The Promise

by Fayrene Preston

  “It’s fantastic,” she said when he returned to her side.

  “I was hoping you’d like it. Since there’s only one court here, Caitlin decided to place it off limits for the guests. There are outdoor courts for them, but only the family can use this one. Would you like to play?”

  “Play—tennis—now?” She glanced down at her evening gown. “In these clothes?”

  “Why not? And I know you play. I can remember at least a couple of games you and I played all those years ago.”

  He bent and pressed a light kiss on her mouth that took her mind completely off her ability to play tennis. He was kissing her more and more, she reflected. It seemed she had no more thorns.

  “The light’s not the best at night, but I think we can manage. Are you up to it?”

  A bouncy rendition of Cole Porter’s “Let’s Fall in Love” drifted through the windows on the breeze along with a few gold and red leaves. This place wasn’t of the real world, she thought. “Sure,” she said. “I’ve never lived in an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel before. It should be fun.”

  He strode toward a cabinet at the back of the building, stripping off his jacket and tie as he went and unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt. When he came back, he handed her a racquet and two balls. "Your serve.”

  She took her position behind the baseline, tossed up the ball, and hit it as hard as she could. It landed outside the receiving court.

  “Oh, too bad,” Conall called in mock sympathy. “Yeah, sure.” She unbuckled her belt to give her more mobility and tossed it behind her. This time her serve landed squarely in his left serving court and the game was on.

  She soon kicked off her shoes, but the full pale-turquoise skirts of her evening gown swirled and flared with her every movement and proved a definite problem. She had to lift the chiffon with one hand and swing the racquet with the other. Still, Sharon surprised herself by holding her own with Conall. And even when she realized that at times he was deliberately sending her easy returns, she decided she was having too much fun to care about her pride, if she’d ever had any in the first place.

  Sometime later she hit a dropshot just over the net. He ran for it, but missed.

  She laughed. “I win!”

  His racquet clattered as it landed on the court where he tossed it in playful disgust. “This set you win. But the next—”

  “Next?” she exclaimed, sweeping the back of her hair up so that air could reach her neck. “You’ve got to be kidding. No, no, no. I’m retiring as champion." She made her way off the court to a couch, where, one at a time, she propped her feet on its cushion to examine the damage she had done to her stockings. A glance confirmed what she’d already known. They were in shreds. Conall had gone over to the cabinet, so as quickly as possible, she reached beneath her long skirt to her garter belt, unhooked the stockings, and peeled them off.

  A minute later he was there with two towels, and he handed her one. “I think we need to talk about this decision of yours,” he said, taking up the conversation where they had left it. “A champion doesn’t simply retire, you know. He, or she, as the case may be, usually takes on the most qualified challenger.”

  She smiled sweetly at him and patted her neck with the towel. “If I find a qualified challenger, I’ll think about it.”

  He snatched her towel from her hands and threw both their towels aside. Then with a menacing growl he grabbed her to him. “Say you’re sorry, or I’ll be forced to do something drastic!” She giggled. “Like what?”

  “Are you going to say you’re sorry?"

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then hang on, because I’m going to have to resort to making you so dizzy you won’t know which way is up or which way is down.” With that, he lifted her off her feet and whirled her around and around until she was squealing with laughter. When he lowered her feet to the ground, he kept his arms around her. “Now will you say you’re sorry?”

  She shook her head and clung to him, unable to stop laughing or regain her balance.

  He smiled broadly. “That’s too bad, because, unfortunately, the longer you refuse to cooperate, the worse the torture gets.” He swept her into his arms and laid her on the many cream-colored cushions of one of the rattan couches.

  The next thing she knew he was braced over her, his eyes alight with laughter. “I really hate to do this,” he whispered, his tone one of regret, his expression showing exactly the opposite, “but now I have to resort to the dreaded Kiss Torture.” Choking on a laugh, she drew a breath and released it unevenly. “It sounds awful.”

