Return to Paradise

by Carol Grace

  "No, but... you never said anything."

  "I haven't seen you," he explained. Then he paused. He'd seen her. Seen her on the horse, seen her in the dining room and in the garden. Seen her everywhere, but didn't let on. He knew she was avoiding him as he was avoiding her. "And I didn't know if I could get away until now. But lambing is going well and Pop seems to have more energy, so I thought, why not?"

  Why not? Because it meant spending hours in the car with Christine. Taking a chance that if he saw her in Denver, after she'd found out who she was, he'd feel better.

  She was still looking at him, her eyes narrowed, skepticism showing in the tilt of her head. Maybe he hadn't explained it very well. Maybe he'd made it sound like too much of a coincidence. His going to Denver the same day she was. Maybe it was.

  "I thought we'd leave first thing in the morning," he said offhandedly to Christine. "It's about a five-hour drive."

  She drew a quick, sharp breath. Did she wonder as he did how they'd fill the hours? What they'd talk about? What they'd do when they got there? He did. "I assumed you had no place to stay so I made a reservation for you at the hotel," he said. "It'll be filled with sheep breeders but they're usually not too loud and obnoxious."

  "I guess I ought to thank you for all this," she said, her eyebrows scrunched together, "but—"

  "Don't bother." He cut her off, afraid she'd object. "It's no trouble since I'm going anyway." Then he said good-night, turned on his heel and left her room.

  The next morning Christine said goodbye to Emilio for the second time. This time she felt the finality of the situation somewhere in the pit of her stomach and it took an effort to hold her tears in check. She felt a little foolish when Parker's father just smiled and patted her cheek as if he knew she'd be back. Then she walked out the front door, staring straight ahead, her bag in her hand, and got into Parker's car. He threw his overnight bag in the trunk along with hers and they left the ranch.

  It was like the last time he'd driven her into Clear Creek and yet it wasn't. The miles flew by as the scenery changed from pasture to high desert. Occasionally she glanced at Parker, noticing the way his crisp blue-and-white striped shirt fit on his broad shoulders, how it contrasted with his suntanned skin, realizing she'd never seen him in anything but denim.

  He kept his eyes on the road. She wondered what he was thinking about as he drove. Maybe he was rehearsing his speech in his mind while she sat there admiring the way his city clothes fit his hard, well-muscled rancher's body. She knew she shouldn't even glance his way, but anything was better than sitting there trying to remember her past. Whatever he was thinking about, he obviously preferred it to talking to her.

  When they'd crossed the last mountain pass and descended into the urban sprawl that was the outskirts of Denver, she felt her heart rate increase. She stared out the passenger window as if some familiar sight might suddenly appear and her memory would open like a closed door. But it didn't. She sighed.

  "What's wrong?" he asked, navigating the city streets as competently as he rode through a herd of sheep on his horse.

  "Nothing. Everything." She pressed her hand against her forehead. "I have this feeling of impending doom. As if I'm about to find out I'm an ax murderer."

  He nodded. "Maybe you escaped from one of those work crews out on the highway."

  "And I stumbled onto your pasture with my tent and my diamond necklace after sawing the chain off my foot."

  He shot her an amused glance. "Should we stop at the post office and have a look at the Wanted posters?"

  She shivered. "No thanks. I guess I'll go straight to the central police station and register with the missing persons like they told me to."

  "You're not going today, are you?"

  It was three o'clock by the dashboard digital clock. They were in the middle of a traffic jam in a strange city, surrounded by high-rise buildings and concrete everywhere. "I should, but I don't want to. I want to postpone it as long as I can. What's wrong with me?" she asked helplessly. How should Parker know what was wrong with her?

  "You're scared," he said. "Scared of the unknown. That’s normal." He pulled into the hotel parking lot.

