Rebel Waltz

by Kay Hooper

  He was dressed casually, but not for sleep, in jeans and a gray shirt open at the throat, and looked as restless as she felt. And his next words confirmed it.

  “Couldn't sleep. Looks like we had the same idea,” he added, nodding at the book still open in front of her.

  Banner was glad he couldn't see the title, which was stamped in gold across the front of the book; she didn't know how Rory felt regarding ghosts, but she didn't really feel up to probing his thoughts on the subject tonight. “I was about to go up to bed,” she lied uncomfortably.

  Rory smiled just a little. “Is it the book or the company making you leave?” he asked.

  Sighing, Banner sat up, tugging the lopsided neckline of her sleep shirt up over a shoulder and entirely unconscious of the provocative gesture.

  She was nothing if not honest, and her attention was focused on the need to explain a few things. “Look, I apologize for Jake's little trick tonight. He should have explained about the dance when you asked to take his place. I'm afraid his sense of humor gets a little strange sometimes.”

  “He backed me rather neatly into a corner, didn't he?” Rory mused, his voice light but his gray eyes intent on the intriguing picture she made half- silhouetted by the fire behind her.

  Banner shook her head instantly. “No, of course he didn't. Even though the neighborhood may have implicit faith in that old tradition, we're hardly living in times when things like that matter. We'll treat it as a joke and leave it at that, all right?”

  Being an intelligent and prudent man, Rory thought it politic to agree. “Fine by me.” Then he promptly spoiled his attempt at disinterest. “That nightshirt—or whatever it is—certainly puts you squarely in modern times, anyway.”

  She tugged again at the slipping neckline, this time very conscious of the gesture. “From the sublime to the ridiculous,” she offered lightly.

  “Hardly ridiculous,” Rory murmured. “If Rhett had caught Scarlett wearing something like that, he would have kidnapped her, instead of wasting all that time being patient.”

  Banner had the peculiar feeling that something was happening, and that it was happening too fast for her to control. She was neither too young nor too blind to mistake the desire in the gray eyes watching her so intently, but she was too much like her grandfather not to question this near- stranger's motives. “Look, just because Jake thinks he's living in the Middle Ages doesn't mean that you have to—”

  “Have to?” Rory came down beside her on the rug, not thinking very much about Jake's wishes at the moment. “You're right—I have to. Ever since you opened the front door, I've wanted to.”

  And he did.

  Banner had been kissed before. In fact, if the clock had really been turned back and focused on the antebellum South, she would have been considered the belle of the area. But Banner, her heart kept by her grandfather, Jasmine Hall, and her “hobby,” painting, had tended to keep men at arm's length. She was friendly, but too briskly matter-of-fact to encourage even the lightest of romances. She'd even wondered once or twice if it was possible for her to feel anything stronger than mild interest in a man.

  Now she knew. It was possible.

  And possibility turned to reality left her confused and with the dizzying sensation of riding the rapids of some monster river on a flimsy raft.

  She was stingingly aware of his hands on her shoulders, one clothed and one bare, and of the abrupt fierce hardening of his lips on hers. Dimly, she was conscious of her heart pounding in her ears, of the softness of the rug beneath her knees, of the strength of his thigh pressed against hers.

  A suspicious part of her wanted to push him away and proclaim that she wouldn't be part of a package deal including Jasmine Hall or any kind of an inducement for a sale. That same part of her demanded that she splendidly ignore this obvious attempt to pander to an old man's wishes.

  But she couldn't seem to push him away or say anything. She even felt a sense of satisfaction rather than surprise when she realized that her fingers had buried themselves in his thick silvery hair. She felt hot, but couldn't blame it on the fire behind her, and the restlessness she'd barely felt before, now tortured her.

  Rory had completely forgotten both Jake's matchmaking and the possibility that this woman in his arms could have reason to question his motives. He hadn't questioned his own motives very closely, obeying without thought the driving urge to hold her, to be close to her.

