Warm Hearts

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Shh. I’ll call you. Okay?”

  Don’t call me. I’ll call you. Her heart plummeted to her frigid toes. “Okay.” She flashed him a plastic smile, swallowed hard, then turned and let the driver take her home.

  7

  Oliver stood at the curb for what seemed hours after Leslie’s cab had pulled away. With his eyes he followed it as it dodged other vehicles and slowed, then entered the airport’s exit road and sped forward, finally disappearing around the bend that would take it to the parkway and on to her home.

  A part of him was in the cab. He wasn’t sure how or when it had happened—whether he’d first fallen in love with her honest smile or her ready wit or her breasts in the sun or her mushroom omelets. Hell, it might have been the lavender leprechaun, stuffed-up and sneezing, for whom he’d first fallen. But he’d fallen. No doubt about that. He’d fallen hard. And, damn it, he didn’t know what to do!

  He’d made a mess of it with his whimsy of shaking the image and existing solely as a man. It had backfired! He’d simply been pigeonholed differently.

  Leslie knew him as a model. Oh, yes, it had had its moments, and it was certainly flattering. Only trouble was that she loved him. He was sure of it. Leslie, who believed in, who needed honesty above all, was in love with a man who had deceived her from the start.

  “Hey, fella, we’re holdin’ up the line. You wanna cab or not?”

  Snapped from his brooding, Oliver looked down at the body sprawled from the driver’s seat toward the passenger’s window, at the face scowling up at him. With a curt nod he opened the back door, picked up his bags and tossed them in, then followed them. After giving his Manhattan address to the cabbie, he slouched against the door, his fist pressed to his mouth, and stared blindly into the arena of headlights and taillights they entered.

  Was it deceit? Or simply evasion? He’d never lied, but had told only half the truth. He did model, though it was purely a hobby and something he did far less frequently than he’d let Leslie believe. If only he could model more often! But his practice was more demanding than it had ever been. Demanding, challenging … rewarding. Even now he wondered what bizarre messages he’d find awaiting him when he got home. Then his thoughts turned to Leslie, and he lost interest in bizarre messages.

  She’d been as upset as he when they’d left St. Barts. A healthy tan notwithstanding, she’d looked as pale as her hand had felt cold. They’d said little to each other. He knew she’d hoped for something, but he’d been stymied.

  He’d tried. He had tried. Even if she hated him when she learned the truth, she’d have to admit that he’d tried. And every time, she’d hushed him, saying she hadn’t wanted to know, that it wasn’t important. So why hadn’t he pushed? He’d always been strong and convincing, never one to let a woman deter him when he’d had something to do or say. But … he’d never been in love before. And Leslie was a woman like no other he’d known.

  The cab swerved. The cabbie swore. From his slouched position Oliver muttered an oath and thrust a hand through his hair. New York looked ugly, all dark and gray and spattered with mud from the snow that must have recently fallen. So different from the sunshine and heat of St. Barts. Damn, but he felt cold inside!

  Seeking warmth, he wearily dropped his head back and conjured up memories from the week now past. It worked for a time. As the cab sped onward, snaking in and out of the parkway traffic, he thought of the villa, the beach, bubbling Gustavia … and Leslie through it all. The times he’d spent alone at the start of the week had mysteriously fallen from mind. The images that remained were of time they’d spent together—living, laughing, loving.

  But Oliver Ames, more than most, knew that one couldn’t exist wholly in a world of memories. In addition to past, one needed present and future. Present and future. The present was a dingy cab fighting its way across town now, through congested Manhattan streets. The future was a confrontation he feared as he’d never feared anything before. So much was at stake. So very much.

  The cab lurched through the Sunday-evening traffic, forging steadily onward until at last it came to an abrupt halt at the door of his building. Oliver dug his wallet from his trousers’ pocket, thinking how strange it felt in his hand after a week without it. He tugged out several bills and paid the cabbie, then hauled himself and his belongings from the cab.