  Being scared might be normal, but was it normal to be checking into a downtown hotel dressed like a cowgirl? Was it normal to feel all quivery inside like a bowl of jelly when hearing from the room clerk that her room connected to his? When Parker placed the key into her palm and folded her fingers around it, her pulse jumped wildly. The key made an imprint on her skin she thought might never go away. She didn't know why she couldn't just pull her hand away, say thank you and go up to her room, but she could only stand there locked in his sky-blue gaze. The voices in the lobby faded away, the ringing telephones, bellboys carrying luggage all disappeared. It was just the two of them. Until a tall man in a Stetson hat slapped Parker on the back. And Christine pulled her hand back and stuffed it into her pocket.

  "Heard you were coming," the man said to Parker. " 'Bout time you showed at one of these things." His gaze swung from Parker to Christine, and he rocked back on the heels of his hand-tooled leather boots. "Wait a minute. Who might this be?"

  Good question, Christine thought. Just what she wanted to know. Parker handled it smoothly. "Just a friend I gave a ride to town. Christine, meet Mike Adams."

  Christine shook the broad hand he extended. Just a friend, she reminded herself. That's all you are.

  "She'll be joining us at the dinner tonight, then. Got an extra place at the table."

  "Oh, I don't think..." Christine protested with a glance at Parker.

  "Don't think it will be interesting? With Parker here talking about heredity and environment? Watch out or you'll hurt his feelings," Mike Adams admonished with a wag of his finger in her direction.

  She smiled weakly and followed Parker to the elevator. When they reached the fourth floor and were standing next to each other at their respective doors, she paused with the key in her hand.

  "It won't really hurt your feelings if I don't go to the dinner, will it?"

  "Of course not. It would be boring."

  "I can't believe that. I'm sure it will be very interesting. But the thing is I don't have anything to wear to something like that." She looked down at her wrinkled jeans.

  "I understand," he said curtly, turned the key in the lock and walked into his room, closing the door behind him.

  Christine stood staring at the closed door. Had she hurt his feelings? Did Parker Robinson, the tough rancher, have feelings to hurt? After all he'd done for her it was the last thing she'd want to do. Slowly she opened the door to her room. There was a huge bed covered in a floral spread in mauve and pink. At the window, drapes to match. And a sitting area with a table and two chairs. She looked into the bathroom, which was done in black and white. A pile of fluffy towels were stacked next to the extra-long tub. She sighed at the sudden luxury.

  Then she went back and stared at the connecting door. There was no sound from his room. Suddenly she felt more alone than ever before in her short memory. Which wasn't saying much, but it still sent a chill up her spine. Steeling her courage, she knocked on the door to Parker's room.

  He opened it, his shirt unbuttoned halfway to his waist. Her eyes locked onto the broad expanse of chest, the dark hair that curled lightly over his skin, and she lost her voice, her nerve and her composure all at once.

  "Yes?"

  She cleared her throat. "I was wondering," she said, finally finding her vocal cords. "If I could borrow some more money. Then I could go downstairs and buy something to wear and come to the dinner." He didn't say anything. He must not want her to come, but now it was too late to back off. "I mean, if you think it would be okay. I mean if it's all right, I'd like to hear your speech, but if not..."

  Oh, why did he have to be so noncommittal, so unemotional. Couldn't he just give her a clue as to what he wanted her to do? But he didn't. Not Parker. He pulled out his wallet, extracted a credit card and handed it to her.

/>   "Thanks," she said. And closed the door between them before he could.

  In the lobby there were several shops. The saleswoman was almost as helpful as the lady who'd helped her buy her jeans in Clear Creek. She didn't have a large selection, but what she had was elegant and classy. Perhaps too classy for sheep breeders, but after days of blue jeans, Christine was ready for something black with thin straps, cut low in the back. She had no idea how she'd pay Parker back for the extravagance of this dress along with the shoes and stockings and underwear to go with it, but somehow she'd do it.

  She smiled to herself as she rode up in the elevator with the shopping bag in her hand. How long had it been since she'd had a new dress and someplace to wear it? Had it only been weeks, or perhaps years? She must have worn the diamond necklace to something, with someone. But where and with whom?

