A HOME FOR THE HUNTER

by Christine Rimmer

  Olivia straightened from the door and strode to the love seat.

  She sat. Then she cradled her chin in her hand and tapped her heels on the floor, lost in thought. Soon enough, the tapping began to irritate her. So she kicked the shoes across the room and tapped with her nyloned feet.

  The more she thought, the more she was positive that they couldn't go on like this. Something simply had to be done.

  Olivia stood. She swept into the bedroom, headed right for the big walk-in closet and dressing area off the bathroom where her suitcases were. There she began tossing clothes in the air from the maid's neatly stacked pile.

  Moments later she let out a triumphant little yelp.

  She held up her discovery, shaking it a few times to smooth it out. It was the merest wisp of red satin, with skinny little spaghetti straps and a back that dipped to display more than most women should ever reveal.

  Olivia bit her tongue, still thinking. There was a little robe to go with it, she knew there was.

  More clothing flew.

  And then she crowed again. "Aha!"

  With the wisps of satin and lace over her arm, she returned to the bedroom, where she set the lingerie out, with great care, on the bed. Right then, she realized she was going to need something to cover the skimpy outfit when she went to Jack's room. She grinned as she thought of her sable, which Constance always packed for her to take on trips, whether Olivia needed it or not. Tonight, at least, the sinfully expensive fur would come in handy.

  That settled, Olivia stared down at the short gown and robe for a time, her tongue caught between her teeth.

  She was thinking, What I am about to do is a conscious act. And I am a responsible woman.

  Though her hand shook a little, she picked up the phone anyway and pressed the button for the concierge.

  Twenty minutes later, there was a discreet knock. When she opened the door, a bellman wheeled in a cart bearing champagne on ice. He also handed her a small brown bag, which she quickly set on the cart next to the champagne.

  "Shall I open the champagne for you, madam?"

  "No, thanks." Olivia shoved an enormous tip at him and ushered him out the door.

  Then, right where she was standing, she unzipped the little black number she'd changed into before dinner and dropped it to the floor. Shedding underwear as she went, she marched to the bathroom where the big sunken tub and the scented bath oil were waiting.

  On another floor, in a room a good deal smaller than Olivia's suite, Jack was lying on the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes. His hands were laced behind his head. He was staring at the ceiling, thinking exactly what he thought every night lately.

  He was a rat. A creep. Lower than the lowest of the low.

  He should have found a way to tell Olivia everything by now, so he could do her the biggest favor he would ever do her: get out of her life.

  Both yesterday and the day before he'd awakened firm in his purpose: somehow, before they parted for the night, he would tell her who and what he was.

  But the moment he'd looked up from his morning paper and had seen her waiting a few feet away, her eyes glowing bright blue at the sight of him, he'd been done for. He'd known he would give anything for one more day.

  It was a minor miracle, as far as he was concerned, that he hadn't laid a hand on her.

  Or maybe it wasn't. Maybe, though he wanted her to the point of pain, he could bear the pain. As long as he could have one more day at her side.

  Somehow, the excuse he'd made for himself that first night had stuck with him. As long as he didn't put his hands on her, the lie he was living remained marginally acceptable.

  However, if he ever crossed that line, he would never be able to live with himself.

  But he wouldn't cross that line. He knew it. He could control himself—barely.

  And she would help him with her shyness and her inexperience. Because she was never going to push the issue, though he knew she felt the same longings he did. She simply wasn't the type of woman to become aggressive about something like sex.

  Jack shifted on the bed a little, feeling edgy and aroused. He closed his eyes.

  And there she was, on the back of his eyelids, smiling that innocently alluring smile of hers, holding up her lips in the shy hope of a kiss.

  He groaned, rolled to his side and tried to call up a few arousal-reducing images. But it did no good. His body, kept so strictly under control every moment he was with her, had to make its needs felt at some point. Now, deep in the night, was the only time.

  With a low moan of surrender, he allowed it to happen.