  The doorman was on the spot. “Good evening, Dr. Ames. Would you like a hand?”

  Oliver dipped his head in response to the greeting, held up a hand in refusal of the offer, then headed through the door that the attendant had opened. Eighteen floors later, he was in his own apartment.

  Leaving his bags by the door, he easily found his way in the darkness down the two steps into the sunken living room, where he collapsed in a sofa and dropped his head into his hands. Then, propping his chin on his palms, he studied the dark.

  He missed her already. It was so quiet here. Not that she made much noise, but just knowing she might be in another room would have lightened the atmosphere of the place.

  What was he going to do? For three days now, since Thursday, when they’d spent the day together and then made love and he’d realized just how deeply he was in over his head, he’d been trying to decide. He could call her right now and blurt out the truth, counting on her love to master her anger. Or he could make a date for tomorrow night or Tuesday night, and then tell her the truth. He could send her a letter of confession and follow it up with two dozen long-stemmed roses. Or he could storm over to her place and confess it all in person. As a last resort, he could always abduct her, break the news, then hold her prisoner until she forgave him.

  Damn Joe Durand! It sounded as though Leslie had been leery enough of deception before Joe had come along, but his shoddy treatment of her had cemented her feelings. Now Oliver had inadvertently stepped in the muck Joe had left, and his feet were stuck. He felt like such a heel! A heel!

  Eyes wide, he threw his head back, then gave a savage push and left the sofa. Flipping on the lights by the door, he grabbed his bags, strode angrily down the hall to his bedroom, tossed the cases onto the bed, then stood glaring at them.

  “Damn!” Crossing to the bedstand phone, he picked up the receiver, held it midair for a minute, then scowled at it and slammed it down. He stormed back down the hall, paused overlooking the living room and stood, hands on his hips, frowning.

  He lived in the lap of luxury in this coop with its prestigious East Side address. Maybe she wouldn’t be surprised at it; after all, she’d assumed him to be a successful model, and they reportedly did well. Rubbing a tired hand against the taut muscles at the back of his neck, he slowly descended the steps and perched on the arm of a chair.

  He liked this place. He’d certainly worked hard enough for it. Plush carpeting, cushiony upholstered sofas and chairs, lacquered coffee tables and wall units bearing unique mementos from one trip or another—a far cry from the cramped duplex his parents had rented all those years. He thought of the pleasant garden condominium he’d recently helped them buy, and smiled. They were comfortable; they deserved it.

  In its idle wandering, his gaze tripped over loose pillows of the same rich browns and beiges and grays as the rest of the room before falling on the ancient brass spittoon he’d picked up in Wales. It was a planter now, bearing a small fig tree. Standing, he walked over to finger the oval leaves. It wasn’t doing well—it needed sun and warmth. He snorted. He needed sun and warmth, but his sun and warmth was Leslie. Did he look as despairing as the poor fig tree in front of him?

  The jangle of the phone startled him. His head flew toward the kitchen. It was his private line ringing, not the business phone he kept in the den. In two strides he’d covered the distance and snatched up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Oliver, you’re back! It’s Tony. How did it go?”

  “How’re ya doin’, Tony?” Oliver asked, trying to cover up his disappointment. For a split second he’d hoped it would be Leslie.

  “Not ba
d … but tell me about you.” His voice grew cautious. “She wasn’t angry, was she?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Oliver began with a sigh, “she wasn’t thrilled at first. But she came around.”

  Tony grinned. “I knew she would. You’ve got charm, friend. I knew you could handle her. It was a good week, then?”

  “Great. You were right. The villa’s gorgeous. So’s the island. Bright sun every day. It never rained.”

  “Come on, Oliver. This is the guy you sweat with on the tennis court twice a month. I don’t want a camp letter. I want some of that gut-spilling you guys love to provoke. Was it a good week?”

  “It was a great week.”

  “And?”

  “Any more is private.”

  “She’s my sister, Ames. I wouldn’t have sent you down there if I hadn’t had hopes that you two might hit it off.”