  Back in her room, she hung her new dress on a hanger and ran a bath in the huge tub, dumped in the bath salts provided and soaked for a long time in the perfumed water, trying not to think of tomorrow. Tomorrow when she'd be on her way back to wherever she came from. Instead of staying in a hotel in a room adjoining Parker's, anticipating an evening in his company, she'd be somewhere else, someone else. Just one more evening, she promised herself. Tomorrow she'd say goodbye to him and go back to her old life. Whatever it was.

  But when Parker knocked on her door that evening, she suddenly knew it would be more of a problem than she'd thought. He was wearing a dark suit that fit as if it were made for him. His crisp white shirt contrasted with his dark hair. If she didn't know he was a sheep rancher she might have taken him for a stockbroker.

  She didn't know how long she'd been standing in the doorway staring at him, she only knew he was staring back, his gaze traveling up and down her little black dress appreciatively. Finally she turned to close the drapes and he gasped.

  "Wait a minute," he said, alarmed. "There's no back on that dress."

  "I know," she said, returning to the door. She kept her voice matter-of-fact, but inside she was trembling. The last night, she thought. This is the last night to be a part of his life. Not a big part, but better than nothing. And tomorrow she would be nothing. Not to him anyway.

  He reached around her to run his calloused palm along her back. "Won't you be cold?"

  Cold? She'd never been warmer. That was a shiver of pleasure she felt. The heat from his hand blazed a trail up and down her spine. "I'm fine," she said breathlessly.

  "You look fine," he said, his voice low and even. Fine, he thought. Was that all he could say? He had no words for how she looked. He was stunned into speechlessness. The dressed hugged her body, molded to the shape of her breasts, accentuated her waist and the curve of her hips. The sight of her bare back had startled him. Seduced him. Her skin was the color of cream and felt like satin to his touch. He didn't want to let go. He realized she wasn't wearing a bra. She couldn't be. He inhaled the scent from her skin—lilacs or lilies of the valley. He didn't know which was which. He only knew he couldn't get enough of it, or of her.

  The sheepherders, his speech, heredity and environment were all forgotten. All he wanted to do was put both hands on her hips and ease her back into her room. Peel that dress off her and take her to bed. He wanted her with a fierce longing that scared the hell out of him. He had no idea what she wanted. No idea why she was coming to this dinner at all, let alone in a dress that would make him forget the words to his speech.

  He hadn't wanted her to come tonight. He was afraid she'd be out of place at the dinner. He was afraid she'd get in the way of what he'd come to do. She made him forget what that was. He thought she liked him. Thought she found him attractive in some way. But he'd been wrong before. And he didn't want to be wrong again. It hurt too much.

  He dropped his hands to his sides. "Ready?" he asked, his voice back to normal, almost.

  She gave him a funny little half smile he took to mean yes and they took the elevator to the top floor of the hotel with the view of the city below and the sun setting behind the mountains in the distance. The room was full of old friends, strangers, wives and assorted sheep traders from out of state. Loud voices rose and filled the air. Laughter boomed and echoed off the walls.

  He was quickly surrounded by men he hadn't seen in a long time. Some he'd forgotten, some he remembered. All of them were potential customers for his rams. They were pumping his hand, pounding his back and separating him from Christine.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Ted Lemke from Evergreen, his Stetson hat tilted to one side, offer to get Christine something to drink. He strained to hear what she said but couldn't. Ted left for the bar. Two men he didn't know approached her, engaged her in conversation. She was taken care of. Now it was his chance to do what he'd come to do. Wheel and deal sheep. He didn't have to worry about her. Didn't have to watch her from across the room. But he did. He managed to buy a breeding ram and sell two ewes and still keep her in view.

  Somebody tapped a spoon against a drinking glass and the men and women in the room drifted toward the round tables. Parker dove through the crowd, took Christine firmly by the elbow and herded her like a stray lamb to the head table, aware that he'd interrupted a conversation between her and four ranchers he'd never seen before who were eyeing her as if she were up for sale herself.

  "Everyone's so nice," she said, slanting a glance at him.

