“I never said you were,” she countered weakly.
“But you’ve thought it. And don’t deny it, because my thumb’s on your pulse, keeping track of your lies.”
“That’s fear you feel. You’re frightening me.” Instantly his grip eased, though her hand was as much a prisoner as ever.
“Have you ever thought I was a gigolo?”
“I, uh.…”
“Yes or no.”
“Yes. Well, what was I to think? You were my birthday present. My brother bought you for the week. For me. Isn’t it pretty much the same thing?”
To her relief, Oliver’s voice had gentled again. “I suppose. If it were true. But it’s not.”
“What’s not?” She felt a glimmer of hope. “Tony didn’t hire you?”
“Tony called me, explained the situation and proposed I come. Aside from free use of this house, everything has come from my own pocket.”
Leslie’s mind had begun to whirl, her relief nearly as overwhelming as her embarrassment. Not knowing what to say, she blithely lashed out at Tony. “That cheapskate! I mean, I know that you probably do very well modeling, but I’d have thought that if the plan was his the least he could do was foot the bill!” Taking Oliver off guard, she tore her hand from his and tucked it tightly into her lap. She was sitting cross-legged now, the folds of her skirt gathered loosely between her legs. “I’m not sure whether to be more angry for his having gypped you or undersold me!”
“You weren’t sold, Leslie! That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I needed a vacation. Tony simply suggested a spot. As for the practical joke, well, that was to be frosting on the cake.”
“Frosting, indeed,” she mumbled. “All along I’ve assumed this was nothing more than a business proposition for you. But you speak very comfortably of Tony—do you know my brother?”
Taking a deep breath, Oliver settled on the sand facing her. “I met him about a year ago. We play tennis every now and again.”
“Was it Tony who set up the Homme Premier thing?”
“No. As a matter of fact, it was sheer coincidence that the ad ran in his magazine.”
“I see.” Lowering her chin, she scowled at her skirt. She did see—more now, at least, than she had before. Yet while one part of her was elated to learn that Oliver Ames wasn’t the horrible playboy for hire she’d thought him to be, the other part was mortified.
“Les…?” came the soft voice opposite her. “What is it?”
“I feel foolish,” she whispered. “Really foolish.”
“But why?”
She looked up then, her eyes round and luminous. “I thought you were a gigolo.” She paused, offering a spitting aside, “God, that word’s disgusting!” before resuming her self-castigation. “You must think I’m a perfect ass … what with some of the things I said.”
“Actually,” he grinned, “they were amusing.”
“At my expense!”
“At mine. I was a good sport, don’t you think?”
“I think you could have told me the truth. Good sport, hah!” Swiveling on the sand, she turned away from him.
“Hey,” he crooned, reaching out to take her arm. “Come on. There was no harm done. Besides, you really didn’t say very much that didn’t apply to a model as well. I’ve never thought less of you … for any of it.”
She wanted to believe him, but simply shook her head. “I felt so humiliated when I first arrived, thinking that Tony was really paying you to keep me company.”
“Sweetheart, nobody pays for my time in chunks like that,” he drawled, then cleared his throat when Leslie eyed him questioningly. “I’m a free agent. I don’t like to spend more than one day at a stretch on any given job. This is no job. Believe me, if I hadn’t wanted to come here, I wouldn’t have. Likewise—” his hand caressed her arm “—I could have left at any time.”
Trying to assimilate this altered image of Oliver, she felt confused and unsure. A model. Just a model. Was that so awful? It was still a world away, and in many ways the epitome of all she’d fought for years. Illusion. Grand pretense. Wasn’t that what advertising was all about? But then there was this man—his face, his smile, the vulnerability about him that mirrored her own.…
Turning her head, she looked up at him. Then, without thinking, she rolled to her knees, put her arms around his neck and held him tightly. Only after several seconds did she feel his arms complete the circle.
“What’s this for?” he whispered hoarsely.
She closed her eyes and hung on a minute longer, drinking in every bit of his closeness before finally loosening her grip and sinking back against his hands. “An apology … and thanks.”
