Swansea Destiny

by Fayrene Preston

  "Jake, why did you ask the men to take my plane to the north meadow?"

  He cast one last glance at the ticker-tape machine, then dropped down into his desk chair. "Because it will be safer there than on the cliffs."

  "I saw the meadow," she said thoughtfully, "but I thought it would be more fun to land in back of the house along the cliffs."

  "Which is just what we're going to talk about."

  She looked at him in surprise. "We are?"

  She had his whole attention now, and his tone and expression were serious. "Do you have any idea how dangerous what you did was? If you had misjudged, even a little—"

  "But I didn't. I knew what I was doing."

  He held up a stern finger. "And that's another thing. I didn't even know you flew."

  "I guess the subject never came up," she said slowly, baffled by his attitude.

  "Well, now it has, and I don't want you flying anymore."

  "You don't—Jake, what is the matter? A lot of women fly their own planes."

  "Maybe. But that doesn't mean you have to."

  Suspicion crept into her mind. "Jake, have you ever flown?"

  "What has that got to do with anything?"

  "Have you?"

  "No, and I won't either. I don't consider it safe."

  She laughed. "They're talking of setting up coast-to-coast flights this summer. They wouldn't be doing that if they didn't consider flying safe."

  "They'll fly only during the day. At night the passengers would have to transfer to a train."

  "Still, that means someone in New York could reach Los Angeles in two days. Don't you think that's incredible?"

  "No, I don't."

  She viewed his disgruntled expression, trying to find some clue as to what was wrong, but in spite of their new intimacy, this morning he seemed more enigmatic than ever to her. She slipped down onto his lap and curled her arm around his neck. "Jake, what is it about flying that bothers you?"

  "The height," he said flatly. "Planes take you too high, and I don't like falling."

  "Have you ever had a bad fall?"

  "No, and I don't intend to either. Promise me you won't fly anymore."

  "But I love to fly. I've had the plane only a few months. My father gave it to me for Christmas, and he special-ordered the color to match my eyes."

  "Promise me, Arabella."

  The thought that he was concerned for her secretly thrilled her. On some level he did care for her. But at the same time, the idea of giving up something she enjoyed so much bothered her. "We'll see."

  His expression told her he wasn't going to be put off by her hedging. "Arabella, promise me."

  "I promise you that as long as we're together, I won't fly."

  Jake frowned and looked away, wondering why her promise didn't satisfy him.

  Jake sent a lazy smile down the long mahogany dining table to Arabella. "Are you happy now? We've come down to dinner just as you wanted." In spite of the great length of table that separated them and the radio that played softly, the immense dining room had perfect acoustics, and he didn't have to raise his voice to make himself heard.

  Arabella saluted him with her wine glass. "Yes, I'm happy now. We've had dinner in the bedroom every night for the past week." She had had dinner, she mentally corrected herself. He had watched her, using the excuse that he wasn't hungry just then. But she knew that more often than not, around two or three in the morning, he had the habit of going down to his study to work. She also knew, because she had made friends with the cook, that the very fine gentleman was also up at that hour, ready with an elegant meal for Jake.

  "I like having dinner in the bedroom. It's comfortable. Besides, in the bedroom I don't have to dress formally." With a wave of his hand he indicated his dark evening suit.

  She took a succulent bite of squab, noting with growing frustration and distress that though Jake occasionally cut a new potato or a piece of squab, he didn't eat. "Now that I've spent some time here, I understand SwanSea."

  "You understand SwanSea?"

  "Yes, and I've decided that dressing for dinner should be required here. SwanSea deserves it."

  "SwanSea deserves it…" He tilted his head, and his eyes narrowed on her. "You're a fascinating woman, Arabella. And I'm fascinated by my fascination with you."

  She smiled, unable to resist a little flirtation. "So you admit you find me fascinating."

  "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

  In the past, other men had lavished extravagant phrases of love on her, but their words had meant nothing to her. With Jake, though, she viewed each word as a precious jewel. On the radio a man and a woman were singing a duet of the lovely Gershwin tune "He Loves and She Loves."

  "Jake, I've been wondering about something."

  He gave up all pretense of eating and leaned back in his chair. "What's that?"

  "Why do you suppose Marlon sat us at opposite ends of the table like this?"

  "Because it's proper, and in spite of me and what he considers my highly improper activities, Marlon always tries to do what is proper."

  "I find that commendable," she said, standing up and kicking off her shoes.

  "Do you?" he asked, his interest heightening.

  "Yes." She climbed into the chair, then stepped up onto the table. "Because I also try to do what I consider proper. And I think it very proper for me to sit near my host."

  She walked down the gleaming mahogany table in her stocking feet, careful to skirt the grouping of candles in the center.

  Captivated, Jake watched her come toward him. Her dress was a pale peach-gold, sleeveless with a low, draped neckline and a back that scooped to the waist. The skirt had panels that floated out and changed hues with her every movement.

  She came down on the table before him, her body angled toward him, her legs to the side of her. "This is much better, don't you think?" she asked, moving his full plate from between them to by her legs.