  But now, at her response, he felt something stir inside of him, a caged and sleeping beast awakened to prowl restlessly. And since he'd been unaware of its existence until this moment, the sudden awakening caught him completely by surprise. If he had ever vaguely questioned the notion of the “primitive” soul every man was supposed to possess, it had certainly been no more than a dim and brief question, and hardly prepared him for the emergence of his own passionate and possessive beast.

  No other woman had ever touched fire to that deeply buried fuse. He had never felt such an abrupt and fierce hunger tempered and strengthened by a tenderness he'd thought himself incapable of. Desire warred with gentleness, need with sensitivity, and possessiveness with the innate understanding that no man had the right to possess a woman as if she were an object.

  Two million years of instinct clashed with a sensitive intellect and left Rory reeling in the wake.

  Banner chose that moment to pull away, scrambling to her feet and retreating to put a chair between them. She was breathing quickly and unevenly, and her face was white beneath the summer tan.

  Rory got to his feet slowly, feeling curiously bereft, knowing that he was as pale as she.

  “I… won't be part of a package deal,” she said unsteadily.

  She was staring at him, an odd, vulnerable little quiver to her lower lip. Rory had never considered himself psychic or even overly intuitive, but that little quiver told him in a flash that his future happiness was very much at stake and hinged entirely on whatever he said and did next.

  He'd never in his life had to defuse a bomb, but Rory knew in that moment exactly what it felt like to do so. And the violent desire he felt for her abruptly channeled itself into rationality. His voice emerged, startling him with his own spontaneous, unthinking honesty.

  “My mother is an honest-to-God Southern lady, and raised me to be a gentleman—as odd as that sounds in these modern times. She taught me several things I've had cause to be thankful for.”

  Banner stirred very slightly, the quiver still present. “Such as?” Her voice was almost inaudible.

  “To be kind to little old ladies, patient with children, and good to animals.” His voice was gentle and solemn and held no mockery. “To be gracious in victory as well as defeat. To respect the law, women, and my elders, and to think twice before disagreeing with any of them. To avoid lying, cheating, or losing my temper. And never to mix business and pleasure.”

  Banner was smiling faintly, her eyes still uncertain, but the vulnerable quiver was gone. And Rory was glad about that; it hurt him to see her vulnerable. He chose each word carefully now.

  “I've always thought the… the worst dishonesty of all was to use personal means to achieve business goals. I've never done that, Banner. I don't intend to start now.”

  “You want the Hall.” The words seemed almost forced from her.

  “I want the Hall,” he confirmed steadily. “And, not to put too fine a point on it, I want you,” he added with utter calm. “But I'm not after a package deal, and I've never been one to cater to the whims of an old matchmaker just because I want to buy his house.”

  Banner studied him for a long moment. “I'm not so sure I trust you,” she said finally, her tone wry. “You're just a bit too ready with the right words.”

  “Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” he intoned solemnly.

  “Quit it,” she ordered, a smile of genuine amusement tugging at her lips. And, as easily as that, the atmosphere between them was no longer thick with tension.

  He grinned at
her. “I'll call Mom and have her furnish a testimonial,” he offered.

  “Don't bother. She'd be prejudiced anyway.”

  “You don't know my mother,” Rory said ruefully. “She's brutally honest, and underneath that smooth veneer of southern charm beats the heart of a termagant.” He reflected for a moment. “She'd like you.”

  Banner frowned. “Are you drawing a comparison?”

  “Oh, you noticed that?”

  “I am not a termagant!”

  “You were during the tour.”

  She had the grace to look slightly sheepish. “Sorry about that.”

  “Exercising your sword arm?” he wondered innocently.

  “And if I was?”

  “Well, feel free to exercise whenever you like,” he offered generously. “My upbringing, you know; I'm too polite to hit a lady.”

  “I noticed that.”

  “Points in my favor?” he asked, hopeful.

  Banner ignored his question. “I've picked out a hunter for you,” she said conversationally. “I hope you'll be satisfied with him.”