“Thanks?”
“For not accepting money to pleasure me.”
His voice deepened. “Am I … pleasuring you?”
She could barely breathe, the pull of him was so strong. “Yes. I’ve enjoyed having you here.”
“Now, that’s a concession,” he said softly, then shifted to lower her to the sand. With one hand he propped himself over her, with the other very gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “You are beautiful, Leslie,” he murmured. “Even if there had been all of those other women you’d imagined, I’d still have thought you to be the best.”
“Must be the full moon addling your mind.”
“You don’t think you’re beautiful?”
“No. Oh, I make a nice appearance. But beautiful?” She shook her head against his hand, liking the feel of its tethered strength. “No.”
“Well, you are. And if you didn’t turn all those guys away so quick, they’d be the ones telling you, not me.”
“They tell me, they tell me! It’s so boring when you know it’s all part of the game.”
Oliver’s body grew tense, his eyes darker. “This isn’t, Les. I mean it. To me, you are beautiful. Do you believe me?”
Strangely, she did. “I must be as crazy as you.”
“Not crazy. Simply.…” He never finished what he was going to say, but instead lowered his head and took her lips in a kiss that was crazy and heady and bright. “Ahh, Leslie,” he gasped, pausing for air before returning to take what was so warmly, so freely, so avidly offered.
Reeling beneath the heat of his kiss, Leslie could do nothing but respond in kind. Her lips parted, giving the sweet moisture of her mouth, the wet stroking of her tongue into Oliver’s thirsty possession. With the freedom she’d craved—forever, it seemed—she thrust her fingers into the thick hair behind his ears and savored its vibrant lushness as she held him all the closer.
“Mmmmmmm, Oliver,” she whispered on a ragged breath when he left her lips and began to press slow kisses against the fragrant pulse of her neck.
“You smell so sweet—” he breathed deeply against her skin “—so sweet.”
Then he raised his head and kissed her again, moving his lips with adoration, his hands with utter care, his body with the gentleness she’d come to expect of him. He was lean and strong, his long frame branding its readied state on her, telling her of his need, inflaming her own. If this was illusion, she mused, it was divine illusion indeed.
“I need you, Les,” he moaned, leaving one of his hard thighs thrust between hers as he slid to his side to free a hand for exploration. “I need to touch you here—” his hands grew bolder, spreading over her waist and ribs “—and here.” Claiming her breasts with tender strength, his fingers circled her fullness, sending corresponding spirals of fire through her. “Feel good?”
She closed her eyes and nodded. “Oh, yes—” When his palm passed over her nipple, taunting it into a tight nub, she moaned and strained upward. Then, eyes flying open, she pressed her hand on top of his to stop its motion. “My God, Oliver, there’s no end.…”
“There is an end, sweet. I’ll show you.”
He held her gaze; she held her breath. Slowly he released first one, then another of the buttons of her blouse and slipped his large hand inside. “I wanted to do this yesterday on the
beach,” he whispered, fingering her flesh, sensitizing her to his touch.
“I know.…” She sucked in a loud breath.
“Nice?” His fingers worked a heated magic, making everything feel so very right.
“Mmmmmm … Oliver?”
He put his lips to the upper swell of her breast. “What, sweet?”
“My breasts…” she managed through a daze of passion, yielding to a nagging force. “You said you were only teasing … that they were more appealing than the others on the beach. Were you?”
He drew his head up to eye her in earnest. “No, I wasn’t teasing. I meant what I said, Leslie. Your body affects me in a way no other can.” Leaning forward, he nudged her blouse farther aside, then took her nipple into his mouth and kissed it reverently.
She shuddered, sighed, arched ever so slightly closer. “I’m glad. I don’t like to be teased … not about a thing like that.” Her voice grew stronger. “Not about a thing like … us.”
