Forever Instinct, The

by Delinsky, Barbara

  “Math,” she mused. “Interesting.” Then she frowned. “But how did you all get back together?”

  “At our tenth reunion. We discovered we still had a lot in common, including an itch to get away for a week now and then.” He laughed softly. “The first time we tried it, we went as couples to the Caribbean. None of the wives got along, and Bill’s girl was an absolute pariah.”

  Jordanna’s brows met in a sympathetic frown. “That’s a shame.”

  “No, it was great.” When her frown deepened in confusion, he explained. “What we really wanted, the guys, I mean, was a week away from everything – wives, girlfriends and kids as well as work. So we started planning trips like these.” He rocked back on his heels and rolled his eyes toward the darkening sky. “We’ve sailed in the Bahamas, skied in the Rockies, eaten our way through a cruise, lost our share in Las Vegas.”

  “But never backpacked before.”

  “Nope. Never that.”

  “How did you get hold of Patrick?”

  “We didn’t. Larry’s travel agent did. She knew that he took groups out from time to time and gave him a call. That was last spring.”

  “You booked him that early? You must all be football freaks.” Though she couldn’t quite hide the scorn in her voice, John attributed it to a typical female disdain for the sport. His response was indulgent.

  “As a matter of fact, one of our trips did combine four days in L.A. with the Super Bowl.”

  Her moan was not at all feigned. “Oh, God, then I’ll have to listen to shoptalk all week?”

  “No. That was a stipulation of Patrick’s before he’d be our guide.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He won’t discuss football. Apparently it’s a standard rule of his.” John grew more thoughtful. “I guess he’d had it by the time he retired.” He shook his head wistfully. “Man, he was some player.”

  She scowled. “They didn’t call him Lance for nothing.”

  “Mmm. He really shot that football down the field.” As though suddenly realizing that Jordanna knew more than she let on, John eyed her curiously. “You knew him. You know football.” When he paused, Jordanna held her breath. “Kirkland. You can’t be related to…?”

  There seemed no point in prevarication. Patrick had said it twice now; it was simply a matter of time until the others overheard. “Peter. I was married to him for three years. We’ve been divorced for ten.”

  “No kidding?” A broad smile split his face. “Hey, that’s great! Not the divorce part, I mean. But the marriage. You must have been with him during the best of his playing years! That’s exciting!”

  “Not really,” she stated. “As a matter of fact, it was pretty boring.”

  “You couldn’t have thought so if you married him.”

  She sighed and looked down. “You’re right. I didn’t at first. But I learned pretty quick how… ach, it’s not important.” She raised her eyes to focus on Patrick, who seemed busy around the stove. “We should give him a hand,” she mumbled, pushing herself to her feet. She had the fleeting image of jumping from the frying pan into the fire, but only knew that she had to let John know there were some things she wouldn’t discuss.

  Patrick looked up at her approach, his expression blank. It was a help.

  “What can I do?” she asked, rubbing her cold hands together.

  “You can dig the beef stew out of your pack. This water’s nearly boiling.”

  By the time she returned with the packets, the other men had gathered round to watch the proceedings.

  “You mean those little things are gonna fill us?” Donald asked, eyeing Jordanna’s booty with dismay.

  The small nearby lantern illumined Patrick’s smirk. “You’ll be filled. Believe me. I’ve allowed two portions for every man.”

  “Then we can divide up Jordanna’s extra?” Bill asked, grinning at what he thought to be irresistible cleverness.

  “Not on your life,” Jordanna responded. “I’m eating.”

  “You’ll get fat,” Larry cautioned.

  “Working as hard as you guys? No way.”

  Bill turned to Donald. “I think she should do the cooking. Woman’s work and all.”

  “No wonder you’re not married, Bill,” Jordanna scoffed. “No woman in this day and age will have you.”

  Larry gave half a guffaw, then gulped when Bill scowled at him.

