Forever Instinct, The

by Delinsky, Barbara

  Patrick was undaunted by her not-so-subtle accusation. “I’d like to think that anyone we decide to back is far superior to the rest of the field. It’s my money and my partners’ and that of the investors we corral to join us. But–” he gestured dismissively “–it’s not only the money we put up. It’s the working together. The management. That’s where the real challenge comes in.”

  She eyed him warily. “It does excite you, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I suppose you do it well.”

  “I hope so. I’d like to believe that much is part of my personality,” he said gently. “It’s the competitive instinct. Football or business – I wouldn’t do it at all if I couldn’t do it well.”

  Nodding, she sat back to munch on the cashews he handed her. A fast glance at the other men was enough to assure her that she and Patrick had privacy of sorts. “You’ve never married?”

  “The same theory applies. I refuse to do it if I can’t do it well.” He gave a lopsided grin. “I’ve never found the woman who, shall we say, inspired that forever instinct.” Shifting and stretching out on the ground, he pillowed his head with his hands and closed his eyes.

  Jordanna’s gaze raked his supine form. Long, well-formed legs lay beneath denim made soft and supple by wear. The broad chest she’d so admired pulled his navy turtleneck taut; both were framed by the open zipper of his Goretex shell. His cheeks were lean and clean shaven, a far cry from the day’s stubble sported by the four other men. His hair was thick and full, clipped close only at the sideburns and neck. Long, dark lashes dusted cheekbones that were high, strong and tanned.

  Clamping her eyes shut against the involuntary flutter in her middle, she slowly settled onto her back to follow his lead and absorb the sun’s warm noontime rays. Only with the passage of several moments did she open one eye to steal another look.

  Patrick was waiting for her. He rolled to his stomach, bringing himself within inches of her. “I wondered if you were falling asleep,” he murmured. “You look tired.”

  Tipping her head more fully his way, she opened the other eye. “I seem to have had a minimum of sleep the past two nights.”

  “Two? Then there was a wild farewell Sunday night with a special someone?”

  Her smile was soft. “Not quite. I was up late cramming for this trip.”

  “Cramming?”

  “Reading everything I could about backpacking. Thank heavens for bookstores open on Sundays.”

  He returned her smile with one that was heart-stoppingly gentle. “You’re quite something, ya know that?”

  “Not really,” she said, and meant it. Though she was proud of what she’d made of her life, she was far from cocky. And she’d never before found a man confident enough to compliment her with such honest admiration.

  “You’re blushing. It’s pretty.” At his whisper-soft words her color rose all the more. “You’ve aged beautifully, Jordanna. I swear you look even better than you did when you were with Peter, and you were gorgeous then. How old are you? Thirty? Thirty-one?”

  Enjoying his attention, she propped her ear on her palm. “Thirty-two.”

  “You married young.”

  “I was nineteen and dumb.” Her grin took the sting from her words. Patrick lifted a finger to trace its soft curve.

  “Funny, our meeting this way… you and I, away from all that.…”

  She nipped at the tip of his finger. “It is funny.”

  “You’re a great kisser.”

  “So are you.”

  His lips twitched playfully. “But it’d be really dumb if we got involved with each other.”

  Her eyes glowed a seductive amber-in-hazel. “I’ll say.”

  “How about a fling? You know, a three-night stand with sleeping bags zipped together?”

  She winced and hoarsely whispered his name, drawing out both syllables. “Pat-rick! With them?” The grimace she tossed toward the others was comical.

  “Of course not,” he whispered back. “I could drag you by the hair into the woods–”

  “Caveman tactics, hmm?”

  “If need be. You turn me on, Jordanna.”

  “The feeling’s mutual.”

  “But dumb.”

  “Really dumb.”

