Warm Hearts

by Barbara Delinsky

  “I will not. It might give you ideas.”

  “Ideas? What ideas?”

  When he grinned, the groove at the corner of his mouth deepened. She hadn’t noticed it before; it had a lazy sensuality to it. “Now if I told you that, you’d know what I’ve seen. I think I’d better go back to sleep.” Turning his head away, he raised his hips and resettled them in a bid to ease his discomfort. Leslie appreciated the gesture, appreciated even more his attempt at self-control, appreciated most of all that strong, hairy arm that tickled her where it counted.

  “Sleep?” she challenged. “Is that what you were doing?”

  He turned back until their heads were intimately close. “No. I suppose not. I was lying here thinking.…” His tone was up; he seemed ready to go on. Then, expelling a soft breath, he simply repeated the word with a proper period at its end. “Thinking.”

  “Are you pleased with St. Barts?” she asked, nestling more comfortably against the arm he seemed in no hurry to remove.

  “Yes.” An affirmation it was, yet it dangled in the air.

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “Oh, it’s fine.”

  “But?”

  “Just about everyone’s coupled up. It makes me feel lonely.”

  She sent him a look of doubt. “Does it mean that much to you to be with a date?”

  “For the sake of a date? No way. For the sake of pleasant talk and easy companionship, yes. That’s what I see here—on the beach, in shops and cafés. Warmth. I envy it.”

  “I know the feeling,” she murmured half to herself as she recalled similar feelings she’d harbored the night before. She lifted her head for an instant to look forward. “Who do you think they are, Oliver? Friends? Lovers? Husbands and wives?”

  His gaze followed hers, lighting on a couple lying on the sand several yards away. “Some of each, I suppose.” He tossed his chin at the pair. “They’re married.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sure. See his wedding band?”

  “Where’s hers?”

  “Oh. Hmm, that shoots that theory.”

  “Oliver?”

  He settled his head down again, returning his mouth to within a whisper of hers. “Um hmm?”

  “Were you ever married?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Never wanted to.”

  “Not even for the sake of that warmth?”

  “The woman, not the marriage, brings the warmth.”

  “True. But what about kids?” Strange. By stereotype, she’d assume he’d have no interest in children. Somehow, though, she could easily picture him with a brood. “Wouldn’t you marry for the sake of having them?”

  “A bad marriage for the sake of kids can be disastrous.”

  “You could have a good marriage.”

  “I could … I suppose. It’s been hard finding good women—” he smirked “—what with my job and all.”

  She nodded. “Your job and all.”

  “How about you?”

  “My job’s no problem.”

  “Then why aren’t you married? You seem like a warm, affectionate sort.” He moved one finger ever so slightly against her cheek. “And you love kids. Wouldn’t you like your own?”

  “To quote you, ‘A bad marriage for the sake of kids can be disastrous.’”

  “To quote you back, ‘You could have a good marriage.’”

  She grew more serious. “If only. It seems that wherever I look I see divorces piling up. Divorces, or couples in the throes of counseling or those who are simply miserable. Maybe you don’t see it, or maybe you take it for granted in your line of work, but I see it every day and it bothers me. Not only has my family struck out, but many of the kids at the centers are products of broken homes. And many of them are suffering terribly.”

  Oliver studied the look of anguish on her face. “But now you’re getting onto the issue of kids again. What about the marriages to start with? Why is it that they’re not working?”

  She thought for a minute, then shrugged. “I don’t know. Too much ambition. Too little honesty. Too much independence. Too little trust. Maybe it’s the times, and what we’re going through is an emotional evolution of sorts. Maybe love has to take on different meanings to make it feasible in this day and age. Take that couple over there. For all we know, his wife may be off with someone, too. But if she’s in love and they’re in love, and all four are happy, far be it from us to criticize them, particularly if we’ve got nothing better.”

  As Oliver pondered her words, his brow furrowed. “You condone infidelity?”

  “No, not really.” She was frowning, too. “Maybe what I’m saying is that love is the most important factor, that it makes allowance for other slips. Only problem is that where love is involved, those other slips can cause terrible, terrible pain.…”

  “You sound very sure.”

  “I am.”

  “You’ve had personal experience with that kind of pain?”

  Realizing she’d strayed far from the beaten path and in a direction she loathed, she shrugged. “It’s not important.” She sighed and forced a lighter smile. “Besides, it all may be an illusion anyway. These people may not be in love, they might simply be swept up in the atmosphere of this place. There’s something about a tropical island in the middle of winter.…”

  “Something daring, like lying on a beach half nude?”

  In that instant, the more serious discussion was shelved. Leslie grinned. “Something like that.”

  “Why don’t you turn over?” he teased.

  She fought fire with fire, enjoying the banter. “Why don’t you?”

  “Because I keep thinking of your doing it and I get … hot and bothered.”

  “Hot and bothered. Interesting.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll go down the beach a way and pretend you’re not here. If you do the same, we’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t know.” She wavered, reluctant to lose his company. “Maybe we could do it here.…”

  His eyes gaped. “Do what?”