  Patrick held up a hand. “Children. Please. Let’s try to restrain ourselves. Everyone chips in when it comes to cooking. John and Donald, go on up to the stream and fill the extra pots with water. We’ll put them on to heat while we’re eating so we’ll have something to clean up with later. Bill, I think the pudding’s in your pack. I’ll need it in a minute. Larry, you’ve got the plates and utensils. Jordanna, come over here and make the stew.” He frowned. “And don’t look at me like I’m the devil incarnate. You cook tonight and you’re done for the week. Fair?”

  The rebellion that was on the tip of her tongue instants before simply vanished. “Just tonight… then I’m done for the week?” she asked with a bargaining half smile.

  “Uh-oh,” Donald groaned, “she’s a bra burner. The executive woman. She hates to cook.”

  Donning her most beatific smile, Jordanna knelt beside Patrick. “You instruct. I’ll cook.”

  That was precisely what she did. Dinner was surprisingly good and decidedly filling. Patrick was patient, if all business, which pleased her no end. She’d begun to imagine that being near him for the week might be an ordeal above and beyond those memories she fought, but, during dinner at least, he treated her like one of the guys.

  Later that night, well, that was something else.

  EXHAUSTED, JORDANNA fell into a deep sleep shortly after dinner. Burrowing snugly into her sleeping bag in a far corner of the shelter, she was comfortably warm and dead to the world. The men talked and laughed, but she heard nothing until the middle of the night when, disturbed by an unexpected sound, she awoke with a start.

  It took her a minute to remember where she was. Groggy, she looked around, then sat up and studied the darkness. When the noise came again, her head jerked toward the vague forms on the opposite side of the shelter.

  Someone was snoring. She put a hand to her chest to still the thudding of her heart, then scowled and looked away. Peter had snored. More nights than she cared to recall she’d awoken to urge him onto his side. Then she’d lain awake for hours brooding, unable to fall back to sleep.

  So now she was suddenly wide awake. The snoring persisted, a deep, crescendoing shudder that grated as she sat. She tried to make out who it was, but couldn’t tell one sleeping bag from another in the dark – not that she would have been able to do anything had she known who the culprit was.

  Annoyed at having been awakened, she drew her down-covered knees to her chin and glared out at the woods beyond the shelter, then back into the shadows. As her eyes slowly adjusted she deciphered one sleeping bag set apart from the others, lying roughly halfway between hers and theirs. It had to be Patrick’s.

  At least he wasn’t the snorer, she mused, studying his dark cocooned form. Strange how he’d set himself there; perhaps not so strange in light of his job. He was the quarterback, calling the plays, ready to deal with any problem that might arise in the middle of the night. She gave a derisive snort. Perhaps he was afraid that one of the men might approach her. How touching. Her white knight, sound asleep.

  With lips pressed tightly together she struggled to her feet and, sleeping bag and all, shuffled from the shadowed shelter out into the pale moonlight. Only when she’d gone far enough to reduce the snoring to a dull hum did she stop. Sinking down inside the sleeping bag, she sat cross-legged on the ground, her back to the shelter, her eyes on the nightscape.

  Cast now in silver rather than gold, the woods were as beautiful as they’d been by day. She tipped her head back to study the branches overhead, then slowly returned her gaze to the ground. At a movement in the brush, she froze, w
atching wide-eyed when what appeared to be an opossum sauntered across her range of vision, leading with its pointed nose, trailing with its tail, disappearing into the woods with an indifference to her presence that she accepted with pure relief. Though adventurous, a physically active woman, she knew little about creatures of the wild. For an instant she wondered what else might wander about in the night – deer, fox, bears – then she quickly thought of Patrick and found solace knowing he was near. He seemed levelheaded and skilled when it came to the outdoor life; she admired him for that. Thoughts diverging, she also admired him for the ease with which he’d handled the group on this first day of the hike, for his deep, rich voice, for the firm tone of his body.…

  Her mind drifted and she was back in the Colosseum stands, eyes glued to the teams in formation at the five-yard line. The crowd roared on either side, but beyond its thunder, her sole concentration was on the quarterback whose hands were ready, awaiting the snap. He turned his head to one side then the other, shouting coded commands to his team. Then he had the ball and ran back to pass, his padded shoulders bunched and broad, his hips sleek and lean. Jordanna had always responded to seeing him that way. Poised on the brink of action, he was, in her mind, the quintessential male.