  He sighed then, a long, slightly wavering exercise of the lungs. “We’ll have to try to remember that,” he croaked. Then he cleared his throat, pushed himself up and raised his voice to call to the others. “Okay. Let’s clean up this mess and get going. As the man said, we’ve got miles to go before we sleep.…”

  THE AFTERNOON’S TREK was as rugged as the morning’s. With much panting they reached the summit of Mount Meader, then wound down along the Meader Ridge Trail. One spectacular view followed the next – narrow ridges playing up distant mountain ranges, contortions of rock where long-gone glaciers had carved out the landscape, spruce-covered hillsides, craggy ravines. Larry had a field day with his camera. The others enjoyed each pause to make mental pictures of the sights.

  Seeming to have accepted her presence, the men included Jordanna in their talk from time to time. She came to realize that complaining was part of their fun. In truth they enjoyed the hike and its views as much as she did.

  On the more tedious stretches of the trail, they walked in silence. Part of the path was boggy. Much of it now was downhill. As a runner, Jordanna knew the perils of the downhill trek. When Larry and Donald in tandem cursed their quads, she smiled knowingly.

  They stopped for a break in the middle of the afternoon, then followed an old logging road through a forest of white birch. At last they reached Wild River.

  “This is it?” Bill gawked in dismay.

  Jordanna joined the men to stare at the dark bed of mossy rocks. “It is wild, isn’t it?” she quipped, surprising herself with her own good humor when her shoulders, her back, her legs ached.

  “We’re upstream from the water,” Patrick explained. “Come on. Campsite’s not too far ahead.”

  By the time they reached the dry, flat area he had in mind, Jordanna was as happy as the others to shed her pack for the night. There was no formal shelter this time, simply an abundance of woods surrounding an open area with a rough circle of stones for a fire.

  As had happened the day before when the sun set, the air grew rapidly cold. Sweat that had gathered during the trek dried. Jackets were momentarily shed for the donning of additional layers beneath.

  Under Patrick’s patient tutelage, the tents they’d carried were unfurled, erected and anchored. As Jordanna did her share of the work, so she did her share of speculation. Three two-man tents. Interesting. By the time she stood admiring one such finished product, the other two tents were spoken for. She looked at Patrick. He looked at her. Then, with mirrored shrugs and the faintest tugging of smiles, they tossed their packs to the front of the one remaining tent and turned with relish to the prospect of a hot dinner.

  As had happened the night before, Jordanna’s eyelids began to droop long before she finished the coffee in her mug. The men had begun to play poker. Excusing herself as unobtrusively as she could, she crawled into the tent, stripped down to her long underwear, climbed into her sleeping bag and fell promptly asleep.

  This time it wasn’t snoring that woke her, but a pair of warm male lips caressing her brow.

  THE SENSATION WAS PLEASURABLE, one of a delicious warmth in contrast to the cold night air. For long moments Jordanna succumbed to its allure, smiling in the state of half sleep from which she had no desire to emerge. She didn’t want to think, didn’t want to analyze the source of such simple bliss. Wakefulness was her enemy. But it could only be held off so long.

  “Patrick,” she murmured sleepily, “what are you doing?”

  “Warming my lips,” he breathed against her eyes. “It’s damn cold out there.”

  “Not much better in here. My nose is freezing.”

  Instantly his warmth touched the afflicted feature. “Better?” he whispered, his breath
coffee scented and very, very close.

  Her eyelids flickered. Withdrawing a hand from its shelter deep inside her sleeping bag, she felt for his jaw. It moved slowly beneath her palm as he breathed soft kisses from the tip of her nose to its bridge.

  “Funny, you don’t feel cold,” she mumbled, her grogginess dissipating by the second. His cheek was warm, as was his brow and, her fingers discovered when they slid into the thickness of his hair, his scalp. Moreover, his very nearness sent a wild shaft of heat through her body.

  Suddenly she was wide awake… and aware of the folly of letting him kiss her further. Clutching a handful of his hair, she drew his head back. “Isn’t there a law against this?”

  “Against what?” he asked, his low voice the embodiment of innocence.

  “Messing with the clientele.”

  “I love messing with the clientele.”

  Her fingers tightened. “You do this all the time?”

