An Act of Love

by Brooke Hastings

  "I'll have to try harder, then," he said. His hand began to caress her intimately, stroking and arousing until she couldn't think straight. And this time when his mouth returned to toy with her lips she parted them to invite his kiss. His tongue skillfully probed her mouth even as his fingers gently probed her body. With a moan of surrender Randy's arms went around Luke's waist and she kissed him back, her tongue tasting and exploring in response to his.

  Luke turned her onto her side, one hand splayed firmly against her lower back to hold her close against his hardened length, and continued to kiss her. The feel of his body destroyed her little remaining control. She clutched him almost frantically, her nails digging into his skin, and eagerly followed the dominating thrusts of his body. When he pushed her onto her back again and gently eased himself on top of her, she murmured his name and sought his lips.

  A hard leg slid between her thighs, parting them, and Luke whispered into her ear, "Should we finish what we started?"

  Randy wanted nothing more. "Yes—Luke…" she moaned softly, seeking his mouth again.

  "You're sure?"

  How could he even ask? "Yes—please…" she whispered.

  "Good." The word was clipped and self-satisfied. The next moment Luke was pulling away, rolling off and sitting on the edge of the bed. He stretched and yawned, saying to a stunned Randy, "You're right, Linda. It's been a long day and my company bores you. So go to bed."

  "You—you can't really want me to go," Randy protested. She'd felt the hunger in him, perhaps not as great as her own, but urgent nonetheless. "You still want me. Don't tell me you don't."

  "Physically, yes," Luke admitted coldly. "But emotionally, never. Why should I bother with a tramp like you? Get out of here."

  A chill ran through Randy's body and she shivered convulsively. Without another word she got up from the bed, walked out of the room and returned to her own room, closing her door gently behind her. Although rationally she understood that Luke's contempt was reserved for Linda, emotionally she felt horribly rejected. Still naked, huddled under the covers, she shut her eyes tightly and refused to let herself cry. Deep inside she felt that she'd acted like the tramp Luke had labeled her. She'd wanted him and there was no use pretending that she hadn't; she'd knelt in front of that fire, well aware that her actions would provoke him.

  By now Randy had a pounding, one-sided headache and a bad case of self-flagellation. Why did she want to go to bed with men who didn't love her?

  When she heard Luke's door open she went rigid with alarm, but he passed by her room and continued out of the cabin. Alone now, she started to cry. A slightly ridiculous adventure was becoming increasingly traumatic for her. If venturing into the virgin forest of Maine hadn't been virtual suicide, she would even have tried to walk her way out.

  Despite his highly charged emotional state, Luke Griffin was not so totally irrational that he couldn't recognize that he'd been acting like a bloody maniac for the last two days. If he'd behaved anything like this in the office Bill Dunne would have handed him a oneway ticket back to California and breathed a sigh of relief. Who but a dyed-in-the-wool masochist, for example, would throw a passionate, desirable woman out of bed, and all for the sake of proving a point?

  So she'd teased him earlier in the day and aroused his temper… so he was angry over her affair with Tom and baffled by a lifestyle that exceeded liberation by a substantial degree… so he'd pompously threatened to leave her aching for him and would have looked like a fool if he hadn't carried out the threat. Did any of that compensate for the fact that he was one big frustrated ache by now?

  Luke zipped up his jacket and headed for his plane, lighting a cigarette as he walked. He smoked very little, but another few days in Maine and he'd be going through a pack a day. Admit you've wanted her almost from the beginning, he told himself—and maybe even since the first time you laid eyes on a ten-year-old photograph of her. You could have talked to her in Cambridge but you didn't. Instead you came up with this half-witted scheme to haul her off to Maine.

  He'd told himself that he'd wanted to make her forget Tom. He'd figured that the right combination of bullying and charm would accomplish that. A woman like Linda Franck, he reasoned, equated gentleness and concern with weakness. First he had to make it clear that he was the boss, and then he could concentrate on seducing her. He'd expected more of a fight about the cooking and the wood and had purposely provoked her about carrying the latter, but he hadn't expected her to stand there with her arms crossed, calmly and firmly standing up to him. She'd looked so desirable that he'd wanted to pull her down to the ground and make love to her on the spot.