  Her image came before him, in the red dress of that first evening. He saw her just as she had looked when they'd stood facing each other on the street, the dress molded against her slim body by the wind; her hair, deep gold and fine as spun silk, blowing around her face, catching on her sweet lips, so that she had to put up a hand and brush it away.

  But in his fantasy they didn't stand on a street. They stood in some soft, private place, and the wind was warm, coming from some unknown source. In his fantasy nothing held him back. The last tattered shreds of his mangled integrity no longer clutched at him.

  He was free. To touch and to know. To fully possess.

  "Jack."

  Her voice was soft in his ear as he hovered at the edge of sleep. And the red dress was sliding from her pale shoulders, revealing her slender arms, the soft rise of her breasts, the luminescence of her skin—

  "Jack?"

  Someone was knocking. Though he hated to leave his sweet fantasy, he opened his eyes. "Jack?"

  Jack lay very still.

  "Jack, are you in there?"

  It was her. Olivia. Knocking at the door.

  "Jack, please."

  He sat up and rubbed at his eyes.

  "Jack?"

  "Coming!"

  He rolled off the bed, stumbled to the door and pulled it open.

  Only then did he realize the magnitude of his recklessness. Because she really was there. His dream come to life. And his defenses were most definitely down.

  All he could do was stare.

  Her gold-and-bronze hair was loose on her shoulders. Her pale skin gleamed. She was wrapped in a coat of shining sable that fell to midcalf.

  His stunned gaze strayed down the shapely bit of bare leg that could be seen beneath the hem of the fur coat. On her feet were a pair of slippers. Red backless slippers with open toes and high heels. Naughty slippers, designed purely to entice.

  He could smell her. A warm, sweet beguiling smell. Like the crushed and purified essence of ten thousand rare and fragrant flowers.

  In one hand, with commendable dexterity, she was managing to hold a bottle of champagne and two glasses. In the other hand she clutched a plain brown bag.

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  « ^ »

  Jack blinked owlishly at her.

  Olivia realized she'd caught him napping, though he still had on his clothes. Luckily she'd planned what her first words would be.

  "May I come in, darling?"

  He muttered something like "Ugh, Olivia."

  She decided she'd better take action before she lost her nerve. So, as alluringly as she could, Olivia swept into the room.

  "Why don't you close the door?" she asked, low and huskily, just the way she'd practiced it while she was sitting in the tub.

  Jack shut the door.

  Olivia turned again and took the few remaining steps to the small table and chairs in the corner by the room's one window. There, with great care, she set down the brown bag. That left one hand free to pry the two glasses from her nervously tight fingers. She did this slowly, so as not to drop the champagne. When the glasses were free, she set them on the table not far from the bag.

  That left both hands available to deal with the champagne.

  Swiftly and masterfully she peeled the foil from the bottle, unwrapped the wire and eased out the cork. It came free with a soft explos
ion that echoed nicely in the room. A trail of vapor rose into the air.

  It was expertly done. She congratulated herself, and her confidence rose a little. Opening champagne was something Olivia had always been good at.

  With a flourish she lifted one of the flutes, tipped it slightly and poured. When the glass was full and the bubbles danced upward inside, she held it out.

  "Champagne?"

  Jack said nothing.

  A slight feeling of hysteria rose inside Olivia. She was making a fool of herself.

  She cut off the treacherous thought. Trying her best for a seductive sway, she approached him. Then, forcing herself to look provocatively into his eyes, she took his hand and wrapped it around the flute.

  Olivia stepped back, keeping eye contact, making her lashes droop a little in a bedroom sort of way. Jack just went on staring.

  Panic clutched at her. She was positive she was making a fool of herself now.

  But it was too late to turn back.

  Doing her best to move languidly, Olivia backed up until her knees touched the bed. Very slowly she allowed her sable to drop from her shoulders. She caught it before it hit the floor and tossed it across one of the chairs at the table.

