by Kay Hooper
When she realized what she was doing, what she was feeling, Banner hastily laid the palette aside, swearing softly.
“Dead end,” she said aloud in the still room. “No matter how… how interested he is, it's a dead end. I'd always wonder which was more important to him: me or the Hall. I'd always wonder if he wanted one because it was a part of the other. He won't walk away. He'll buy the place. And after I leave… what will I have?”
She knew what she'd have. Nothing. She was trained for nothing except managing a large house. Painting was a hobby, but could she fill her time with only that? With no vast home to manage, no century-old garden to tend lovingly … what then?
Banner was a practical woman. There could be other gardens. There could be a smaller house to manage. She and Jake were hardly destitute; it wasn't as if she would be cast out penniless into a cold world.
But her place would be gone. It was selfish, she knew; the most important thing was to preserve the Hall. No longer as her Hall, though. No longer her home.
And then there was Rory. He was clearly sensitive to the fact that his buying the place would uproot her. They had only… only a beginning. A sense of simpatia. Of understanding. A desire she didn't deceive herself into thinking was not mutual. Shared humor.
What would happen to them? He had posed the question bluntly: “What will you think of me when I've taken your home away from you?”
After a scant twenty-four hours, she knew that Rory could become important to her. Left to themselves, with no pressure from plantations or decisions, he could become vitally important to her.
And she wanted that.
But how would she feel about him when he took over the home that was in her blood? Whether he turned the Hall into a guest resort or lived in it himself—which was, she thought, likely—how would she feel? She thought of her grandfather's blatantly obvious desire to marry her off to Rory, a man who could afford to maintain the plantation until he could turn it into a paying concern in some way, and winced.
Were that unlikely event to take place, wouldn't she always wonder? Wouldn't she always think, at some deep level within herself, that Rory had taken the easiest way out? Assuming he would want to marry her, of course. Marry the girl and get the house as well…
Automatically, Banner cleaned her brushes and scraped the palette. She reminded herself silently, fiercely, that the point was moot. There would be no future with Rory, because all they would ever have would be this tantalizing beginning. It would stop there.
Jasmine Hall stood immovably between them.
She went to the house through the rose garden, as usual, pausing and taking a few moments to savor the scent and the colorful profusion of blooms. As she entered the vast entrance hall, she heard the sounds of voices coming from her grandfather's library; then, when she was farther along, she noticed that the door was ajar, even as she recognized Rory's deep voice.
“Like I said, Jake, ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. Just accept that I know what I'm doing. Do I get the favor?”
Jake replied, clearly amused and faintly puzzled. “You get the favor. I won't ask any questions. But are you sure—?”
“I'm sure.”
Before Banner could absorb the curious conversation, she was caught unintentionally eavesdropping when Rory strode briskly from the library. He didn't seem the slightest bit upset to find her there; instead, his face lit up in a way that caused her heart to leap alarmingly.
“There you are,” he said cheefully. “I was wondering where you'd disappeared to.”
Uncomfortably aware both of her eaves dropping and of the depressive lingering of her earlier thoughts, Banner's voice was a bit subdued when she answered. “I was in my studio. Um, I didn't mean to listen in, but you asked Jake for a favor?”
“More time,” Rory told her firmly. “There's no great hurry, after all. Jake just agreed to give me time enough to think things over carefully.”
Banner was torn. She was faintly resentful that he could be so cheerful at the thought of possibly buying her home; she felt an irrepressible surge of elation that whatever decision was to be made was still in the future. But she wondered… “Will you be staying?”
“If that's all right with you.”
The suddenly gentle tone and intent gaze brought a flush to her cheeks in spite of all her efforts to control it. “Gentlemen give notice of loaded questions,” she managed lightly, even though both of them knew it hadn't been a question.
He laughed, then looked her up and down quite thoroughly. “And ladies should give due warning whenever they're going to wear jeans and a T-shirt. Rhett definitely wouldn't have been patient.”
Unconsciously, they had both wandered from the foyer and out into the rose garden. Banner wondered dimly why she suddenly felt as cheerful as he seemed to be, but decided not to probe too deeply into the matter. The pressures had been lifted—if only for the time being—and her nature was too optimistic to allow her to remain depressed for long.
“Thank you,” she said gravely. “I assume that was a compliment.”
“Don't fish,” he chided severely, taking her hand in a casual way as they strolled along one of the paths.