  All in all, he thought as he swung himself into the pilot's seat, it just didn't add up. He'd expected her to be hard-boiled and instead she showed flashes of vulnerability. He'd felt like a complete heel when she'd staggered in before dinner, looking like a half-drowned rat. He'd expected her to be spoiled and instead she was cooperative. She was a quick, interested listener who had him telling her the story of his life without his intending to, and fresh and eager in bed rather than jaded, as he'd expected. If he hadn't known better he might even have believed that he'd kidnapped the wrong sister.

  But that, of course, was impossible. To believe she was Miranda would have been to believe an incredibly convoluted series of explanations. But even more than that, the one thing company gossip had told him about Miranda Dunne was that she'd never had a lover and, in fact, was rather young for her age. The woman he'd held and caressed was a confident seductress who had wanted him and shown it.

  So where did that leave him? He was infatuated with a woman he couldn't really respect and half-crazy to make love to a woman he could never cherish. After spending a restless night on Friday he'd been downright grumpy the next morning, but he had the feeling that after tonight he'd be totally impossible. He was tempted to go back inside and make love to her, but he knew that she wouldn't let him near her until he apologized. And he wasn't about to do that.

  Chapter Five

  If there had been any way to avoid getting out of bed on Sunday morning Randy would have taken advantage of it. Though her headache was a bit better and her energy level was higher, her opinion of herself was just about the same and her embarrassment had increased. The only new emotion she felt was a healthy anger with Luke Griffin. She didn't really care what he thought of Linda Franck—a gentleman didn't call a woman names and then sadistically leave her hanging. But then, she admitted to herself, given Luke's background there was no reason to expect him to behave like a gentleman.

  She'd lain in bed for what seemed like hours waiting for him to come in and order her to make him breakfast when it finally occurred to her that the cabin was strangely quiet. Footsteps, doors slamming, running water, Luke stoking the fire—all of these familiar sounds were absent. Shivering, she pulled on a robe and peeked out the door, but saw only a dying fire. The living room was almost as cold as her bedroom.

  Panic rose in her throat, sending her dashing into Luke's room. His suitcase was sitting reassuringly on the dresser and he'd left a pair of running shoes on the floor near the foot of his bed. The irony of her feelings quickly struck her—she didn't want to face him but the thought that he might have abandoned her had terrified her. Shaking her head, she went into the living room and stoked the fire, adding two more logs.

  Randy wasn't particularly hungry, but knew that some toast and tea would probably settle her stomach, which felt a little queasy. A couple of aspirin tablets might even deal with the headache. As she approached the kitchen area she noticed a note held to the refrigerator by means of a magnet shaped like an ice cream cone.

  Judging from the scrawled handwriting, Luke Griffin had either repeatedly flunked penmanship or else had left the cabin rather hurriedly. Randy took it off and stared at it, trying to decipher the words.

  "Gone for a ride," it read. "Back in a few hours. L. P.S. Removed all the knives from the cabin just in case. Figure if you used one on me it w
ould be justifiable homicide."

  There was no way Randy could stay angry with a man who left her a note like that. In two brief sentences he'd managed to convey not only regret, but also the notion that he'd acted like a total cad. While the note didn't alter Randy's opinion of her own behavior it somehow made her feel better. And a check of the drawers revealed that he hadn't taken the knives at all.

  She picked up a magazine after she finished eating, but six-month-old accounts of football games and golf tournaments failed to hold her interest. She supposed that she was just too restless to read and thought about taking a walk instead, but yesterday's battle with the woods had left her less than eager for a rematch. That left the floor. At least, she decided, it would keep her busy.