  With a faint smile, Rory accepted the change of subject. “I'm sure I will. Exactly what kind of hunt is it, by the way?”

  “A fox hunt.”

  “A real one?”

  She shook her head. “Not really; Jake doesn't approve of killing animals for sport. Scottie—he takes care of the horses—will go out at dawn tomorrow and set up a trail, using a tame fox that belongs to one of our neighbors. At the end of the trail, he'll put an old stuffed fox from the attic up in a tree. The dogs don't seem to know the difference,” she added cheerfully.

  “What if a real fox wanders onto the trail?” Rory wondered.

  “It's happened a couple of times before. When the dogs treed the fox, Scottie put them on their leashes and dragged them back to the house. The fox seemed more mad than afraid.”

  Before Rory could respond, the grandfather clock in the corner announced the hour in the whirring, rasping sound of gallant old age, and Banner sent it a startled look.

  “Three o'clock! And I have to be up by eight.” She realized quite suddenly that she could hardly hold her eyes open; the long day topped by bewildering emotions had totally drained her. “I have to go to bed.” She looked at Rory. “The hunt starts at ten; breakfast is served from eight on.”

  He nodded. “Good night, Banner.”

  She felt herself flush beneath the warmth of his look, and beat a hasty retreat, murmuring an almost inaudible “Good night.”

  After she'd gone, Rory absently bent to retrieve the book she'd left on the rug. He stood turning it in his hands, staring toward the doorway. Then he sighed, placed the book on the mantel, and was halfway to the stairs before a niggling sense of something left undone sent him back to the library. But when he'd crossed back to the fireplace, he found the mantel bare of anything except ornaments. He frowned for a moment, muttered aloud to the empty room, “I'm half asleep,” and headed resolutely for his room.

  The room that still smelled elusively of jasmine.

  Rory woke with the strong scent of jasmine tickling his nose, coming fully awake when he sneezed violently. Sliding out of bed and pulling on a robe, he conducted yet another search of his pleasant room. No flowers anywhere. Nothing, in fact, that smelled remotely like jasmine. Yet the scent was present, elusive but definitely there. Rory sneezed again, frowing as the scent seemed to grow stronger. He'd never noticed an allergic reaction to any type of flower before, but this jasmine scent was definitely bothering him now.

  And where on earth was the scent coming from? Although the estate was called Jasmine Hall, he'd yet to see a sign of that particular flower.

  He went to the window and raised the sash, deciding that he was taking his responsibilities as a polite guest to extremes; he'd have to speak to Banner or Jake and explain the apparent allergy. Perhaps the maids used air freshener, and what better than jasmine?

  Half- sitting on the low sill and breathing in the crisp morning air, Rory glanced down at the rose garden and saw Banner. She was dressed in what must have been an antebellum riding costume, complete with hat, and had what appeared to be gloves and a riding whip tucked into her belt. She was sitting on a stone bench scattering food for the dozens of birds gathered all around her; obviously a usual morning ritual.

  And she wasn't alone.

  Rory frowned irritably as he stared at the blond man seated beside Banner on the bench. He couldn't tell if they were talking, but the man seemed pleased with the companionship.

  Still frowning, Rory got up and went to his closet, searching to find the costume provided for him.

  Fifteen minutes later he was leaving the house through the French doors and making his way across the rose garden. He found Banner still on the bench, but alone now, and still feeding the birds—which scattered at his approach.

  She looked up at him a bit shyly. “Good morning.”

  “Morning.” Rory sat down beside her, adding more tersely than he'd intended, “Where's your friend?”

  Banner looked blank for a moment, then her expression cleared. “I … uh, haven't seen him.”

  Rory fought a brief battle with his worst self and lost. Silently, he pointed up to the window he'd left raised.

  She followed his gesture, then looked back at his face, apparently understanding what he meant. “You saw him?” she ventured.