“I was not fishing.” She decided not to make an issue of this hand- holding business; he didn't seem aware of what he'd done anyway. Besides, she liked it.
“Are you kidding? I can see a hook when it's damn well dangled under my nose.”
“Just because I didn't want blood in the rose garden last night,” she warned, “doesn't mean I don't think it might do the plants some good this afternoon.”
“All right, all right. I'll be a gentleman and pretend you weren't fishing.”
“That graceful concession lacked something,” she noted thoughtfully.
“Diplomacy, maybe?”
“I'd say.”
“Sorry.”
“Right. Um—listen. Are we going somewhere?”
“We're walking in the rose garden, wench. Where's your sense of romance?”
Banner was a bit bemused by this Rory. He was definitely at odds with the troubled man of a couple of hours before, and a far cry from the cool, businesslike man of yesterday. It was a puzzle, but one she didn't really want to solve. She liked this cheerful, bantering man who held her hand absently and teased her. He seemed to have shed years and cares, and she was quite willing to postpone tomorrow.
“My sense of romance,” she said solemnly, “is fine, thank you very much. I just wondered if we were going somewhere in particular, that's all.”
He sent her an amused look, then changed the subject slightly. “Speaking of which, what say we plan a barbecue for next weekend?”
She blinked. “A barbecue?”
“Sure. I'll spring for it.”
“What has that to do with romance?” she asked bemusedly.
“The delights of cooking, eating, and mingling under a starry sky aren't romantic?”
“Mingling?”
He rewarded her laughing query with a mock frown, then went on briskly. “We can start the thing in the late afternoon and go on till whenever. Invite the friends and business associates we have in town—I'm not exactly a stranger to these parts, you know. We'll have music and tons of good food and— There is a pool back behind the garden, isn't there? I thought I saw one this morning.”
“There is a pool,” she agreed.
“Terrific. We'll combine a barbecue with a pool party. I'm dying to see you in a swimsuit anyway.”
Banner tried valiantly to ignore his last comment. “Well, I'm game. It'll take some arranging, though. Invitations, food, musicians, and so on. Is there any particular reason you want to have a party? We just finished one, as I recall.”
“I told you. I want to see you in a swimsuit.”
Very dryly, she said, “You don't have to drop a bundle on an expensive party for that reason. Whenever not occupied by parties, I tend to swim early every morning.”
“I'll get up early to
morrow,” he commented promptly.
Banner laughed, but shook her head. “None of this makes sense. However.” She shrugged. “You've talked to Jake about the party?”
“Of course. That's the other part of my favor, as a matter of fact. He thinks it's a dandy idea.”
“That's because he loves parties. Well, since you two have decided, I'll start making the arrangements.”
“Sure you don't mind? I could make them.”
“Oh, I don't mind. Just let me know whom to invite and how much to spend.”
“Jake's working up a list of guests. And you have no budget, milady. Sky's the limit.”
“You may regret that. In fact, I'm sure you will.”
“I trust you not to bankrupt me.” He grinned down at her. “And I have a few touches of my own I'd like to discuss with you.”
She mistrusted the grin. “Really? What kinds of touches?”
“You think an elephant would be too much?”
The solemn tone got her for a moment. She stopped dead in her tracks in front of a particularly beautiful Forty-niner rosebush and stared up at him. Then, seeing the glint in his gray eyes, she relaxed. “My God—I thought you were serious.”
“A dog act, then?” he asked anxiously.
“Quit it.”
He started laughing. “It was worth it to see your face. Come on, show me the pool and we'll start planning.”
FIVE
THE NEXT FEW days were hectic ones. And peculiar. Raised in a family that traditionally loved parties, Banner was accustomed to planning quite lavish ones; Rory's barbecue-and-pool-party-cum- moonlight proved to be no exception. Clearly determined that she not be forced to do all the work, he threw his energy—which was considerable—into the effort. They worked together companionably over lists, shared the chore of innumerable phone calls and errands, bickered amiably over what kind of music and who was to cater, and argued the merits of Japanese lanterns versus torches around the pool.
The Hall servants bore up nobly under the deluge of temporary help and delivery vans, although Conner, their butler, who had been given the prior week off to visit a sick relative, threatened to give notice when it turned out that the caterer Rory had hired was Creole and explosively temperamental.
Rory saved that situation, although Banner never could find out from the principals exactly how he managed. And she was desperately curious, because the normally taciturn Conner walked around for two days with a peculiarly shy smile on his face, and then tended to poker up whenever he saw her watching him.