  “Lie cool and comfortable.…” She felt so very close to him that it seemed absurd, this modesty of hers. Avoiding his gaze, she released his arm and turned over with slow and studied nonchalance. “There,” she sighed, eyes closed, body aware of far more than the sun. “Your turn.”

  He offered a pithy oath beneath his breath, then coughed away the frog in his throat. “I think I’ll take that walk.”

  “Don’t go,” she whispered, turning her head and opening her eyes. “I mean, it’s really all right. There’s no reason you can’t stay here. It’s all a matter … of the mind.”

  His eyes pierced hers, then seared a path to her breasts. “Is that all it is?” he asked, his voice thick. “A matter of the mind?”

  Leslie felt his gaze as long, sinewed fingers caressing her fullness, belying her claim. Her breathing was already disturbed when he pushed himself up on his forearms and put his mouth to her ear.

  “You’ve got beautiful breasts, Leslie.”

  “So do three-quarters of the women on this beach.”

  “I’m not looking at their breasts. I’m looking at yours.”

  She felt the truth of his words. Her breasts were ready to explode. “Well, you shouldn’t be.”

  He ignored her. “Need some lotion? I’m great at spreading lotion up over—”

  “Oliver!” she exclaimed in strangled protest. “You could try, at least—”

  “I’m trying. I’m trying.”

  “Sure. To get me aroused.” She gave him a withering stare. “Now try to get me unaroused.”

  “What fun would that be?”

  “Oliver,” she warned, growing frustrated in, oh, so many ways, “you promised you’d leave me alone. You promised you wouldn’t push.”

  Before her beseeching expression, he grew serious. “I did, didn’t I?” She nodded, her face inches below his. “Then,” he began slowly, a look of regret in his mocha gaz
e, “I guess I’d better take that walk after all.” He kissed the tip of her nose and was on his feet before Leslie could respond. But it was just as well. Bracing herself on her elbows, she watched him jog toward the water, submerge completely in the waves, swim off his own arousal, then emerge and walk thoughtfully down the beach.

  She would have loved to have gone with him. It would have been nice, walking side by side with the lace of the surf curling at their feet. It would have been nice to have talked more. She enjoyed talking with him. He was easygoing, quick to smile and curious. She would have assumed the beautiful model-type to be self-centered, yet he wasn’t. He seemed far more interested in hearing her thoughts than in impressing her with his own. Come to think of it, he’d spoken little of himself in the discussions they’d had.

  With a sigh, she dropped back to the towel. In this, too, it was probably just as well. Given the source of his income, the less she knew about his life-style the better. Hmmph, she mused, he had all the lines. Beautiful breasts … attracted to no body but hers—baloney! He was a pro, and hanky-panky or no, he was still on the job. The only problem was that she wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that he found her breasts beautiful, that he was more attracted to her than to any other woman on the beach. She wanted to believe … how she wanted to believe.…

  Abruptly sitting up, she put on her bikini top, tugged on her terry cover-up and gathered her things together. She’d had enough of the beach for now. A long, slow drive around the island would clear her brain. That was what she needed—a long, slow drive.

  It filled the bill. By the time she returned to the villa she had her mind in working order once more. She was Leslie Parish, loner, spending the week at her family’s villa. Oliver Ames just happened, by a quirk of fate attributable to her brother Tony and worthy of no further mention, to be staying at the villa as well. That was all. Each went his own way, did his own thing. Period. She had it all straightened out … which made it doubly hard for her to understand her continuing restlessness.

  After her return, she fell asleep on her bed. At some point during that time, Oliver quietly returned to the villa. When she awoke, she found his sprawled form spilling over one of the terrace chairs. He was reading a book.

  Wearing the one-piece terry sunsuit she’d put on after her shower, she walked slowly out onto the terrace, gave Oliver’s shoulder a gentle squeeze of hello as she passed, then stood with her back to him at the railing overlooking the beach. When several minutes passed and still she didn’t speak, Oliver took the first step.

  “You got back okay. I was worried.”

  She turned to lean against the wooden rail. “You shouldn’t have been.” But it touched her nonetheless. “I took a drive.” He nodded, and she felt a tinge of remorse that she’d left the beach without a word. His thoughts were back there, too.

  He dared a faint smile. “I had trouble finding my towel … without your breasts to mark the spot.”

  “Oliver…” she pleaded.

  “Sorry.” He nodded once, then schooled his expression to the proper degree of sobriety. “Couldn’t resist that.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I did miss you, though,” he said, suddenly and fully sincere. “It was fun lying like that … talking.…”

  Hadn’t she had similar thoughts? She looked down at her bare feet and crossed her ankles. “Uh, that was what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  Far more jumpy than she might have imagined, Oliver grew instantly alert. He held up a hand and shook his head. “Listen, Leslie, it was no big thing. I wasn’t out chasing you or anything. I mean, I’d been to that beach the day before, and when I saw your car I thought I’d look for you. I didn’t mean to pester. Hell, I was only teasing about your breasts.…” His voice trailed off when he caught her amused expression. “What’s so funny?”