  "Yeah. Real nice." He gripped her elbow a little tighter. They sat down. They ate shrimp cocktail, they ate chicken in some kind of sauce and wild rice. He didn't taste any of it. He was aware that her arm brushed his, that her back was bare, that her hair curled enticingly around her face. While he talked projected gains with the man on his right, he listened to her talk to the man on her left. He couldn't concentrate on the efficiency of rambouillets versus merinos with her there. He couldn't think of anything but her.

  He should never have brought her along. He should have left her at the bus station in Clear Creek like the last time. He felt like a fool for worrying about her when it was obvious she could take care of herself now. When the dinner was finally over, the dishes had been cleared and the coffee cups refilled, he was introduced, and stood to give his speech.

  He pulled some notes from his pocket and proceeded to talk. All the while he felt her eyes on him, knew she was watching him with those wide gray eyes, lips parted slightly as if everything he said was fascinating and enthralling. Maybe it was. Maybe he was better than he thought he was.

  There were questions afterward and then more time to mill around and talk. But he was tired of milling, tired of talking, tired of buying and selling. He found Christine and with his hand on her bare back he guided her out of the banquet room and into the crowded hall. Suddenly he was impatient. Impatient to get away from everybody. Impatient to get her alone. Too impatient to wait for the elevator.

  "Want to walk down?" he asked.

  She nodded then looked at her high-heeled shoes. "I'll take these off."

  He bent over to help her. He slid his hand under her foot and took one shoe off. The blood rushed to his head. She stood on one stockinged foot and he removed the other shoe. His hand lingered, caressing the smooth instep, then the ball of her foot. He wanted more, so much more. But he stood and staggered backward.

  "You okay?" she asked, reaching out to steady him.

  "Sure," he said. But he leaned forward, until her lips were only inches from his. As if they were alone instead of surrounded by conventioneers.

  "Thanks," she murmured. "I'm not used to..."

  He straightened and gave her an amused look. "Men with foot fetishes?"

  "Wearing high heels," she corrected.

  With her shoes in one hand he opened the door to the stairwell and hand in hand they rushed down eight flights of stairs, arriving breathless at the fourth floor. At their respective doors, they hesitated.

  "Want to come in?" she asked at last.

  Her room was a mirror image of his. His gaze went to the large bed and stayed there
. Images swam in front of his eyes. She was so lovely. So tempting. So sexy in that damned dress. And so damned temporary. Because after tonight he would never see Christine again. He could not afford to lose his heart to her, because if he did, he'd never get it back again.

  "Your speech was wonderful," she said, walking lightly to the window to open the curtains and gaze at the city lights that sparkled in the clear air. "I had no idea how much you knew about genetics."

  "Uh-huh."

  "All those studies you've done on twin sheep sound like the same kind that are done on humans."

  "Christine."

  Hearing the urgency in his voice, she turned to face him, her eyes brimming with questions.

  "I don't want to talk about sheep." He crossed the room in two strides and she was in his arms where she belonged. She knew it. He knew it. With a frantic, fevered energy she matched him kiss for kiss, each one hungrier than the last. Her fingers sifted through his hair, and pulled him closer. She wanted more, as much as he could give. Deeper kisses, hotter kisses until her knees buckled. There was a loud roaring like thunder in his ears. Next they'd be on the floor. He preferred the bed. He picked her up and carried her there, his gaze never leaving hers.

  When he laid her on the mauve bedspread, her black dress outlined the curves of her breasts, caressed her hips. He loosened his collar and caught her hands in his.

  "What do you want?" he asked, his heart banging against his ribs.

  She pressed her hand against his chest and caught her breath. "You."

  "What about tomorrow?"

  "There is no tomorrow," she said simply. But suddenly her eyes clouded and shimmered with tears. "Tomorrow I'll be someone else." She shifted, propped herself on one elbow, causing a gap to form between the dress and the swell of her breasts. Then she ran her finger across his lips. Her touch set him on fire. He didn't care who she was, as long as she was his tonight. He kissed her fingers.

  "Tonight you're mine," he said roughly.

  The telephone rang. Parker froze. Christine stared up at him. Finally she groped for the receiver.