  “It is, believe me. But just close your eyes and try to bear up as best you can. ”

  With a wide smile, she closed her eyes, expecting more fun.

  She felt his lips brush like a warm, soft breeze over her forehead, then press gently against each of her eyelids. Little by little her breathing quieted.

  His tongue lightly licked the bridge of her nose. Next he laid down a line of meticulously placed kisses to the tip. Her urge to laugh subsided.

  With his mouth hovering just over hers, he asked, “Are you ready to say you’re sorry?”

  Her smile faded and her lashes swept up to see that the color of his eyes had darkened and a flame had begun to flicker in their depths. Slowly she shook her head.

  “That’s too bad,” he murmured, and lowered his head.

  He outlined her mouth with kisses, taking extraordinary care not to touch her lips, then he turned his attention to her jawline, then her neck. He had been supporting his weight with a hand on either side of her, but gradually he lowered his body onto hers.

  A compelling tension began to pulse in her, a different kind of trouble developed with her breathing, a beautiful, unbearable desire unfolded in her.

  He changed position frequently to give himself a better angle for his kisses. Sometimes he shifted only an inch to the left, sometimes it was several inches to the right, other times it was up or down. But each movement caused her chiffon skirt to wrinkle, fold over on itself, inch down, inch up. The material rubbed against her, sensitizing her skin, heating her thighs. And as his chest slid this way and that over her, her breasts swelled and started to ache.

  He skimmed his mouth down to where her breasts mounded above the low neckline of the beaded bodice. “I can feel your heart pounding,” he whispered. “Are you ready to say you’re sorry and accept me as a qualified challenger?”

  He lifted the neckline of the bodice and licked beneath its edge to a taut nipple. She jerked at the thrill of desire that knifed into her. Then in a movement so fast she didn’t realize what he had done until it was over, he reached behind her, unzipped the dress, and pulled the front down until he could get his whole mouth over the nipple.

  The pleasure was excruciatingly intense, and she cried out. Threading her fingers into his hair, she pushed her head back against a cushion. Unable to control the need building in her, she went with it, giving herself up to the throbbing, the aching, the passion. She arched her hips up to his and felt a hardness that sent electricity sparking through her.

  His mouth came down on hers, and his hand delved beneath the layers of chiffon to the silky smoothness of her legs. His tongue tangled with hers, his mind hazed over. Raw need gripped his body. He hadn’t meant their tennis game to end like this. He certainly hadn’t brought her to the court to make love to her. Had he? No.

  He had vowed not to rush her. And he wouldn’t. He had to cease this madness soon. And he would..

  His fingers thrust between her thighs to her warmth and softness.

  Inflamed, she twisted violently beneath him, then her hips began to move in rhythm to his caresses. It was wonderful, but she’d been empty for so long. She craved his maleness, his power. She pulled on his hair until he lifted his head and gazed down at her.

  “Do you want me to stop?” he asked thickly, unable to mask either his desire or his confusion. Then because he hoped it might put him back in the game-playing mood, he ad
ded, “Are you ready to say you’re sorry?" It didn’t work. He was burning for her.

  “No, but I’m ready to say I want you. I want you, Conall. More than I can say, more than I can bear. Make love to me."

  A hard shudder convulsed his body. “Well go back to the suite.”

  “No! Here! Now!" She arched up to him again. “Oh, please, Conall.”

  The urgency and naked need in her voice galvanized him. Pushed nearly beyond endurance, he yanked her panties free of her legs and entered her with a force that fused them together. Ecstasy closed around Conall, narrowing his world to Sharon and the overwhelming intensity of the sensations that crashed through him again and again. Her legs fastened around him; his hips lifted and fell in a hard, fast rhythm.

  He was no longer thinking. Something dark and primal had taken over, driving him. He was half mad, wanting her, needing her, having her. He thrust deeper into her, and suddenly they were straining together as her climax started, then his. He groaned, she cried out. It continued on and on, seeming to grow more powerful, more rapturous, until at last he emptied into her. And she was filled.