  An hour and a half later she was beginning to wonder if cleaning the floor wasn't a way of punishing herself for her sins of the night before. The combination cleaner/wax that she'd found under the sink had a chemical odor thinly disguised by lemon that made her stomach rebel still further. Crawling around on hands and knees with a bunch of rags wasn't the wisest activity in the world when one was tired to begin with, and moving around bulky furniture and heavy rugs was a job for either a two-hundred-pound man or an Amazon, but not for Randy Dunne.

  She only finished because there wasn't that much of the floor left to do, but paid a heavy price for her compulsiveness. By the time she went into the bedroom to lie down her head was throbbing all over again and her nausea was even worse. The wax she'd applied was the type that had to be buffed, but she certainly couldn't do that now.

  It was obvious, however, that she'd have plenty of time to do it later. If Luke hadn't taken her home this morning, he clearly meant to keep her at least another night. Lying on the bed, Randy tried to figure out just why he was delaying. Did he want to keep her away from Tom? Teach her some kind of lesson? Take her to bed despite the rejection of last night?

  At least, she thought with a grimace, she didn't have to worry about being tempted by the third possibility. Her headache and upset stomach had been joined by a strange kind of dizziness, making her feel about as sick as she'd ever felt in her life. She wished she could fall asleep—it would provide escape from the pain.

  It was the unusual noise that woke Randy up, a soft, rhythmic sound that she eventually identified as cloth rubbing against wood—Luke buffing the floor. She automatically started to sit up, but a wave of nausea hit her with such force that she had to lie back down again. She waited for it to ease, then gingerly tried again. This time she succeeded, propping herself against a pillow, not knowing what to do and consequently doing nothing.

  The obvious course of action was to talk to Luke about her symptoms. After all, he did have some medical experience. Randy remembered how he'd bandaged her thumb, then later, in the woods, helped her when she'd become breathless and dizzy. Someone else's suffering seemed to bring out the best in him, which made the thought of approaching him less embarrassing.

  He was sitting in a chair drinking a soda when she slowly walked out of the bedroom. About half the floor was finished and it looked very nice. "Luke," she said hoarsely, "I don't feel very well. My stomach…"

  He stood up. "Lie down on the couch. Let me take a look."

  Randy nodded, easing herself onto her back. When Luke sat down by her waist and reached out to unsnap her jeans she instinctively flinched, thinking of the way he'd touched her the night before. His jaw clenched as he quickly glanced at her, but neither of them said a word.

  He slid down the zipper and started to examine her, his fingers firm yet gentle on her abdomen and stomach. For once, however, his touch was anything but arousing. Before he'd even finished Randy knew she couldn't lie there a moment longer. She tore off the couch and ran into the bathroom, to be followed by a tight-lipped Luke. He stood and waited without comment until she was through.

  His hand dropped onto her shoulder as she rinsed her mouth, but she sensed that the gesture was meant only to comfort, as a parent would comfort a child. In fact, Randy felt slightly better now. "Into the bedroom," he said. "I want to figure out whether I need to fly you to a hospital."

  When Randy was settled on the bed he suggested, "Maybe it was the floor cleaner. That stuff could make a skunk run in the opposite direction. What made you decide to do the floor?"

  Randy shrugged. "I had nothing to do. I was bored."

  "I can't win," he answered with a smile. "Last night you told me that my company was a drag and now you're saying that my absence is a drag. Any suggestions on how to proceed?"

  Ordinarily Randy might have blushed at his remarks, but now she was too sick to bother. When she failed to respond in any way at all Luke went on, "I can see that my teasing bedside manner is a total failure, Lin. Did I hit any tender spots before?"

  Randy shook her head. "It's more queasy than painful."

  "Any other problems?"

  "A little dizziness. And also a headache. I've had it since last night but aspirin didn't help very much."

  "One-sided and throbbing?"

  She wondered how he'd known. "Yes."

  "Sounds like a classic migraine. Bill once mentioned that your mother gets them, but obviously you never have. Let's get you comfortable and quiet and see if it helps. I think I have an icebag around here somewhere for your head."

  Luke had started to unbutton her blouse even before he finished talking, but Randy didn't protest as he undressed her and helped her under the covers. She only knew that she felt awful. On his way out of the bedroom Luke pulled down the shades; he returned a few minutes later with the icebag.

