of clothes in a suitcase ended with the glide of smooth cotton over hair-roughened flesh. It was only when the aspirin began to take effect, when she felt just warm, rather than hot, when the pounding in her head had subsided to a dull throb, that she opened her eyes again.

  Seated in a chair by the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of pleated khaki shorts, was the man she’d been given for her birthday. A rush of mortification hit her anew. For, sitting there, his hair and skin damp and fresh, his chest broad and manly, his shoulders strong and inviting, he looked more magnificent than he had in his ad. By contrast she felt as though she’d been dredged up from hell.

  “I don’t believe it!” she moaned, then felt all the more gauche when the faintest of smiles curved his lips.

  Propping his elbows on the arms of the chair, he threaded his fingers together. “I think you’ve said that already.”

  “I don’t care! This is incredible!”

  “What is?”

  “This.…” She waved toward him, then herself, then extended her fingers to take in the situation as a whole. “I can’t believe Tony would do this to me!”

  “As I was told, you specifically requested it.”

  Her chest rose and fell as she labored to breathe. “It was a joke! I was being facetious! Tony must have known that.” When the man opposite her slowly shook his head, she went quickly on. “And besides, the man I pointed to was a fictitious character.”

  “He had a face and a body. You had to know he was real.”

  “He was a paid model! I never, expected Tony to go out and track him down, then hire him to entertain me for the week!” The thought instantly revived her embarrassment. Pink-cheeked, she turned her face away and shut her eyes. “God,” she moaned beneath her breath, “I feel so lousy. Maybe I’d be laughing if I felt all right. But I can barely breathe, let alone think straight.”

  The mattress yielded to another form. Though she tensed up, she didn’t have the strength to move, even when a cool hand began to stroke damp strands of blond hair from her brow. Quite against her will, she found the gesture a comfort.

  “How long have you felt this way?” the deep voice probed with such concern that she couldn’t help but answer.

  “Since last night.”

  “Sore throat?”

  She shook her head, then opened her eyes and peered up into his, which were studying her carefully. “You can’t stay here, you know.”

  “Oh?” The twinkle in his eye spoke of his amusement.

  “No.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because I’m here.”

  The man made ceremony of looking around the bed. “We seem to be doing just fine here together.” Anticipating her, he had a hand at her shoulder before she could begin to raise it from the bed. “Besides, I’m your gift. You can’t just discard me along with the wrapping.”

  “What wrapping?” she quipped. “Seems to me you weren’t wearing much of anything.”

  “I was wearing something.”

  “Not much.”

  “So you did notice. I was beginning to think I’d lost my touch.”

  Leslie sighed and closed her eyes. “You haven’t lost your touch,” she granted. It was moving in slow circles against her temples. “Great for headaches.…”

  “And…?”

  Her eyes flew open. “That’s all,” she said quickly. “I meant what I said before. You can’t.…” Her voice trailed off as a sneeze approached. “Damn,” she whispered, covering her mouth and sneezing. She sat up in time to sneeze a second time, then took the tissue he offered and blew her nose. “Do I ever feel lousy.…”

  The same hand that had smoothed her hair from her brow now tucked random strands behind her ear. “Why don’t you take that shower? In the meantime, I’ll fix you a cold drink.”

  “You can’t stay.…”

  “Have you had any lunch?”

  “Lunch? I haven’t had any breakfast. Feed a cold, starve a fever … I’ve got both. What do I do?” She raised her eyes to those above her. They were reassuring and confident.

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I know what to do. Here, you stay put.” He pushed himself from the bed and reached for her bag. “What do you want to put on?” Unzipping the stylish duffel, he began rummaging inside. “Is there a nightgown in here?”

  Leslie recalled the ad that had started this farce. Her voice held more than a trace of sarcasm. “Nightgown as in silky white negligee?” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  For a minute the man raised his head and eyed her strangely. Then, as understanding dawned, he cast her a punishing glance and turned his attention back to her bag.

  Perhaps it was her reference to the ad that did it. Perhaps it was simply the aspirin clearing her head. But in the moment’s pause it occurred to Leslie that she was lying on a rumpled bed in nothing but scant wisps of mauve lace, watching a total stranger fish through her clothes.

  “Here, let me do that,” she said crossly as she pushed herself up. Within seconds she’d managed to extract the oversize T-shirt she’d come to think of as her Caribbean negligee. A very pale aqua from too many washings, it was likewise soft and comfortable. Easily reaching her thighs, it would be suitably unappealing. “If it’s sexy you’re looking for,” she muttered, “you’ve come to the wrong place.”

