Warm Hearts

by Barbara Delinsky

  Rolling to her back, she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. After all, what could he see in her? There was nothing slick or glittery about her; she’d made sure of that. Nor, despite what he’d said about her breasts, did she have a body to attract a man of his stature. So he wasn’t a gigolo, as she’d originally thought. Still, he was the image of glamour, the striking playboy, the model. She, on the other hand, had chosen a different track to follow, a more quiet, private one. And she couldn’t switch from it … any more than he could from his.

  Realizing that no amount of deliberation could alter the facts, she dragged herself from the bed, showered and pulled on a clean sundress, then set out to grocery shop in Gustavia. By the time she returned to the villa, Oliver was on the beach. For a long time she stood on the terrace, unobserved, watching him. He lay absolutely still, a unified mass of bronze flesh broken only by the thin navy swatch at his hips. He loved nudity, he’d told her once. She’d love to see him strip.…

  Frustrated by the single-mindedness of her thoughts, she whirled away, made herself a tall glass of iced tea, picked up her book and settled in a lounge on the terrace. It wasn’t that she wanted to see Oliver when he left the beach, she told herself, simply that she felt like sitting on the terrace. This was, after all, her house.…

  By a quirk of fate she dozed off. When she came to, it was with a start. Disoriented at first, she stretched and looked around, then jumped again on encountering Oliver’s worried brown eyes.

  “Oliver! You frightened me!”

  Perched near her legs on the edge of the lounge, he smiled sadly. “We seem to have a way of doing that to each other. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” Her hand went automatically to her wrist and, finding it bare, she frowned. “What time is it?”

  “I’m not sure.” He squinted upward. “I think about one.” Then his gaze returned intently to hers. “Are you all right?”

  The deeper meaning to his question didn’t escape her this time around. Slowly beginning to relax, she offered a soft and helpless smile. “I think so.”

  Reaching out to take her hand in his, he made study of her small, slender fingers. “About last night, Leslie—”

  On elusive butterfly wings, those very fingers slipped from his and touched his lips. “Shh, Oliver. Please. Don’t say anything.” Her smile grew pleading. “It’s not necessary. Really it’s not. I think we both got … carried away by—” she rolled her eyes to the palms overhead “—the atmosphere of this place. There’s no harm done.”

  “I know, but still, there’s so much I want—”

  “Please,” she interrupted more urgently. “Please don’t. Things are … nice just as they’ve been. Why upset the apple cart?”

  His chuckle was harsh. “To get to the rotten apple?” he mumbled, thinned his lips in frustration and shook his head. Then he, too, raised his eyes to the palms. “The atmosphere of this place—such a simple explanation.…”

  “If there are others,” she stated soberly, “I don’t want to hear them.” The last thing she wanted was glib words of excuse, or worse, of affection. It was obvious that Oliver Ames had one way or another gotten himself into an uncomfortable situation. She was simply trying to offer him an easy out. “Nothing’s happened here that I haven’t wanted to happen. I have no regrets.”

  “None?” he asked, his voice a bit too low, his eyes too dark.

  She had the good sense to look away. “Well … none that can’t be remedied.” When she faced him again, her smile was forced. “Anyway, it’s already Wednesday. I’ve got no intention of living with regrets for the rest of the week. Before I know it I’ll be back in New York.” Her voice cracked. “Let’s not spoil things by analyzing them to death. Okay?”

  A strange look appeared on his face, and he grew even more intense. His dark eyes held hers relentlessly, delving deep, finding secret paths to her soul, leaving her raw and exposed. She felt as though she’d been taken apart piece by piece and thoroughly possessed. When her heart beat faster, his gaze fell to her breast.

  “Oliver?” she whispered. “Okay?” Her sense of bravado was a bygone thing.

  Slowly his eyes returned to hers. “It’s okay, Les. I see your point.” Patting her knee, he stood up. “I’d better get dressed if I’m going to bike downtown.”

  “Take the car if you’d like. I won’t be using it.”