  Sharon shifted. Her bare legs slid across silk and encountered something immovable. Slowly she opened her eyes. Conall. His face was only inches from hers.

  She remembered now. They had waited for the trembling of their muscles to abate, then somehow dressed and walked back to the house, arm in arm. And when they had reached the suite, she had gone with him to his bedroom, where they had made love again just as frantically and just as hungrily as they had at the tennis court.

  She lifted her head and gazed around the room. Her turquoise gown lay in a frothy pool on the floor next to his dark evening clothes. She lowered her head gently back to the pillow so as not to wake him, and she stared at the ceiling, experiencing a feeling of absolute surprise.

  She was lying in the massive sleigh bed with him beneath the royal purple spread.

  They had actually made love.

  And it had been the greatest, most joyous experience she had ever had.

  And not once during that time had she thought about trying to get pregnant.

  Instead, she had been consumed by him, what he was doing to her, what she was doing to him, and how they were making each other feel.

  Making love on a couch in an indoor tennis court where the light was pearlized and a stained glass roof curved above them hadn’t been in her plans. She had envisioned a perfunctory act of sex, followed by twenty minutes of her lying with her bottom elevated on a pillow. Making love a second time so soon after the first time hadn’t been in the program either. Every other day was best, she had read, to give the sperm a chance to build up and then be released in larger numbers. She seemed to remember that hot baths were out for the man, too, and Conall had had one right before dinner. Oh, well, they would just have to do better next time. They would wait a day, be more practical about their surroundings.

  For some inexplicable reason she giggled and turned her head along the pillow to look at Conall.

  His eyes were open. “I really like the way you laugh,” he murmured huskily.

  "I suppose laughing is a major talent.”

  “You mean sort of like your talent to win at tennis?” He slipped his arm beneath her back and pulled her up and over until she lay on top of him.

  Her hair tumbled forward, and the soft golden-brown curls brushed against his chest and face.

  She tucked one side behind her ear so that she could see him better. “What can I say? I’m just a very talented person.”

  “I would have to agree with that.” He raised his head to kiss her lightly, briefly. “Although,” he continued when his head was once again on the pillow, “our discussion regarding a rematch is not over.”

  “I’ll look forward to our next talk on the subject,” she said solemnly. “Almost as much as I’m looking forward to breakfast."

  “You’re hungry?”

  “Starved.”

  “Funny, I am too. Why don’t we order room service? What would you like?”

  She chewed on her bottom lip a moment, thinking. “Do you have any idea what kind of champagne they have here? For instance, do you think they’d have something really old and rare?”

  “There should be some Roederer Cristal 1945.” He smoothed his hand down her bare back with absentminded possessiveness. “Would you like me to order it? Perhaps with some peaches?”

  "Peaches?” She grinned. “Heavens no. I don’t want to drink it. I want them to make us some champagne jelly from it. If they do it right away, we could have it for breakfast tomorrow.”

  He closed his eyes on a groan. “The wine steward is going to resign.”

  She used the pads of her thumbs to gently pry his lids up. “You don’t think they’ll do it?”

  He blinked her thumbs away and glared at her. “I suppose you want to bet.”

  “I'm a businesswoman.”

  He sighed. “How much?”

  “Four dollars. You’ve already given me two dollars for the raspberries. If we get the de-eyed black-eyed peas today for lunch, you'll owe me three dollars, and with the four dollars I’m sure to win for the jelly, that will be—”

  He put his hand over her mouth. “Okay, on one condition. You place the order. Now, let’s decide what we want for breakfast this morning.”

  She rolled off him and onto her back, then stretched, luxuriating in how comfortable and at ease she was with him. She had been briefly afraid that she might feel stiff and awkward with him after last night, but that was not the case at all. “Conall? Is that painting of the sea and the nude valuable?”

  “Very.”

  “Oh.” She paused. "Well, are you very attached to it?”