  Moments later, when, having failed to find a receiver, he’d barreled over the line to make the touchdown himself, he was lost to her. Arms raised in triumph, he’d belonged to the crowd, his adoring public and his own monumental ego.

  Shaking her head in an attempt to chase these unbidden images from her mind, she hugged herself more tightly. Peter had been physically magnificent, both on the field and off. Emotionally, intellectually – those were other matters.

  And what about Patrick? He was good-looking, she admitted reluctantly, too good-looking. And he affected her, which bothered her. She’d been unaffected by a man for years and had wanted it that way. Given the debacle of her marriage and the subsequent demands of the career she’d molded for herself, she had no time for men.

  Her physical response to Patrick surprised her. Even now she could recall the feel of his skin beneath her hand, and her palm tingled. Was she sex starved? Or simply a masochist? Did she have a thing for jocks?

  Moaning softly, she buried her face against her knees. Then she heard a footstep behind her and whirled to confront a dark form looming above. When she would have cried out in fright, a large hand clamped over her mouth. A long arm curved around her middle. Strong thighs lowered to frame her hips.

  “Shh. It’s just me.” The whisper faded. Slowly the hand from her mouth was withdrawn, fingers trailing across her lips in reluctant departure.

  “Patrick?” she whispered, twisting to look up into his moon-shadowed face, in doing so dragging her head to his shoulder. His arm remained around her sleeping bag in the vicinity of her waist.

  “Yes,” he whispered. “Are you all right?”

  Her pulse was racing. “You frightened me!”

  “I heard you get up. I thought you had to go to the… well, when you didn’t come back I got worried.”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered, but wondered if it were true. Her nerve ends continued to jump. She made no move to free herself from his embrace, though. It was surprisingly comfortable, not binding, yet warm and supportive.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  When she would have cast a glance toward the shelter, she found she couldn’t take her eyes from his. “One of the men was snoring.” The dim sound persisted. “It woke me up.”

  “Don’t like snoring?’ Given the lightness of his tone, she could have sworn he was teasing her.

  “No.”

  “Peter didn’t snore?”

  Not teasing. Goading. Straightening, she freed herself from his arm and inched forward on her bottom until she sat a solid foot away. She stared off into the woods. “Peter snored.”

  “And you didn’t like it.”

  “No.”

  For several moments there was silence. Then Patrick flipped to the side to sit on the ground by Jordanna’s hip, facing in the opposite direction. She didn’t look at him.

  “Why are you here, Jordanna?” he asked at last, his voice still low but now hard and direct.

  She knew he wasn’t talking about the woods in the middle of the night. “You’ve asked that before. It’s getting boring.”

  “I’d still like to know.”

  She did look at him then, but his profile was shadowed. “Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.” She spoke to herself as much as to him. There were far too many questions on her mind.

  His jaw flexed. She saw that much. “I’m not planning on dying just yet,” he stated softly but firmly. “I’ve fought too hard for too long. Which brings me back to my question. Why have you come?”

  She refused to be put on the defensive. “Why do you think I’ve come?”

  “It’s occurred to me,” he began without hesitation, “that you knew I’d be leading this group.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Shh!” He tossed a glance toward the shelter. “You’ll wake the others.”

  Though she lowered her voice to a whisper, her incredulity remained. “You think I came because of you?”

  “It’s been done.”

  She threw her head back vehemently. “Omigod, I don’t believe it! Another one! Pure ego!” Then she raised her head and stiffened her spine. “If I’d known you were going to be here, I’d never have come!” Her eyes flashed angrily, uncompromisingly.

  “You hate me.”

  “What?”

  He spoke more slowly, his eyes just as uncompromising in their hold on hers. “You hate me.”

  “I barely know you. How could I hate you?”

  “You were the one who pointed out that Peter and I were rivals.”