  “No, thanks. I think I prefer the bike. Don’t dare ride one at home.” He threw her a cynical smile. “Wouldn’t want to risk damaging the goods. The camera doesn’t take kindly to gross blemishes.”

  He’d left before she decided just whom he’d been mocking—the camera, himself or her. But it didn’t matter. Nothing did. As she’d told him, there was no point in endless analysis. And before long she would be back in New York. Strangely, this thought disturbed her more than any other.

  Alone on the beach that afternoon, with the knowledge that Oliver was in town, she yielded to impulse and stripped off her bikini top. Her tan was really coming along, she mused, as she studied its golden hue while spreading lotion liberally over her skin. Would anyone see it? Not on her breasts. No one but herself—and she’d remember.… And grow warm just thinking about lying on the beach—beside Oliver.

  It was a lovely memory, even if it had nowhere to go. Where were they now? Back to square one, each going his own way, leaving the other in peace. Funny how “peace” could take on such different meanings.…

  * * *

  For Leslie, a special kind of peace came that evening when, out of the blue, Oliver appeared at the door of the den. “Hi, Les.”

  She looked up with barely suppressed pleasure at the sight of the tall, casually lounging figure. “Hi.”

  “Whatcha doin’?”

  “Crossword puzzle.” She slapped her pencil against it. “Lousy puzzle. I’m really stuck.”

  “Need some help?”

  “Oh, no.” She held up a hand and pressed the paper to her chest. “I can do it. It may take me several days, but I’ll get it if it kills me.”

  “You like word games?”

  Most likely they bored him to tears. “I do,” she said pertly, tipping her chin up in challenge. Wearing cutoffs and a open short-sleeved shirt, Oliver looked disgustingly virile. She needed something to dilute the effect of him; a challenge was just the thing.

  “Are you any good?” he asked, eyes shining.

  Leslie gave a modest shrug. “I’ve never won any championships, but I think I can hold my own.”

  “Got Scrabble?”

  “Uh huh.”

  He tipped his head almost shyly. “Are you game?”

  “Are you?” she countered in surprise.

  “Sure.”

  They played Scrabble until midnight, broke for several rounds of Boggle and some coffee, then returned to the Scrabble board. Whether it was the lateness of the hour or the pleasure of being with Oliver, Leslie didn’t know. But when, sometime around two, giddiness set in and the choice of words took a decidedly suggestive turn, she played right along. After all, it was a game, only a game.

  SOFT. SENSUAL, LIBIDO.

  “Good one, Oliver!”

  BED.

  “Come on, Les. You can do better than that.”

  “I’m trying. But I haven’t got any vowels.”

  “Here. Let me give you a couple.”

  VIRILE.

  “Very smooth.”

  CARESS.

  “Not bad. I thought you didn’t have any vowels.”

  “I just picked them. Go on. Your turn.”

  WARMTH. FLOW. WAIF.

  “Thirty points, Oliver. You’re good at this.”

  SPA. SIR. KEYS.

  “Pure, Leslie. Very pure.”

  SEX.

  “Oliver! That’s a nothing word!”

  “I wouldn’t say that. It’s got an x. That’s worth eight points.”

  “But you didn’t even get it on a double or triple score. You blew it.”

  “I’
ll say,” he muttered under his breath. “Your turn.”

  AROUSE. GROAN. RAPE. BREAST.

  “I don’t know, Ol. This is getting pretty bawdy. Hey, you can’t use breast. You’ve got two blanks in there that aren’t really blanks. The other two are already on the board. That’s cheating.”

  “Come on, Les. Where’s your sense of humor? Breast is a great word!”

  “It’s bawdy. Try again.”

  BAWDY.

  “That’s not fair. I gave it to you.”

  “Uh uh, Les. You didn’t have the letters. I don’t like that gleam in your eye.”

  “Hold onto your socks. Bawdy is nothing. Look at this.”

  QUIVER.

  “Triple word score, plus double letter on the v. Twelve … twenty … twenty-two … that makes sixty-six points. So you can keep bawdy, even though the y does run off the board.”

  For the moment she’d taken the upper hand. Then, in the last move of the game, Oliver struck.