  A small smile played around his mouth. "Yes, I think you're right." Automatically warmed by her nearness, he propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and cradled the side of his face with his hand. "Actually, I think it's much better."

  Casually, she forked a piece of squab and held it toward him.

  With a barely perceptible movement, he drew his head backward. "No, thank you."

  She picked the squab off the tines and lay down the fork, abandoning its use altogether. "I've been wondering something, Jake."

  His slight smile broadened. "Thank you for the warning. I'm prepared now. What have you been wondering, Arabella?"

  "I've been wondering if you would mind if I did a few things around the house."

  His black brows arched. "What are you talking about? You haven't developed a sudden desire to scrub floors, have you?"

  She brought the squab to her mouth, started to take a bite, then decided not to, but kept the small piece of meat close to her mouth. "Not exactly. But there are some things that I feel should be done."

  Jake stared at her mouth. Her lips were full and colored a pale coral. Starting in his loins, heat welled up in him. "Like what?"

  She absently brushed the piece of squab back and forth over her lips as if she had forgotten what she held. "Little things, nothing major. After all, this has been a bachelor residence for many years now." She took a dainty nibble from the end of the squab.

  "So?" he asked. She leaned toward him, revealing the fullness of her breasts. The heat reached his mind, clouding everything but her.

  "Don't be so nervous," she chided him softly. "I told you I wouldn't do anything major." She held the squab to his mouth, and he took it. Suppressing the thrill of victory she felt, she reached with her fingers for a spear of asparagus and idly twirled the green stalk through its sauce. She was playing a delicate game of watch me, want me, want this. It might be an underhanded way to go about it, but getting him to eat with her had become extremely important. He had closed others out of their life, at least for the present, m
aking what they had together private. Now she wanted him to go one step further and trust her.

  "For instance," she said, nibbling on the end of the asparagus, "there are no flowers in any of the rooms, and I know for a fact that you have a greenhouse that's bursting with flowers."

  "How do you know that?" he asked with a frown.

  "I've talked with Harold." She held the asparagus up to his mouth, and to her secret gratification he took a bite.

  "Who's Harold?" he asked chewing.

  "He's your head horticulturist."

  "Oh, that Harold." He paused to swallow several sips of wine from the crystal glass he found unexpectedly at his lips. "I thought he was in charge of the fruits and vegetables."

  "He is. But he's also in charge of the greenhouse flowers. In fact, they're his special passion."

  Passion. Yes, he thought. Absolutely. Totally absorbed in her, he chewed thoughtfully on yet another piece of squab she had given him. There was nothing about her he didn't like. She gratified all his senses. He loved watching her. He loved her funny little moods. And he got a tremendous kick out of her flair for life and her ability to live in the moment. He loved smelling her—when she climbed out of her bath, all fresh and dewy, or when she first awoke in the morning, drowsy and lazily sensual. But most especially he loved smelling her when her skin caught fire with passion. And he loved seeing her light up with laughter. Laughter became her… as did passion. "Perhaps we should take a tour of the greenhouse sometime."

  She smiled. "I've already seen it several times, but I'd be glad to go again with you." She offered him a section of a new potato.

  His eyes on the curve of her lips, he took it, lightly and deliberately grazing the end of her finger with the edge of his teeth. "Exactly when have you found time to take a tour of the estate?" He couldn't seem to keep the accusation from his voice. He found he wanted one hundred percent of her attention.

  "I haven't toured everything, just parts of it, but I can't stay in bed all the time, you know, and there are portions of the day when you go to your study…" She gently pushed another piece of squab into his mouth.

  Forced to pause for a moment to chew, he watched her. She was sipping from his wineglass, and each time she swallowed, delicate muscles rippled beneath her smooth neck. Inexplicably, the sight made him want to lay his mouth along her neck and feel the movement. His eyes dropped lower to the delectable slope of her beautiful breasts. "Arabella—"

  "What? Would you like some more wine?" She held the glass to his lips.

  And suddenly he realized what had just happened. He clamped his hand hard around her wrist and guided her hand until the wineglass was back on the table.

  "Jake? What's wrong?"

  Slowly he released her wrist as he intently searched her face for some clue that she intended harm. But her golden eyes were completely guileless, her expression bewildered and concerned… and vulnerable.

  His mind raced to grapple with the meaning of what had happened. She had fed him, and, even more boggling to him, he had allowed it. But then, if truth were known, he had been overwhelmingly captivated by her from the first.

  "Jake?"

  "I never eat in front of people."

  "I know," she said softly. "But then, I never used to awake before noon, and now I'm up with the sun." She paused, feeling the force of his wariness. Slowly so that she wouldn't startle him, she leaned forward and gently cupped his hard face between her hands. "It's all right, Jake. If you don't want to eat in front of me, it's all right."

  He stared at her, stunned. Without his being aware of what she was doing, she had gotten through his guard. He didn't know how she had done it or even why. But she had dared to reach out to him and touch him with a kind of intimacy that he had never felt before. And, he realized with sudden insight, the intimacy was important to her. There was a hurting inside of him that vaguely he identified as longing—a longing to explore and have more of this exceptional and rare kind of intimacy, a longing to have more of Arabella.