  The ice and the darkness helped a little, but Luke's reassuring presence helped even more. He certainly had his faults, but he was the kind of man you could count on. He was buffing the floor again, the sound too gentle to be disturbing. To take her mind off her head Randy started to mentally recite a scene from her most recent play, and found that it worked.

  Eventually Luke tiptoed back in and stood by the foot of the bed, looking at her. "It's okay," Randy said, taking the icebag away from her eyes. "I'm not asleep."

  "How's your head?" he asked quietly.

  "It still hurts, but not as much."

  "Your stomach?"

  "A little better."

  Luke studied the paleness of her cheeks and the tiredness around her eyes and then walked over to sit beside her on the bed. He lifted a hand to stroke her hair, but dropped it when she suddenly tensed up. "I wasn't going to make a pass at you," he said. "You're tired and you can't sleep, right?"

  A little embarrassed, Randy agreed.

  "So I'll take care of it." Without further explanation he again reached out to touch her, but only to begin a firm, gentle massage of her temples. Randy felt tension she hadn't been aware of begin to slip away as he continued to knead her scalp and the back of her neck. As the pain receded and pleasure took its place she gave a little moan of relief and stifled a yawn. Eventually she dropped off to sleep again.

  She was amazed by how much better she felt when she woke up. She stretched languidly and sniffed, then sniffed again. Luke was cooking something and it smelled wonderful. By the time Randy had brushed her hair and washed up, Luke was in the process of removing a batch of garlic bread from the oven. A pot of bubbling minestrone soup was sitting on top of the stove.

  "Italian food!" Randy said, suddenly hungry. "I love Italian food. When do we eat?"

  "Your timing is perfect." Luke grabbed plates and cutlery from the drainboard and began to set the table. "Go on, sit down. I'll take care of everything."

  "Why, Luke," Randy said, "how thoughtful of you. Now I know how to get around that temper of yours. You're a born doctor who can't resist taking care of people. So all I have to do is stay sick."

  "That wouldn't serve my purpose at all," he shot back.

  The remark effectively shut Randy up. She snatched a piece of garlic bread from the cookie sheet and took a few bites, licking her lips in contentment. "Umm. This is delicious, Luke. You're
a great cook. If I'd known that before I would have made you do your share."

  He didn't answer, apparently preferring to concentrate on his soup, which contained thick chunks of meat and sliced vegetables and obviously hadn't come from a can. It wasn't until they were having coffee that the urge to talk seemed to hit him. He tipped back his chair, regarding Randy with a bland expression, and announced, "I think it's time I took you home. If I do, are you going to see Tom again?"

  Randy was relieved that he'd decided to leave -but not really surprised. He probably had to get back to work and had already made his opinion of Linda quite clear. Still, with her release in the offing, she wasn't about to risk her freedom by getting into yet another argument about who she was. She knew it didn't matter—it would be cleared up soon enough.

  "No," she said. "That's all over with."

  "And Roger? Will you see him?"

  "I hope so," Randy answered, wondering what difference it could make to Luke. "I liked him very much."

  "So what are you going to do with your life? Go to work? Look for another husband?"

  She repeated the answer that Linda had given her in Cambridge. "Maybe open my own business—an antique shop or art gallery. I'm not in the market for a third husband," she added, "at least, not yet." Randy hoped it was the truth, but with Lin one never knew. Although her sister seemed more cautious it might be only temporary.

  "Do you regret any of it?" Luke persisted.

  Randy didn't bother to ask what "it" consisted of. "If you mean, do I regret meeting Tom, I suppose I do. I didn't know he had children and I'm sorry that your sister was hurt. But in the end all we did was talk. Ask him yourself if you don't believe me."

  "I will." The words were a little clipped. "You don't like to talk about yourself, do you?"

  "Sometimes I do, but right now"—Randy shrugged —"I feel better than before, but not terrific. Sorry." Actually she felt fine. She just didn't want to keep role-playing the part of Linda Franck.