  He came up on an elbow and gazed down at her. “Why? Are you going to ask the staff to decoupage it?”

  She playfully swatted at his chest. “No. I was only wondering if we could replace it with a nice landscape. Something a little less . . . oppressively erotic.”

  “Do you have something against oppressively erotic?”

  “On the whole, I’m very pro-erotic. It’s the oppressive part that I’m not certain of.”

  “Say no more. I'll have Winston switch the painting. ”

  “Thank you. Now, there’s one more thing.”

  He groaned. “Is this going to be another bet? Because if it is, you should know that I’ve just about committed the extent of my cash reserves to you.”

  She skimmed a finger back and forth over his bottom lip. “No, it’s not another bet. But in the future and as a personal favor to you, I will try to keep your financial crisis in mind. However, for now, do you think we could skip breakfast? I’d much rather make love.”

  “You know, Sharon, you’re a little strange, but you’re growing on me. ” He gathered her close and he bent to kiss her.

  Seven

  Leather creaked as Sharon turned in the saddle to glance back the way she and Conall had just ridden. She hadn’t been able to see the house for quite some time and couldn’t judge how far they had come. ‘‘Are we still on SwanSea land?” “Definitely,” Conall said, riding beside her. “When are you going to tell me where we’re going? Or why we're going there?"

  “When we get there.”

  “There where? Conall Deverell, you’re driving me crazy.”

  He looked across at her and grinned. “What’s the problem? You liked last night’s surprise, didn’t you? The tennis court?”

  In another life she would have blushed at the intimate look he sent her. Now she smiled. “Of course I remember.”

  His grin broadened. “Yeah, well, I remember too. And I guarantee that you’re going to like this place. Besides, what difference does it make where I’m taking you? You’re not in Boston. You’re not on a timetable. There’s nothing you have to do, nowhere you have to be. Relax.”

  She was relaxed, she thought, and at the moment, almost Indecently content. On her right, white-tipped waves rolled, one after the other, in
to the shore. To her left, purple and white asters, sky-blue gentians, and cardinal flowers grew wild in green meadows. Beyond the meadows, sugar maples displayed outrageously brilliant colors of red, orange, and gold. With nature's beauty to gaze at and Conall by her side, how could she complain?

  “We’re going to take the path up ahead and ride down to the beach,” he said, breaking into her thoughts. “Pull in behind me and follow. It’s an easy descent. Just go slow.”

  She nodded, doing as he said, and soon found herself guiding her horse onto the sand.

  The tide had gone out, leaving a wide stretch of beach on which they could ride. Gulls swooped and dived, then chose a wind current, banked, and flew back out to sea. The sun coiled through the weave of her sweater to warm her skin. The breeze tossed more curl into her hair.

  She laughed with delight. “It’s been years since I’ve been on a beach. This is wonderful.”

  A wide smile split his face. “Winter, summer, spring, or fall, if I’m at SwanSea, I have to come down here. There’s nothing like the enormity, the energy, the vast sweep of the ocean to put things into perspective for me.”

  She could understand his need for the solitude of the beach. She had seen for herself how weary he had been that first night he had arrived. The weight of responsibility on his shoulders was enormous. Uniquely qualified and able to carry that load of responsibility, he also needed times of rest and comfort.

  They rode a short distance, then with a glance over his shoulder to make sure she was with him.

  he reined his horse around an outjutting of the cliff and onto a deep but shorter stretch of beach.

  When she followed, she saw a shallow recess hollowed into the side of the cliff and, spread there, a large blanket with wicker baskets sitting on it.

  “A picnic?” she asked, amazed. “How did you manage it?”

  He eased back on the reins, pulled his horse to a stop, and dismounted. “You’re asking that? You with your undying faith in the staff?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re right. I don’t know how to explain it, except I obviously lost my mind there for a minute. I’m sure we even have a container of de-eyed black-eyed peas over there. What do you want to bet?”