  “Hit it off.…” Oliver smirked, rather amused by his friend’s impatience. “You mean … make it?”

  “I mean like each other.” Tony grimaced. “The woman’s impossible. I’ve tried again and again to introduce her to men I think she’ll like, but she’s just not interested. My happening to know the man in the Homme Premier ad was a bolt out of the blue.”

  Oliver shot a glance at the ceiling. “So it was a fix-up after all. Strange, I thought it was supposed to be a joke,” he remarked grimly. Of course he’d known better than that. Tony Parish was transparent, at least when he, too, was sweating it out on the courts. But it didn’t bother him to string Tony along. He needed someone to blame for the mess he was in.

  “You didn’t hurt her,” Tony came back more quietly.

  “No. I didn’t hurt her. At least not yet.”

  Once more, deadly calm. “What are you talking about?”

  Oliver rested one hand low on his hip and hung his head. “We had a wonderful week together. It was … unbelievable.”

  “So?”

  “So—” he took a breath “—I think your sister’s fallen in love with a man she believes to be a very glamorous male model.”

  “Male model? Didn’t you tell her the truth?”

  “That is the truth … albeit only a tiny part.”

  “And you didn’t tell her the rest?” came the disbelieving voice.

  “No.”

  Tony swore softly, then began to pace within the limits of the telephone cord. “You picked a great one to lie to—”

  “I didn’t lie.”

  “Then you picked a great one to be evasive with. Jeez, I don’t believe it. I was sure you’d tell her everything within the first day or two. You’re almost as straitlaced as she is!” He paced another round. “Do you have any idea what my sister thinks of deception? She’s pretty opinionated on that score. Do you?”

  “I didn’t, then. I do now.”

  Tony had paused in his ranting long enough to hear the dejection in Oliver’s voice. “Are you all right?” he asked, cautious again.

  “No, I’m not!” Oliver exploded, his own frustration needing outlet. “I’ve got to figure out some way of telling Leslie what I do without having her positively despise me for not having told her in the first place. I’m not all right. It’s become an emotional issue; she’s apt to hate me.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was instantly contrite. “And that matters to you?”

  “Damned right it matters! Not that I’d particularly want you for a brother-in-law knowing that you concocted this cock-and-bull scheme in the first place…!”

  Satisfied, Tony sat down in his chair. “She was the one with the idea, Oliver,” he said indulgently. “I simply set it into motion.”

  “Same difference. Damn, it’s hard.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Don’t you dare. As a matter of fact, don’t you dare repeat a word of this conversation to Leslie! I may have made a mess of things, but it’s my mess, and I’ll be the one to clean it up.”

  “She’s got fire in her.”

  He gave a wry nod. “Tell me.”

  “Think you can handle her?”

  “I’ll handle her.”

  “Okay, pal.” Tony was smiling broadly. “And Oliver?”

  “Yeah?”

  The smile grew more mischievous. “Good luck.” If anyone could handle Leslie Parish, her brother mused, Oliver Ames could. Despite this minor and surely temporary misunderstanding, things had worked out well indeed.

  Oliver wasn’t in quite as optimistic a frame of mind when he hung up the phone. Love did strange things to otherwise rational people. It made them lose perspective and overreact. That was what he wanted to avoid.

  Back in the living room, he opened the bar and poured himself a drink. Its warmth was the first he’d felt since … since he’d made love to Leslie so early that morning. Just that morning—it was hard to believe. He remembered every sweet moment; even now could feel the fragile shape of her in his hands. She’d been so honest and giving in her lovemaking. She’d lived true to her word. Not for a minute, though she hadn’t said it aloud, had she hidden from him the fact of her love. And not for a minute did Oliver believe that he was vainly imagining it. He hadn’t asked for love, hadn’t gone looking for it. But feeling the all-consuming need he had to be with and share with and do for Leslie, seeing an identical desire written on her face time and again, he knew. Leslie loved him. He loved her. All that remained was for him to tell her what he’d done and why.