  LOVE.

  No double or triple word score. Not even a double or triple letter score for the v. Nothing but the emotional clout of a simple four-letter word.

  Strangely and mutually subdued, they called it a night after that.

  * * *

  Despite its poignant ending, the camaraderie they shared that Wednesday night carried over to Thursday. By silent agreement they spent the day together, starting with Leslie’s mushroom omelets for breakfast, moving down to the beach for several hours of sun and surf, finally doubling up on the motorbike for a shopping expedition into Gustavia.

  “You’re sure you’re up for this?” Oliver asked, strapping a helmet on her head before donning his own.

  “Of course. I’ve taken the bike out myself many times.”

  “The roads are narrow.”

  “I’ll hang on tight. Hey, are you sure you’re up for it?”

  Taking in her knowing grin, he returned with a pointed stare. “I will be soon,” he growled, tossing his leg over the bike, reaching an arm back to settle her snugly behind him, then setting off.

  To Leslie, nothing could have been more exhilarating. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, she felt the sun’s rays in counterpoint to the breeze whipping her skin. And Oliver—so firm and hard and strong between her thighs, against her stomach and her breasts—She held on for dear life, her arms wrapped around his lean middle, her hands flattened on his ribs.

  “Okay?” he called back once, rubbing her hand with one of his own in a warmly endearing gesture.

  “You bet,” she returned, closing her eyes as she pressed her cheek to his back. To have a viable excuse to do this was … was ecstasy.

  To her delight, the ecstasy continued long after they left the bike at the quai and began to stroll along the streets. Oliver kept her hand tucked firmly in his, holding her close to his side as they ambled idly in and out of shops in search of nothing in particular. Indeed, they chanced upon a kind of euphoria; they were a couple among many couples, yet were oblivious to all but each other.

  Twice, as they browsed, they stopped at small cafés to sit and talk and further savor the atmosphere of the town. The few purchases they made were Leslie’s—a bottle of imported perfume, a small enameled box and, on a whim, a soft pink pareo made of an original hand-blocked fabric that had appealed to her instantly. She knew that the three items would have special meaning for her, given the circumstances under which they’d been bought. Her only regret was that the bag holding them came between Oliver and herself during the airy ride back to the villa.

  “How about a swim?” Oliver asked as he parked the bike next to the car.

  Leslie smiled and stretched. “I don’t know. I feel really lazy. I think I could go to sleep. What with late nights and fresh air and walking.…”

  “Come down to the beach with me, then. You can sleep while I swim.”

  To her amazement, that was precisely what she did. She remembered seeing Oliver dive into the waves, watching him swim for a minute … then nothing. Once she stirred, finding the warm body near her in her sleep and snuggling closer. When she awoke, Oliver was there, sleeping beside her, his arms cradling her ever so gently. Turning carefully, she raised her head and looked at him. His face was the image of peacefulness. In turn, her own glowed.

  “Oliver?” she breathed in a whisper.

  “Mmmmmm?” He didn’t move.

  “You awake?”

  “Sure,” he murmured in a sleep-slurred voice. “Just have my eyes closed.”

  “Is that all?” she teased.

  “Sure. Late nights don’t bother me. Do it all the time.” He smacked his lips lightly together once, twice, then his head lolled to the side. His eyes still hadn’t opened.

  Capitalizing on a rare opportunity, Leslie made a free study of his chest. She loved the smoothness of his skin with its soft mat of hair. She loved the way his nipples hid amid dark whorls of chest hair, camouflaged in apt reminder of a dormant sexuality. She admired the fluid span of his collarbone and the way the muscles of his shoulder had bunched to accommodate her head. She was fascinated by the more vulnerable skin on the underside of his arm and the silkiness of hair there. She raised her fingers to touch, momentarily resisted the temptation, then yielded.

  “Hey!” Oliver came alive at once, capturing her hand with unerring aim. “That tickles!” One eye opened, deep and brown. “You must be bored.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Restless?”

  “A little.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Mmm.”