A nearly imperceptible quiver worked its disquieting way through Oliver’s long, taut limbs. He stilled for an instant, then slowly, reluctantly disengaged his mouth from her breast and gave a final kiss to the hollow of her throat before setting his fingers to the task of restoring order to her blouse. “We have to talk,” he murmured against the warm skin of her cheek. “We have to talk.”
Very slowly, Leslie realized that the source of her pleasure was gone. With uncertainty coming fast on the heels of passion, her limbs felt like rubber. When Oliver lifted her to a sitting position, she docilely sat. Her eyes were wide, her voice breathy. “What is it?” she asked, fearing she’d done something dreadfully wrong.
“We have to talk.”
“You’ve said that … three times.”
“I also said I’d leave you alone. I haven’t done that.”
Hearing the self-reproach in his voice, Leslie was fast to shoulder the blame. “What happened just now was more my fault than yours. I was the one who threw herself into your arms.”
“That’s beside the point,” he grumbled, then shoved a hand through his hair and took several steadying breaths. “Listen, maybe you’re right. Maybe it is the full moon.” Standing, he reached to pull her up. “Come on. Let’s go inside. I could use a drink.” One-handedly scooping up the tray that held the remnants of her dinner, he motioned for Leslie to precede him.
She did. It took everything she was worth, but she did, and with each step she came closer to the understanding of what had nearly happened. Even now her breath came in shallow bursts, her legs shook, the knot deep within clamored for more. But her mind, ahh, her mind delivered a batch of far different messages.
Passing through the kitchen, she made straight for the living room, seeking shelter in a deeply cushioned rattan armchair to weather the storm. For there was bound to be a storm of some kind, she knew. It had been building from the moment she’d arrived last Friday, had been denied outlet moments before, now ached for release.
Through troubled eyes she watched Oliver approach the bar. As attractive as he looked in his jersey and slacks, their fine fit fairly broadcast his tension. His shoulders were rigid, his back ramrod straight, his legs taut. He poured himself a brandy, shot a glance over his shoulder, poured a second drink, then crossed the room and handed her one. While he tipped his snifter and took a drink, she merely watched the swirl of the amber liquid in her own glass, her lips tight in self-disdain.
Legs planted firmly, Oliver stood before her. “Leslie, I want to tell you—”
She gave a violent shake of her head. “Please, no excuses.”
“But there’s something you should know.”
Refusing to look at him, she continued to shake her head. “It must have been the moon. I don’t usually forget that easily.”
Embroiled in his own quandary, he swallowed more brandy, then stalked to the window. “This whole thing was crazy from the start. I can’t escape it! Damn it, I can’t escape it!”
“What happened just now was nothing more than sheer physical need,” Leslie ranted on, no more hearing Oliver’s words than he did hers. She lowered her head and put two fingers to her brow. “I can’t believe I let that happen. I thought I’d learned. It was dumb. Really dumb!”
“All game playing—here, back there,” Oliver growled. “I thought I could get away from it but I’m only in deeper.” Whirling around, he stepped quickly forward. “Leslie.…”
She sat with one hand over her face, helpless to stop the tears that flowed. Legs tucked beneath her, body curled into itself, she was unhappiness personified.
“Oh, Leslie,” he groaned from somewhere deep in his throat. Within seconds he knelt before her, gently releasing the snifter from her fingers and setting the glass down on the floor. Immediately she added her other hand to her defense. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He tried to pull her hands from her face but she fought that further exposure.
“I don’t cry. What’s wrong with me?” she whimpered between shuddering gasps.
Oliver slid his arm across her back and drew her forward. “I don’t know that, sweetheart. You’ll have to tell me.” He curved his fingers around her neck, twining his long fingers through her hair. “Talk to me, Les. Tell me what you feel.”
“I feel … I feel … very confused.…”
“About us?” he whispered.
“About … everything.…” When she dissolved into another bout of quiet sobbing, he pulled her down beside him on the floor, holding her close. With his back braced against the chair, he rocked her gently, stroking her arm and the silk of her hair as he let her cry herself out.