  He twisted his head to alleviate the pain of her grip. “Ahh. Ease up.” When she did, he rubbed the offended spot and spoke gruffly. “Of course I don’t. What do you take me for?”

  “I could take you for the same kind of rutting stallion Peter was,” she said without thinking, then regretted it moments later when Patrick came down full length on top of her, pinning her body to the ground, her hand to the corner of the sleeping bag by her shoulder.

  “I’m not Peter, Jordanna,” he said in a dangerously low voice, then repeated it again very slowly and with feeling. “I’m not Peter. We may have shared a profession, a playing field on occasion, a podium from time to time and any amount of newsprint, but that’s where the association ends.” His grip tightened on her wrist. Even in the dark his eyes held hers, which were wide and stunned by the force of his reaction to her careless barb. “I don’t know what kind of husband he was, or lover, and I don’t give a damn. I do know that he was loud and brash and had a corner on the market for conceit–”

  “Hey!” A muffled shout from without broke into his harangue. “What’s going on over there!”

  It was joined by a second, aimed snidely at the first. “What do you think’s going on?”

  And a third, more indulgently. “They’re talking football. Let them be.”

  “But I’m trying to sleep,” complained the first.

  “Could’ve fooled me,” grumbled his tent mate. “You’ve been thrashing all over the–”

  “Damn tent’s too small!”

  “Shut up, all of you,” came the fourth, last but not least. “You’re making more noise than the lovers!”

  Jordanna could contain herself no longer. “Lovers?” she cried indignantly. “Lovers? Are you all mad?”

  Patrick’s fingers sealed her lips as he raised his head to address the shrouded night. “You guys better get some sleep. Jordanna and I just had a minor disagreement. We’ll keep it down.”

  There were several vague grunts, followed by silence. Jordanna held her breath, abundantly aware of Patrick’s hard length pressing her to the ground. Even the padding of her sleeping bag seemed insignificant against his commanding form. She had mixed feelings when he rolled onto his back atop his own sleeping bag.

  The silence was thick, the tent suddenly minuscule. Jordanna listened to the sound of Patrick’s breathing and wondered what had happened to those other sounds of the night. There seemed no breeze, no stirring of woodland creatures across the carpet of dried leaves, no distant trickle of the stream. Only Patrick. Breathing far more steadily, she cursed silently, than was she.

  Unable to stand the kind of suspense that hung in the air, she turned her head in his direction. “Pat?” she whispered.

  When at last he gave a quiet, “Mmm?”, she breathed a sigh of relief. She knew he wasn’t asleep, but she wasn’t sure whether he’d admit it.

  “Pat, I’m sorry.” The simplest part of what she had to say came fast. Now she began to struggle for the right words. “I… well… I didn’t mean to compare you with Peter. It… it kind of came out all by itself.” She looked toward the roof of the tent, then threw an arm across her eyes. When Patrick remained silent she realized he wasn’t going to help her. She stumbled on. “I really… I really haven’t been with that many men. I mean, I don’t sleep around and I guess you make me… feel vulnerable.…” She swore softly and turned onto her side away from him. Scowling into the darkness, she wondered how she’d managed to make such a mess of something so small. What had he said – that he loved messing with the clientele? Of course he’d been teasing her. Of course?

  “I was only teasing,” he whispered as if on cue. With a sudden movement, he reached out and slid an arm beneath her to roll her back toward him. Jordanna’s initial resistance owed more to the strangeness of the intimacy than to genuine reluctance; after several seconds, she relaxed against his supine form, letting her cheek rest in the crook of his shoulder while his arm held her fast. “Not all men bed-hop, Jordanna. There are those of us who are somewhat fastidious. It’s as intimate, as private, as special an act for me as it is for you, you know.”

  She hadn’t thought about it that way and now that she did, particularly hearing the words on Patrick’s lips, she felt a shimmer of electricity sear her in passing. In part to fight that unbidden awareness, she resorted to gentle mockery. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a virgin?”