  Slowly Jack's gaze traveled from her head to her high-heeled red slippers and back up again. Once he'd looked her over thoroughly, he raised the glass to his lips and took a big gulp of champagne.

  Oh, Olivia thought desperately. This isn't going right at all.

  She said his name nervously. "Jack?" Jack didn't answer.

  Mostly because his throat was so dry it hurt. He took another swig of the champagne.

  "Jack?" she asked again. This time her voice cracked.

  Jack knew he should do something—say something. Anything. But the words just wouldn't come.

  He wanted to reach for her.

  But he couldn't do that.

  If he did, he would never be able to live with himself later.

  So what the hell was he going to do? The answer came. He had to tell her. Tonight. Right now.

  He couldn't live another moment this way, looking at her, wanting her and knowing he could never touch. It was time to bust this thing open, even though he knew it would be the end once she'd heard the truth.

  He knocked back the last of the champagne, set the empty glass on the television and forced himself to speak. "Olivia, I…"

  Olivia saw the pained look on his face and was certain she knew exactly what it meant.

  He did think she was ridiculous.

  And he was trying to find a way to let her down easy.

  Oh, it was all so clear to her now!

  The reason he'd never kissed her was the most obvious one. He didn't want to kiss her. He wasn't attracted to her at all. Of course he wasn't. Men like Jack were never attracted to wimpy little nothings like she was. He'd enjoyed her company and wanted to be friends. She'd misunderstood his motives from the first.

  Her skin, which had felt cold with her nervousness a moment ago, now flooded with mortified heat. And her eyes were burning, filling up with tears of humiliation.

  Oh, this was a thousand times worse than finding Cameron and Bree Haversham doing those shocking things on Cameron's cherrywood desk. At least then she'd been calm, dry-eyed and dignified. At least then, she'd been dressed!

  She glanced down in horror at her bare legs and the little points of her nipples that showed right through the satin and lace of her gown and skimpy robe, and then she glanced up again and into Jack's obsidian eyes.

  "Olivia…"

  The tears pressed, insistent, unstoppable, against her lower lids.

  She had to get out. Now. Before she suffered the final humiliation and sobbed like a baby right here in front of him.

  Where she found her voice, she had no idea. But somehow she managed to chirp out in a fractured soprano, "Er, um, excuse me. I see I've made a major error in judgment here. And I really must be on my way."

  She grabbed her coat, shoved her arms in it and clutched it close around herself. Then, lowering her head so she wouldn't have to see his face anymore, she aimed herself at the door.

  She didn't make it. He caught her arm.

  "Damn it, Olivia."

  "Let me go." She gave a jerk, but he held on without exerting any effort at all.

  "Listen—"

  "Please." The tears were rising, pushing to get out.

  "Olivia, don't."

  The tears started falling. She could feel them, tumbling over the weak dam of her lids and slipping down her cheeks. She bit back a sob just as he pulled her against his hard, warm chest. "Don't cry." His voice was husky against her ear.

  She struggled, moaning, as the tears kept falling. She knew they were staining his shirt. Her nose filled up.

  She sniffed. "Oh please. I'm so ridiculous. You must let me go."

  He didn't. Instead, he made soothing, gentle noises, and he continued to hold her close and sure against his body. "Come on, come on, it's okay."

  And suddenly, with a low wail, she was throwing her arms around him, holding him as close as he was holding her. "Oh, I'm such a fool. Such a nothing."

  "You're not. Don't say that. There, don't cry." Keeping her close, he took her to the side of the bed. "Come on. Sit down. It's okay. It's really okay."

  He sat and gently urged her to sit beside him, which she finally did. Then he reached for the box of tissues on the nightstand and offered them to her. She yanked out several.

  "Oh, Jack." She blew her nose. "I'm just not desirable to men."

  "That's bull—"

  "Don't. Please. Let me finish." It all came tumbling out then, between snorts at the tissues and a hiccup or two. "I thought you found me … that you wanted to, well, you know. But I can see now that it wasn't true. It's like Cameron said—"

  "Cameron." He repeated the name in a grim tone.