  Mustering her pride, she snatched her bag of toiletries from the duffel and headed for the bathroom, totally unaware of how truly sexy she looked. The man watching her, however, was not. He stood holding the picture of her in his mind’s eye long after the bathroom door had closed.

  On the other side of the door, Leslie pressed her palms to her hot cheeks, then slid her fingers up to push her hair away from her face. A mess. She was a mess. The entire situation was a mess. How had she ever managed it … careful, conservative Leslie?

 
; Angrily plopping the bag of toiletries atop the vanity, she dug inside for makeup remover. Makeup? Hah! What a wasted effort that had been. She’d looked deathly regardless. But New York was New York, and one didn’t show one’s face in public unless it was suitably protected from the elements. Lips thinning with sarcasm, she squeezed a gob of cold cream onto her fingers and began to scrub at her cheeks. Protected from the elements? More likely camouflaged. Hidden. Shielded from the world by a manufactured sheen. How phony it all was!

  With a vengeance she tissued off the cold cream, then bent low to rinse her face with water. There she lingered, savoring the sensation of coolness on her cheeks and eyes. At last she straightened and pressed a towel more gently to her skin.

  She should have known … should have known never to even joke with Tony about the state of her love life. He’d been after her for years to marry, have an affair, get involved, live it up. Wasn’t that what he’d been doing since his own divorce six years before? Not that she criticized him. He’d married young and had been faithful to the letter to Laura. In the end she had been the one to run off with someone else, leaving him to cope with three growing children. He was a hardworking, devoted father who needed time off once in a while; Leslie certainly couldn’t fault him for his own choice of outlet.

  On the other hand, she reasoned, as she turned on the shower and stepped beneath its tepid spray, he should have known not to foist something as … as preposterous as this pretty boy on her! Hadn’t she spent the past ten years trying to show the world how different she was? She’d had her fill of high society back in high school. And in college, well, Joe Durand had soured her on men, period. But then, Tony knew nothing about Joe. She hadn’t spoken of him to anyone. The self-reproach with which she lived was bad enough, but to air her folly for the sake of others’ enjoyment … that she didn’t need.

  Adjusting the water to a warmer temperature, she shampooed her hair, then soaped herself. It was several minutes later when she stepped from beneath the soothing spray. After toweling herself as vigorously as her tired arms would allow, she drew on the T-shirt and a fresh pair of panties and blew her hair nearly dry. Then, standing opposite the misted mirror, she studied herself. Even the mist couldn’t soften the image.

  “Pale, Leslie. Too pale,” she announced, then sneezed and reached for a piece of Kleenex. By the time she faced herself again, the mist had begun to clear, and what she saw gave her a jolt. Oh, the features were fine—soft amethyst eyes that were large and, if anything, set a bit too far apart; a nose that was certainly small enough to balance the delicacy of her mouth and chin; hair that was an enviable shade of blond, cut into long bangs across the brow, trimmed crisply an inch above the shoulder, cropped stylishly at the sideburns and falling into place as Diego had promised. No, the features were fine, taken one by one. Put together, however, they formed the image of a lost and lonely waif.

  Reaching up, she brushed her bangs from her eyes. What was she going to do? Granted, it was unfortunate that the one week she’d chosen to spend in the sun should be hampered by a mean winter cold. That, though, she could live with. And the sun, the warm weather, would be potent medicine.

  But this man, this, model … this very handsome model … was something else. Never in a million years would she have sought such a man on her own. Indeed, pausing to think of the man’s occupation, of the many women he must have serviced over the years, she was appalled. And embarrassed. She wasn’t that type at all! She wouldn’t know what to do with such a man.…

  Shaking her head half in regret, she left the sanctuary of the bathroom to find the bedroom immaculate. The man’s suitcase that had lain on the low glass table was gone, as were odds and ends atop the nightstand. The bed had been freshly made, its covers turned back invitingly. Padding barefoot to the walk-in closet, she peered inside, then turned. There was no sign of him.

  While urging herself to simply climb into bed and be grateful she’d been left alone, Leslie headed downstairs toward the kitchen. He’d said he’d make her a cool drink. Well, she was thirsty.

  Indeed he was in the kitchen, though his attention was not on making a cool drink. Rather, he stood before the open window, his back to her, his arms crossed over his chest, one bare foot propped on the low rung of a nearby stool. He wore the same shorts he’d put on earlier, and all in all, he presented a perfect image of reflective masculinity.

  For a lingering moment she studied him. Though his hair was thick and on the long side, it was well trimmed. From the sturdy nape to the soles of his feet, he looked clean. He also looked older than she’d imagined him to be, despite the prime condition of his body. From where she stood she caught shadings of silver following the gentle curve of each ear. Rather than detracting from his appearance, these silver streaks lent him an air of dignity that puzzled her all the more.