  The double-entendre sizzled between them for a breathtaking minute. Then Oliver snatched her to him and hugged her tight. “My God, Les!” he exclaimed softly as he crushed her to his bare skin. She felt the tremor of his arms and knew an elementary satisfaction that was in no way lessened when he set her back.

  “Let’s clean up and go into town for dinner,” he suggested in a deep voice. “I’m in the mood for something … hot and spicy.”

  “Creole? That’s funny. I would have thought you’d prefer soft and subtle and classic.”

  The sudden smokiness of his gaze sent corresponding spirals smoldering through her. “Later,” he crooned. “Later.”

  It was a promise that was foremost on Leslie’s mind. When she bathed, it was with special care to leave her skin soft and aromatic. When she styled her hair, it was with attention to even the smallest wisps. When she made herself up, it was with the lightest hand, no more than the most subtle emphasis on eyes and cheekbones.

  Come time to dress, there was no question of her choice. Padding from the bathroom into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, she took the exquisite pink pareo from its bag, shook it out, studied its gentle floral print for a minute, then turned to the mirror. Loosening the terry knot at her breast, she let the towel fall to the floor. Her eye slid from her naked body to the print, then back. With careful concentration, she straightened the fabric, held it up to herself and began to wrap it around the pliant lines of her body, finally criss-crossing the ends at the hollow of her throat and tying a loose knot at the back of her neck.

  Then she turned to study herself. It was perfect. Had she picked it out with this in mind? She ran her hands down along her hips, eminently aware of the smooth, unbroken line. Soft pink. Just as the Homme Premier sculptor had requested. Soft pink. Just for Oliver.

  When he met her at the front door at eight, he was very obviously affected. For a minute he simply looked at her, devouring every soft inch, every gentle curve. “You look … beautiful, Leslie. Absolutely beautiful.”

  She felt it. She felt beautiful. She felt … special. In spite of all their many differences, in spite of the more glossy women he’d surely known in his time, in spite of all the power and grace and raw virility that the man exuded in his fine-tailored slacks and designer shirt, he had a way of making her feel as though there had never been, as though there never would be, another woman for him.

  Leslie barely knew what she ate that night, only that she s
at at an intimate table for two, elbow to elbow with Oliver, and that he didn’t take his eyes from her the entire time. They may have talked of interesting things, but conversation, too, was secondary to mood. Had she tried to classify it she would have used words like loving, needing and expectant. For those feelings permeated her being, blinding her to everything but Oliver.

  Somehow, sitting there at a small table in an unpretentious restaurant on the warm, cozy island of St. Barts, she was ready to play the game she’d decried for so long. She was ready to believe that Oliver was as taken with her as she was with him, that they were positively meant for each other, that what existed between them would be right and good and lasting. What he was in real life didn’t matter any more than did her own past or future. They were together now and, in the illusion, very much in love. That was all that mattered.

  “Dessert?” Oliver murmured, fingers entwined with hers, eyes adoring her lips as the waiter stood nearby.

  Entranced by the faint but roguish shadow of his beard, she shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  “You’re sure?” he whispered back, as distracted as she was.

  She nodded.

  Within minutes they were in the car headed back to the villa. There, Oliver led her on the long path around the house, holding her hand tightly, turning at times to circle her waist and lift her over a tricky patch of rocks. When at last they reached the beach, he took her in his arms.

  It was as if she’d been waiting for just this moment all night, all week, all month, all year. Shorn of inhibition by the aura of love surrounding them, she stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. When her feet left the ground completely and he gently rocked her back and forth, she hung on all the more tightly.

  “Ahh, Leslie, this is what I’ve wanted.” Setting her feet back on the ground, he curved his body over hers and buried his lips against her neck. His arms crushed her to him with a fierceness that in itself thrilled her as much as did the feel of his long, lean lines. “So beautiful.…”

  “Like you,” she whispered as she ran her fingers through his hair. Inclining her face, she buried it in that vibrant shock. His scent was clean and rich, pure and unadulterated by fragrant colognes or balms. Breathing deeply, she was further intoxicated. It was only his straightening that brought her away.