  His chuckle was priceless and worth the risk she’d taken that his good humor had returned. “Not quite. But I don’t sleep around either. I may never have married, but I’ve been lucky enough to have had some truly fine relationships with women. I’ve learned from them. I’ve learned a lot.” He slanted his head down; his lips brushed her brow as he spoke. “Among other things, I’ve learned that respect is critical to any meaningful relationship. Self-respect, as well as respect for one’s partner. No, Jordanna, I don’t mess around with the clientele.” His already low voice dropped to a nearly inaudible level. “At least, I never have before.…”

  “I heard that,” Jordanna whispered through a gentle smile. “And thank you for saying it. It’s a relief to know that I’m not the only one acting out of character.”

  Again came the chuckle that tickled her pink. “Not by a long shot, angel.” His arm tightened momentarily around her. “Must be something about this backwoods air that plays havoc with the hormones.”

  “Guess so,” she murmured softly, then moved her hand along his chest. Above the waist, he wore nothing more than a thermal shirt like hers, but she was further bundled in her sleeping bag. “You must be freezing!” she exclaimed, moving her hand in a larger arc. “Don’t you want to get into your sleeping bag?”

  “Not… particularly.”

  “Why not?”

  Again his breath played against her brow. “Because that’ll be one more layer between us. Your sleeping bag’s bad enough.” Shifting deftly onto his side, he brought his face opposite hers. “Let’s zip them together. Come on. What do you say?”

  Jordanna’s shiver was not from the cold. “I say that we’d be crazy to do that.”

  “We’d be warm.”

  “Too warm.”

  “Listen,” he began, reaching out through the darkness to stroke her hair with an ease that belied the urgency in his voice, “I know you’re not loose. And I know I’m not either. But, damn it, something’s happening here. I take one look at you and – bam – I forget who we are, where we are, and the only thing I want to do is to take you in my arms and.…”

  “And?”

  “Make love to you.”

  Jordanna’s insides quivered. She couldn’t deny anything Patrick said, for her body clamored likewise. Unable to help herself, she placed her fingers against his lips, ostensibly stilling him while in reality very slowly exploring his lips in the way of the blind. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Pat. They’re nearly irresistible.”

  “They’re meant to be,” he whispered without remorse. “So, how about it? Should we warm each other?”

  “No.”


  “Mmm.” With a soulful sigh, he released her. “Dumb.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  For long moments they lay in silence. Finally, Patrick raised himself enough to slide into his sleeping bag. It seemed forever until he made himself comfortable and lay still. “Damn tent,” he muttered, squirming again. “Whose brilliant idea was it to sleep here?”

  “Yours.”

  He cleared his throat. “Right.”

  Again they said nothing for a stretch. Jordanna was so acutely aware of the body next to hers that she had to concentrate on breathing steadily. Patrick turned away onto his side, lay there for several minutes, then flipped back.

  “I can’t sleep,” he announced, sounding so much like a little boy that Jordanna couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Of course you can’t. You must be running plays over and over in your mind.”

  “I am not running plays.”

  “Then why don’t you try lying still?”

  “I’m trying. I’m trying. It’s all your fault, you know.”

  “My fault?”

  “I can’t sleep with you lying so close.”

  “What would you like me to do? Move outside.”

  “No. Move over.”

  “There’s no room!”

  “That’s the point.” Suddenly he was up on an elbow. Though Jordanna couldn’t see a thing in the dark, she felt his every move. “How about a goodnight kiss.”

  She tipped her head his way. “What good’ll that do?”

  “It’ll settle me down.”

  She laughed again. “I think your reasoning’s screwed up.”

  “No, no,” he returned earnestly. “I keep wondering if it’ll be as good the second time round. If it’s not, I’ll be cured.”

  “And if it is? Then what?”

  “Maybe I’ll get it out of my system.”

  “You’re a dreamer, Patrick Clayes.”

  He thought about that for a minute. “Mmm. I suppose so. How about you? Do you dream?”

  “On occasion.”

  “About what?”

  “Now you’re really getting personal.”

  “Come on. Tell me. What do you dream about?”