  In short, there was nothing unsavory-looking about him. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from a gigolo. Certainly not … this.

  With practically no warning she sneezed, ending her moment of invisibility. The man by the window turned quickly, his features instantly released from whatever thoughts had held them taut.

  “There you are,” he said, taking the few steps necessary to end their separation. “Feeling better?”

  She had been, she’d thought. Now, though, looking up that great distance into a face that seemed so gentle, so knowing, she felt suddenly small and utterly insignificant.

  “A little,” she murmured, adding “self-conscious” to the list. What had made her think that a T-shirt would protect her from the eyes of a professional lover? When those eyes began to wander across her chest and down, she slithered from their touch and took refuge on the stool by the window.

  “Why aren’t you in bed?” he asked softly.

  “I felt like seeing what you were up to,” she answered defensively, then turned her face to catch the ocean’s gentle breath. “Where’s that cool drink you promised?” Even to her own ears her tone held a touch of arrogance. It bothered her. She didn’t much care for hired help … certainly not of this sort!

  After a pause came a murmured, “Coming right up.” Only when Leslie heard the refrigerator door open did she dare look back to find her attendant on his haunches sorting through the packed shelves. “It looks like someone was far more prepared for your arrival than I was,” he said, pushing aside a bushy head of lettuce to get at a carton of eggs. “I wouldn’t have believed they had all this fresh produce down here.”

  “Some of it is home grown, but most of it’s imported. And it was Martine who did the marketing. She’s a marvel. She comes in to clean once or twice while we’re here and keeps an eye on things when we’re not. All it takes is one call from the States and the house is open, cool and stocked to the hilt.”

  “You don’t ever rent it out.”

  “No. Friends use it sometimes. But more often it’s just us.” She tried desperately to be tactful. “We were very lucky to get this land. It’s on a prime part of the island. Most of the space is owned by small inns. In fact, there’s a quaint one just around the bend. You could probably get a room there.…”

  Ignoring her suggestion, he added a quart of milk and a package of neatly wrapped cheese to the growing assortment in his arms. “Nice cheese. Any lemon? Ah, there.” When, arms laden, he stood at last, his knees cracked in protest. He flexed them gingerly as he deposited his armload on the counter.

  Leslie focused in on the knees. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-nine.”

  “That old?” Even with creaking knees and the twin streaks of gray behind his ears, she would have given him no more than thirty-five. “Aren’t you a little … beyond this type of thing?”

  “Beyond cooking?”

  “Beyond modeling. And.…” She waved her arm in a gesture to indicate his dubious role as her supposed birthday present. “I always thought you had to be younger.…”

  “To bring pleasure?”

  “To do it … like this.�
��” The heat on her cheeks soared when he turned teasing eyes her way.

  “Are you trying to say something, Leslie?”

  “Yes,” she declared in frustration, growing clammy all over. “You can’t stay here for the week! You’ve got to leave; it’s as simple as that!”

  Reaching for a skillet, he put it on the stove, added a dollop of butter and lit the gas. “While you’re under the weather? No way. As it is, I’ve got to redeem myself for not being up and ready when you arrived.”

  She held up a hand. “No apologies. I’m sure someone in your … field … is used to sleeping late.” It had been twelve-forty, for heaven’s sake! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept that late herself. On second thought, she could. It had been the summer before, when she’d been hooked on Noble House. Not that she’d loved it that much, but she made a practice of never leaving a book midway through, and there had been another book she’d been dying to start. “Late nights and all.…”

  “And all.”

  “So—” she sent him an accusatory glance “—you’ve found your way around the island? Gustavia has its lively spots. When did you say you arrived?”

  “Yesterday. And I haven’t been anywhere but the airport and here. Actually, I was up late reading. I was in the middle of a book I didn’t really care for and I wanted to start another, but I have this practice of never leaving a book midway through, and it wasn’t until five this morning that I finally finished it.”

  Leslie swallowed hard, sneezed again and put her palm to her head. Things weren’t going as she’d planned. Not by a long shot.

  “What are you doing?” she cried when she felt her feet leave the floor.

  “Getting you back to bed. Don’t worry. These weary old bones won’t drop you.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Then what is?” He took the stairs two at a time, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a small child.

  The point? What was it, anyway? Her head was suddenly muddled again so badly that Leslie neither knew nor cared. When she felt the coolness of the sheets she breathed a sigh of relief and, curling onto her side, closed her eyes.