  “You are. When you get defensive, you’re adorable. But that’s beside the point. I was just wondering if—well, there’s this quiet restaurant in Gustavia … very classy … and I thought, well, I don’t really feel like going alone what with everyone else coupled up, as you said.” She paused for a breath, wondering why he didn’t come to her aid rather than sitting there with a bewildered look on his face. “What I was wondering,” she began again, “was whether you’d like to have dinner with me.”

  “Yes,” he answered instantly.

  “I mean, you can think about it. I … I can’t offer anything afterward. Just dinner.”

  A broad smile illuminated his face. “That’s fine. Dinner will be just fine.”

  She took a deep breath and smiled. “Good. I’ll make reservations for eighty-thirty?”

  “Great.”

  She nodded, feeling awkward again. Pushing off from the railing, she headed for the beach. “See ya then.”

  * * *

  The evening turned out to be worth every bit of her hemming and hawing in issuance of the invitation. She’d wanted stimulating company; stimulating company was what she got. Looking particularly handsome in a navy blue side-buttoned shirt and white slacks, Oliver proved to be an absolutely charming dinner partner. Ever solicitous to her whim, he deftly steered the conversation from one topic to the next. Not only was he conversant in the fine points of Wall Street, he was easily able to match Leslie’s knowledge of politics, as well. He got her to talk more about her work, showing genuine interest and a flair for understanding the tenuous link between parent, child and teacher. Only when once or twice on impulse Leslie shot a personal question at him did he pull back. She assumed it was standard practice—the refusal to allow a client past a certain point. And though she was curious as to what made him tick, she appreciated the reminder about the nature of their relationship. With such an attentive and attractive man sitting elbow to elbow with her in the intimate confines of the small French restaurant, it was far, far too easy to forget.…

  * * *

  Tuesday was a day for remembering, a quiet day, a restful day. Leslie saw Oliver only in passing, and then but once, at noontime. They exchanged quiet smiles and hellos. He explained that he wanted to pick up something for his sister back home and asked for her advice. Stifling the urge to ask all about his sister, she suggested a small boutique in Gustavia, from among whose selection of hand-blocked prints and clothing she was sure he’d find something. Then he was off, with nary a word about the evening before.

  Just as well, she told herself again. Just as well. She’d come here to be alone. Alone was what she’d get.

  Unfortunately, alone became lonely at some point around dinnertime. With no sign of Oliver, she grilled a piece of fresh fish, sliced and marinated vegetables, made herself an exotic-looking drink, which was little more than rum and coke dressed up in a coconut shell with an orange slice across the top, and ate by herself on the beach. It was there that, long after the sun had set, Oliver found her.

  “Leslie?” he called from the terrace. “Leslie?”

  “Here, Oliver!” she answered, her heart suddenly beating more lightly. “On the beach!”

  A random cloud had wandered in front of the moon. It took him a minute to find his way down. Only when he stood before her on the sand did the silvery light reemerge. “You’re eating here … in the dark?” he asked, spying the tray behind her.

  She looked up from where she sat, knees bent, arms crossed around them. She wore a gauzy blouse and skirt, the latter ruffling around her calves. “It wasn’t dark when I ate. I’ve just been sitting here thinking.” For a minute she feared he would simply nod and, finding her safe, return to the house. To her relief, he hunkered down beside her.

  “Mind the company?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

  “No,” she breathed softly. “As a matter of fact, it’s kind of lonely here. The company would be nice.”

  “You should have called. I’d have come.”

  “You weren’t here.”

  “I’ve been back for at least an hour and a half.”

  “Where all did you go?” He
wore shorts and a shirt and looked devastatingly handsome.

  “Oh—” he gazed out at the sea “—I was in Gustavia, then rode around for a while.”

  “Find something for your sister?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Have you eaten?”

  “I grabbed something in town.”

  She nodded, feeling superfluous, then took a fast breath. “Hey, if you’ve got something to do. I don’t want to keep you.…”

  “You’re not. I was the one who offered, remember?” His voice lowered. “You look pretty. Very … feminine.”

  Her blush was hidden by the night. She shrugged. “It’s nice to wear something like this every so often.” Last night, her dress had been as soft, but more sleek—to lend her an air of confidence and sophistication. Tonight she looked and felt vulnerable.

  Attuned to her mood, Oliver kept his voice on a gentle keel. “It must be appreciated. I’m envious of those men you date at home.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. “You don’t need to be. There aren’t an awful lot of them.”

  “But you do date.…”

  “Only when necessary.”

  He frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Just that,” she returned frankly. “There are certain … social obligations to be fulfilled. Birthday parties, openings, receptions—that type thing. It’s sometimes easier being with someone than without.”

  For a moment, only the gentle lapping of the waves broke the silence of the night. When Oliver spoke again, his voice held a deadly calm. “Was that what you felt last night?”

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed without pretense. “Last night was something different! Last night … it was … I wanted it.…” She stared wide-eyed at Oliver until at last he reached over and took her hand in his. Only then did she relax.

  “I’m glad, Les. I enjoyed myself last night. More than I have in a very long time.”

  “A very long time?” she teased. “Doesn’t say much for all those other women.”

  His fingers tightened around hers instants before his taut voice rang out. “There haven’t been all those other women, Leslie. I think it’s about time we clear that up. I’m not a gigolo.”