  “What’s that got to do with hate?”

  “You were his wife. It’d be natural for you to side with him.”

  “Peter never hated you.”

  “No,” he mused grimly. “I suppose you’re right. Since he always came out on top, he’d have no reason to hate.”

  “But you do?”

  “Hate? No. Resent… perhaps. It wasn’t pleasant playing second fiddle to Peter Kirkland all those years.… But we’re getting off the point.”

  “Which is?”

  “Why, in your words, you’d never have come on this trip if you’d known I’d be along.”

  With a deep breath, she squeezed her eyes shut and lowered her head to her knees once again. “To be blunt, Patrick,” she began, speaking slowly, as though with great effort, “I don’t need the memories.”

  “Ahh. You’ve sworn off jocks.”

  Her head shot up. He was goading her again. “I was never on jocks,” she stated ardently. “I was in love with Peter Kirkland, the man, not the jock.”

  “Could you separate the two?” he asked pointedly.

  Her whisper was less steady. “I thought I could. At first.”

  “But not in the end?”

  “We’re divorced. It’s over.” She turned her head away. “And none of your business.”

  Undaunted, he gave a magnanimous sigh. “Well, that’s a relief, at least.”

  “What is?” she murmured against the rim of her sleeping bag.

  “That you’re not into jocks. But you are into men?”

  She whirled around. “I can’t believe you said that.”

  “Why not? It’s a simple question.”

  “It’s crude.”

  “Like Bill. Ah, that’s right. I remind you of Bill.”

  He didn’t. Not in the least. And whether he was teasing or goading this time, she didn’t know. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why don’t you… go pick on someone your own size?”

  “I like your size better.” When she tried to rise, he shackled her arm through the bag and stayed her escape.

  “Go talk to one of the men,” she muttered.

  “They�
�re sleeping.”

  “Why aren’t you?”

  “Because you’re not. Because I heard you get up. Because I was worried. And curious.”

  He inched closer. She could see that his hair was mussed, that his jaw was tight, that his gaze had dropped to her lips. When again she tried to pull back, he swung around to much the same position he’d been in when he’d captured her.

  “Let me go, Lance,” she whispered, struggling to steady the suddenly erratic beat of her heart. He was behind her, his warmth blanketing her back, his arms circling her front, holding her more gently than she wished. For, had he been rough, she might have fought. But this gentleness, this warmth was strangely seductive. Or was it the night? Or the allure of the woods? Or the fact that it had been a long, long time since she’d been held by a man?

  “It’s Patrick, Jordanna,” he murmured against her hair. “Lance no longer exists; you needn’t fight memories with me. It’s Patrick. And he’s a man. And, damn it–” his voice lowered “–he does find you attractive.”

  When she should have been turned off by his begrudging admission, she was only further intrigued. Suddenly she wasn’t thinking of Lance or the past, but of Patrick and the way his firm man’s body seemed to shield her from all else. She was thinking of his chest, with its soft, dark hair, of his fingers, smelling faintly musky as they’d brushed her lips, of his eyes, deep brown and warm when he willed them so.

  Cupping her chin, he tipped her head to the side, resting it in the crook of his shoulder in an open spill of moonlight. His face mere inches away, he looked at her then, studying each of her features in turn as she lay, mesmerized, in his arms.

  “I was curious,” he began in a soul-stroking murmur, “about what it would be like to kiss you.”

  Only in that instant did Jordanna allow herself to admit that she was curious about the very same thing. Patrick Clayes was strong, eminently masculine, thoroughly appealing. When his head lowered by inches until his lips were a hair’s breadth from hers, she held her breath, waiting, waiting to see if the frisson of excitement shimmering through her veins was an illusion.

  It wasn’t. His mouth whispered a kiss first on one corner of her lips, then the other, and her heart beat faster. Having expected a more forceful approach, she was both startled and charmed by his gentle evasion. The excitement she’d felt was joined by a strange languor. Her limbs went weak. She closed her eyes to better savor every soft nuance of his touch.