  Bidden in part by determination, in part by the sheer need to hear her voice, he returned to the kitchen and lifted the phone. Information quickly gave him her number. As quickly he punched it out. The phone rang once, then a second time.

  “Hello?” She sounded breathless, as though she’d come running.

  “Leslie?”

  A smile lit her voice. “Hi,” she said softly.

  “You got home all right,” he ventured likewise.

  “Uh huh. And you?”

  “Fine.” The sound of her voice was an instant balm. Perched atop his high kitchen stool, he felt himself begin to relax. “How are you?”

  “Okay. I’m … cold.”

  “I know the feeling.” It was only incidentally related to the abrupt change in temperature to which their bodies had been exposed in the past few hours. “Your house was okay? No problems?” She lived in a small Tudor home on a wooded lot, she’d said. He worried about her being so alone.

  “Just quiet.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “And lonely.”

  “I miss you,” he murmured in lieu of taking her in his arms and kissing her loneliness away.

  “Me too.” She paused then and, sensing that she wanted to go on, he gave her time. “Oliver,” she began again and timidly, “when will I see you?”

  The utter smallness of her voice cut him to the quick. He could imagine how she’d fought asking. She’d want to be sophisticated and cool and unclinging. He hated himself for having forced her hand, though he found solace in this further evidence of her love.

  “That’s why I’m calling, sweetheart. I’d like us to spend next weekend together. Just the two of us at my place up north. I could pick you up Friday night and have you back Sunday. How about it?”

  “I’d love to, Oliver.” Her voice glowed. In turn he smiled.

  “I wish it could be sooner. Friday sounds so far off. But this week will be crammed … after last.”

  Her laugh was a light, airy sound that made him float. “What is it this week … say, what do you do, other than cologne?”

  His bubble threatened to burst. “Oh, clothing and stuff. Have you spoken to Tony?”

  “Not yet. I’ll have to give him a call to thank him for my … birthday present.” Her voice lowered. “Thank you again.”

  “For what?”

  “For … taking care of me when I was sick, for making the rest of the week so wonderful, for the necklace.”

  “Are you wearing it now?” Closing his eyes he pictured her as she’d stood before him last night, wearing nothing but the
moonlight and that strip of gold with its amethyst eye.

  “Yes. I’m wearing it,” she murmured shyly.

  “I’m glad.” He smiled, then realized that he could sit forever saying small nothings to her. But he wanted to tell her he loved her—and he feared doing that. “Well, then, how does six on Friday sound? We can stop for dinner on the way.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.” His voice was suddenly lower and faintly hoarse.

  “Me too.”

  “Take care, Les.”

  “You too. And Oliver?”

  “Yes?”

  “I … I … thanks for calling.”

  “Sure thing, sweetheart. See you Friday.”

  For several minutes after hanging up the phone, he sat where he was, basking in the glow that lingered. She was a wonder … so thoroughly lovable. And she’d had more courage than he. She’d nearly said it. I love you. Why couldn’t he say the words? He admitted them freely to himself, had even implied them to Tony. Was it that he’d feel hypocritical telling Leslie he loved her while he knew he’d been less than forthright on other matters? Was it that he feared she might not believe him in this when he finally did confess to his deception?

  The glow was gone by the time he stood up, replaced by a shroud of concern. He’d tell her this weekend after they arrived at his place. They’d be isolated and, aside from his own car, more or less stranded. She’d be stuck with him. She’d have to hear him out. And he’d have the whole weekend to prove his love one way or the other.

  That decided, he returned to the front hall and picked up the thick pile of waiting mail. An hour later he retreated to the den, pushed several buttons on his telephone console and sprawled out on the dark leather sofa with an arm over his eyes to listen to the phone messages for the week.

  An hour after that he was ready to return to St. Barts.

  * * *

  Leslie, too, had gone through her mail and then taken to the phone, but in a more active capacity.

  “Tony?”

  “Les! How are you?”

  “Great.” Silence. She was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Thanks, Tony. It was a super birthday present.”