At long last she sniffled and grew quiet. “I’m sorry,” she hazarded a shaky whisper. “Now I’ve made your … shirt wet.”
“It’ll dry. Do you feel any better?”
She nodded, sniffling again. “I don’t usually do things like this.”
“We all need the outlet every once in a while,” he crooned, only then looking down to wipe the tears from her cheek. “Feel like talking?”
She thought about it for a long time, hiccoughing every now and then, blotting her lower lids with the fingers of one hand. Finally she looked up at him. “I don’t think I can,” she whispered.
“You can tell me anything.…”
But she shook her head against the warmth of his chest. “I can’t tell you something I don’t know myself.”
“You can tell me your thoughts.”
“They’re all jumbled up.”
“Maybe I can help unjumble them.”
Again she shook her head. Somehow, with the expenditure of tears, she’d purged herself of much of her tension. Now she felt … tired. “It’s something I’ve got to work out, I guess.”
“You’re sure?”
With a sad smile, she nodded, then caught her breath. “But—Oliver?”
He smiled down. “Yes?”
“Can we sit here … like this for a little while? Just … sit here?”
He lowered his cheek to her head and gave her a tight squeeze. “Sure thing, Les. I’d like that.”
They said no more for a time. Leslie nestled against him, finding quiet solace in the support of his arms, reassurance in the beat of his heart near her ear. Though her thoughts were indeed a jumble, she made no effort to unscramble them. There was too much to be savored in the utter simplicity of the moment. Just Oliver and Leslie. No past or future. Just … now.
Slowly her limbs began to slacken, and her breathing grew soft and even. Relaxation was a blissful thing, she mused as she snuggled closer to Oliver’s warmth. Closing her eyes, she took a long, deep breath. Then something struck her.
“Oliver?”
“Hmmmm?” His eyes, too, were closed, his limbs at rest.
She tipped her head up. “Oliver?”
He opened his eyes. “What, sweet?”
“I still can’t smell it.”
“Smell what?”
“Your Homme Premier.”
“I don’t wear it.”
“You don’t wear it? Ever?”
“Ever.”
“Isn’t that against the laws of advertising or something?”
He hugged her more tightly and closed his eyes again. “I thought you were going to sleep.”
“I think I was … then I thought of that.”
“Don’t like the way I smell?” he mumbled.
“I love the way you smell,” she murmured, burrowing against his chest. “All warm and fresh and … manly.…” As though to make her point, she took a deep, long breath and sighed. “Mmmmmm. So very … you.…”
“I hope so,” Oliver whispered, hugging her a final time before settling his head atop hers.
Leslie’s next conscious thoughts were of the sun, the living room carpet beneath her cheek, the stiffness of limbs that had spent the night on the floor … and Oliver’s hand on her rump.
5
It was the last that brought her fully awake. Squirming to a sitting position, she watched as that hand slid from her hip to the floor. Oliver was dead to the world. His tall form was sprawled prone on the rug with head turned away, his breathing slow and deep.
Stretching first one way, then the other, Leslie winced, then struggled to her feet. Her skirt and blouse were badly wrinkled, but then she’d spent the night in them. Putting a hand to her head, she tried to recall what had happened. Inevitably, her gaze returned to Oliver, and it all came back.
With sad eyes she studied his passive form. She was half in love with him, she supposed. Half in love with a man who prized his freedom, who resented being tied down for more than a day, who was no doubt the heartthrob of millions of women in America. It was a sad state of affairs.
Distractedly she made her way to the kitchen and up the stairs, finally sinking down on her bed. What other ads had he made? For what products? Wearing … what?
She knew the course of those ads. Not only would they appear in Man’s Mode, G.Q. and Esquire, they’d appear in Vogue and Cosmopolitan as well, plus a myriad of lesser publications. His face, his body would be seen and savored by so very many eyes. In turn, he’d have his choice of the most exquisite of those admirers. Why, then, of all the places on God’s green earth, was he here? And why, oh, why was he leading her on?
Warm Hearts Page 27