  She explained, "Cameron's my ex-fiancé."

  "I see."

  "No, you don't. You don't see at all. Because I've been lying to you, by not telling you."

  "Telling me what?"

  "Oh, Jack."

  "Telling me what?" he repeated, relentlessly gentle.

  She dragged in a breath. "Telling you the truth."

  "And what is the truth?"

  She made herself say it. "That the real reason I came here to Las Vegas was because I caught my fiancé—my ex-fiancé now—with another woman. In flagrante delicto, or however they say that. Making love. Having sex, you know what I mean?"

  Jack made another of those understanding noises. He was stroking her back through the soft fur of her coat.

  Olivia sagged against him, resting her head in the hollow of his shoulder. She sighed, swiped at her nose with a tissue again and then forced herself to go on.

  "I caught him with his associate, Bree Haversham. On his desk. Can you believe it? His desk. And that's when he told me that I was a cold fish when it came to sex and what did I care if he made love with some other woman, since it was obvious that I hadn't any interest or ability in that department, anyway?" She let out a frantic little wail. "He actually said that to me, while Bree was trying to find her panty hose and button up her blouse. He stood there with his, um … not zipped up, and he told me that I was a terrible lover and should go home and think about how if I didn't marry him, what else was I going to do with my pointless little life."

  Jack muttered something crude about Cameron under his breath.

  "Oh, Jack. It was horrible." She cuddled up closer against his side.

  He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her back some more. "Is that all?"

  She sniffed a little, then confessed, "No, it isn't."

  "What else?"

  "Well, first of all, Cameron was pretty much right." She could feel him tense beside her and knew he was going to say that wasn't so. "No. Wait. Don't defend me. Let me finish." She gave out a shaky little sigh. "I really am lousy in bed. The two times I made love with Cameron were, well, they were grim, Jack. R
eally grim."

  "That doesn't mean—"

  "Shh." She patted his hand, which was wrapped around her shoulder. "Let me get this out. I mean it. I just want to get it all out. Okay?"

  He made a low noise of agreement.

  She drew in a few breaths and rubbed at her nose with the tissue again. "Thanks. Anyway, I'm lousy in bed. And I was going to marry Cameron, a man I didn't really even love, for exactly the reason he said. Because my life is pointless. And I thought that maybe by marrying and settling down with someone dependable, I could make my life more meaningful. Although, as it turned out, Cameron wasn't as dependable as I'd thought."

  "Not by a long shot," Jack muttered.

  "Oh, Jack. I only ever wanted to do one thing. To cook. I love to cook. I'm a trained chef. But I let my father talk me out of doing what I wanted to do. I went to work for him in this stupid figurehead job at Larrabee Brewing that means nothing to me or to the company. It's a pointless job in a pointless life."

  Her hand was lying on his thigh. He took it in his, weaving their fingers together, and then lifting it to his lips for a light, comforting kiss. "Anything more?"

  "Yes."

  "What?" He gave her hand a squeeze, but didn't let go of it.

  She held on tight, glad for the contact. "The worst part of all."

  "Yeah?"

  "My father."

  "What about him?"

  "What he did, when he heard what had happened with Cameron."

  "What did he do?"

  "He … he came to my beach house and said he'd fire Cameron. Cameron is president of sales for Larrabee Brewing, and he's the best salesman my father's ever had. But just like that, my father was going to fire him. I didn't want my father firing anyone for my sake, especially not the best salesman he's ever had. And then, right on top of telling me he was firing Cameron, my father said that he'd find me someone new and better in no time."

  She pulled away enough to capture Jack's glance. "Can you believe it? My father actually said he'd find me someone new. Like a fiancé was a dress or a piece of furniture, something I could return for a refund if I wasn't satisfied. And the scary thing, the really terrifying thing is, it could happen. I could live the rest of my life in the house my father gave me, working in the job he made up for me, married to the man he bought for me."