  “I saw him,” Rory confirmed impatiently, puzzled by what seemed to be suppressed amusement in the expression on her face. “Look, I know you told me he wasn't ‘that kind’ of friend, and God knows I've no right to question you, but it bothers me. Why does he keep running off whenever I'm around? Who is he? And what is he to you?”

  Startled, Banner identified jealousy in his tone. She tried not to think about what that meant, concentrating instead on the realization that Rory was going to be suspicious anyway when the party was over, the guests gone, and he continued to see people dressed in something other than modern fashion. But she didn't think he'd believe her.

  “His name,” she murmured, “is Brett Andrews. At least, I think it is.”

  Rory blinked. “You think?”

  “Uh-huh. We've… we've never met formally.”

  “If you don't want me to know,” Rory stated with extreme politeness, “then don't tell me.”

  Banner decided that she had a choice of either further offending Rory with evasiveness or shocking him with the truth. She sighed. “Rory, I've never seen this man.”

  “What? He was sitting beside you!”

  “I didn't see him.”

  “I saw him. From my window. And I saw him yesterday.”

  “I'm sure you did.”

  He stared at her, noting that she'd dispensed with the ringlet-dressed wig and wore her hat at a rakish angle. He watched her rubbing the bridge of her nose in an odd, rueful little gesture. And he saw the gravity behind the laughter in her sea-green eyes. “What're you telling me?” he asked carefully.

  “That you saw a ghost.”

  “I don't believe in ghosts.”

  Banner ignored the instant, flat denial. Conversation ally, she said, “I won't say that the Hall is haunted, because that implies chains rattling in the night and footsteps on the stairs and cold spots in certain rooms. We're not really haunted, it's just that most of the family decided to… stay.”

  “You don't expect me to believe that,” he said incredulously.

  She smiled a little. “It's up to you. I just wanted you to be prepared, because when the guests leave today and you go on seeing people dressed peculiarly… Well, I wanted you to know.”

  “Banner, I saw the man as clearly as I saw you.” He stared at her. “Are you putting me on?”

  “No.”

  “Ghosts?”

  “Ghosts. Don't worry,” she added encouragingly. “You'll get used to them. They're very nice ghosts.”

  “I can't deal with this,” Rory said definitely.

  She giggled. “Sorry. I suppose
it's true that we Americans aren't as blasé about ghosts as the Europeans, because we haven't had as much history to produce them. But there's a lot of history in Jasmine Hall, and family feeling has always been very strong here.”

  Rory smiled wryly, not quite believing but not sure enough to disbelieve, either. “The blond man?”

  “According to legend, he guards—as ridiculous as it sounds—the young ladies of the house.”

  “And you've never seen him?”

  “No. That's part of the legend too. After you saw him yesterday, I looked it up, because I only half- remembered that story.”

  “Looked it up?”

  “In the Jasmine Hall book. A Clairmont with literary talents wrote everything up and had it privately printed, ghosts and all.”

  “I'd like to read it.”

  Banner nodded agreeably. “I'll get it for you later. I was looking through it last night when you came into the library.”

  - 73 -

  Rory thought of the night before, and of the book that had not long remained on the mantel, where he'd left it. He decided, somewhat uncomfortably, not to mention that to Banner.

  “Have you had breakfast?” she was asking prosaically.

  “No, how about you?”

  “Not yet. Shall we?” She rose from the bench.

  Following suit, Rory suddenly remembered something. “Oh, by the way—I don't mean to complain, but could we do something about the scent of jasmine in my room? It must be air freshener, or something; I couldn't find anything else. I wouldn't mind, but I seem to have a slight allergy and woke up sneezing this morning.”

  Banner was staring at him. “Jasmine?” she said in an odd voice.

  “Yes.” He looked at her curiously, wondering.

  She turned rather abruptly and headed across the garden toward the house. “Of course. I'll— see what we can do.”

  She was laughing inside, but decided sympathetically not to heap yet another ghost on Rory's bewildered head. Because she was reasonably sure that the scent he spoke of wasn't a product of this world, but another one.

  Her mother had loved jasmine, and had worn the scent always.