  Somewhere to the side of them, Marlon cleared his throat. "Dessert?"

  Slowly Arabella straightened away from Jake, but she didn't move from her position in front of him. "No."

  Marlon turned to go, but Jake unexpectedly raised his hand to stop him. "Yes."

  "Very good, sir." The majordomo placed two goblets of chocolate mousse by Arabella's legs with an aplomb that said the etiquette books were wrong to suggest dessert should be served any other place.

  His gaze fixed on Arabella, Jake said, "That will be all, Marlon."

  "Yes, sir." Marlon left, taking their dinner plates with him.

  Arabella eyed Jake uncertainly. "You want dessert?"

  He nodded, but before she could reach for the spoon, he skimmed a finger through the mousse and reached up to brush her lips with it. Then he leaned forward and kissed it off with a thoroughness that had her gasping.

  Jake couldn't remember ever tasting anything as delicious as the chocolate on her lips. He nibbled and licked, and when he could taste no more chocolate, he went after the sweetness that was Arabella's own. "There's no dessert on earth that tastes as good as you do," he muttered roughly against her mouth.

  He ended the kiss moments later only because he knew he wanted more. Her lips were swollen, and in her eyes he saw the same heat he was feeling deep inside.

  "Come here," he said, and pulled her to him. Then the panels of her skirt were floating upward as he brought her down onto his lap so that she straddled him. Her weight eased his ache for the moment, but the gut-wrenching desire that had so unexpectedly come up in him had made him very single-minded. "Never leave me," he whispered gruffly before he claimed her mouth once again.

  Arabella's head reeled at the hunger and strength of his kiss, but she recognized that there was a fierce storm of passion rising in him, and she was in the storm's center. Even if she could break free, she wouldn't. She was exactly where she wanted to be—in his head, in his arms, in his life.

  Maybe someday she might even be in his heart, but for now she was satisfied.

  Because of the deep back of the dress, she hadn't worn a camisole, and the bodice of her dress easily fell off her shoulders and was soon around her waist. With a groan his hand closed around her breast.

  Another ballad wafted, low and romantic, from the radio; candles flickered, sending out a soft golden light. But Arabella had lost touch with reality. Jake was her world; he always would be.

  She sighed and threw back her head, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat to his incendiary kisses. Tangling her fingers through his hair, she urged his head downward, and when he closed his mouth around the rigid, aching tip of her breast, she moaned and tightened her fingers in his hair. Beneath her she could feel the hard bulge of his sex, and she moved against him, seeking escape from the excruciatingly erotic pressure building between her legs.

  "Lord, you're fire," he said, his voice hoarse, his tone amazed.

  He freed himself, then reached between her legs and with a seemingly simple pull, ripped the seam that was keeping him from her.

  Holding the satin curves of her bottom in his palms, he surged upward into her until he was completely sheathed in the tight, hot velvet of her body. A primal growl rumbled deep in his throat, then his fingers tightened on her hips, and he began moving her on him, undertaking the almost superhuman responsibility of controlling both of their responses. He had an inclination of what would happen when he finally climaxed, and he wanted it to be just as fantastic for her.

  But heaven help him, she was like a wild thing, twisting and undulating against him, pleading and demanding. Her sweet utterances left him scorched inside and out, and he felt as if he were going to burst apart.

  Then he felt her stiffen, and her inner contractions begin. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders and arched away from him with a cry that burned into his mind. Then it was happening for him—powerful, primitive, and more magnificent than he could have ever imagined.

>   And he wrapped his arms around her and held tightly on to her, because at that very .moment, when he felt as if he were dying, he instinctively knew that Arabella was his only hope for life.

  In the days that followed, Jake stayed very close to Arabella, understanding for the first time how a person could become addicted to alcohol or drugs. She was an intoxicating experience that he couldn't seem to get enough of. And his need for her outweighed the danger of the addiction.

  Edward called almost daily, trying by threat and exhortation to get him to return to Boston. Jake turned a deaf ear. When friends accustomed to being welcomed at SwanSea phoned, they were told that the doors were closed to guests. When Randolph Bruce called, he was not so politely rebuffed.

  Winter was fading and spring was just around the corner. Arabella hastened spring along by throwing open the windows and bringing armloads of flowers in.

  Her laughter filled the big rooms, and she danced everywhere and on everything. She danced outside in the rain and inside on top of the tables and pianos. She danced on the grand staircase and on the bed. She danced with music and without. With one part of his mind Jake realized with slight alarm that she was dancing her way into his heart. With the other part of his mind he accepted it.

  By the time spring did arrive, new coats of paint decorated the walls. Chairs and couches that had been stained or had cigarette holes in their upholstery were covered with new fabric.

  And a strange thing was happening. With spring drifting by, with the redecoration, with Arabella with him, SwanSea was becoming more like a haven to him, more like a home.

  "I don't know what you're doing up there at SwanSea, but whatever it is, it can't be good!" Edward's voice bellowed through the telephone line from Boston.

  A muscle jerked in Jake's jaw. "Your faith in me means so much, Edward."

  "Yesterday an acquaintance of mine at the club asked me straight out if you were bootlegging. I denied it, of course."