“What on earth did you bribe the man with?”
“Shame on you. I'm above bribery.”
“Oh, of course. Did you find him a hot date?”
“Banner!”
“That shocked look sits ill on your devious face.”
“Just for that, I'll never tell you.” “Rory!”
One of Rory's “special touches” turned out to be a hayride, which he planned with meticulous detail. He managed to find six huge wagons, the teams to pull them, and a driver for each wagon. He found the sweetest- smelling hay in the county for the wagons. He even managed to locate an old rutted trail that wound for miles all around the plantation and never got near paved roads or the noisy sounds of civilization.
“The invitations look peculiar, you know.”
“How so?”
“Well, explaining the moonlight barbecue and pool party is no problem, but how do I warn the guests to bring jeans for the hayride?”
“You say: Optional hayride—bring jeans.”
“There's something lacking in that.”
“Who's going to care?”
“True.”
As the days slipped by, Banner was uneasily aware that Rory's companionship was becoming far too important to her. From their morning swim to a late snack before bedtime, they were almost constantly together. To be sure, it was an undemanding companionship; other than holding her hand or occasionally draping an arm around her shoulders, Rory made no attempt to put their relationship on a more intimate footing.
She told herself she was glad of that, told herself what was never begun could have no painful ending. She didn't believe herself.
She could at least partially put the matter out of her mind during the busy, laughter-filled days. But the nights were hell. It was more than irritating to one who had always slept easily and soundly to find herself suddenly restless and awake long into the night. She tried hot chocolate and warm baths, and she tried counting sheep. Nothing worked.
On Thursday, the night before the party, she was particularly restless. A week of being constantly in Rory's company, trying vainly to ignore the tense awareness his nearness brought, had taken its toll. It was late, the house was dark and quiet, and Banner lay awake staring at a shadowy ceiling. The fifth time she looked at the clock on her nightstand, it was two A.M.
Deciding that it was better to be up and doing something if she must be awake, she threw back the covers and left the bed. After flipping a mental coin, she exchanged the sleep shirt for one of her swimsuits. She normally wore a relatively modest one-piece when she swam in the mornings, but this time chose a daring bikini she never wore unless she was sure to be alone; it was her “tanning suit,” purchased simply because it was the briefest thing she had been able to find.
She pulled a white terry beach caftan from her closet and drew it on, picked up a thick towel from her bathroom, then padded barefoot downstairs and through the silent house.
The day had been hot and still; the night was warm and a bit muggy. It was typical midsummer weather for the South, and the weather prediction promised another such day and night for their party. Banner automatically followed the garden path out to the pool. She stopped at the side of the cabana to flip the switch activating the underwater pool lights, then opened the gate and stepped inside the two-acre “privacy fence” that surrounded the pool.
It wasn't until she'd crossed several yards of sparkling tile that she realized she hadn't been the only one in the house with this idea.
“Hi,” Rory called softly from the middle of the pool.
The underwater lights bathed the entire area in a hazy blue light, and between that and the full moon, she could see him clearly. He had spoken while floating lazily on his back, but now swam toward the side closest to her with the easy, powerful strokes she knew so well from their morning swims. Banner dropped her towel on a table and slid her hands into the deep pockets of her caftan, suddenly very conscious of the lateness of the hour and of the fact that they were more alone than they'd ever been. Even though they had shared the pool early every morning this past week, she had always been aware of the sounds of gardeners working to ready the area all around the pool for their party.
She didn't cross the remaining couple of feet of tile, but remained where she was. “Hi. I—I didn't think anyone else was still up.”
“I've been out here every night about this time,” he said calmly, resting his elbows and forearms on the tile as he gazed up at her.
“Every night? I didn't realize you liked swimming that much.”
“What I don't like is staring at a dark ceiling. Come on in. The water's great.”
Banner forced herself to ignore the implications of his first comment; he probably just meant he was a confirmed insomniac, that was all. At any rate, she was suddenly too busy remembering her scanty swimsuit to think about much else. She considered making some excuse to avoid entering the water, but knew that whatever she said, he'd think she was avoiding him.
If only he wouldn't keep watching her. Once in the water, her suit wouldn't look quite so brief, but standing here in full view of God and everybody—
“What's wrong?” Then, in a suddenly altered voice, he added, “I can leave if you'd rather swim alone.”
“No. No, of course not.” Banner walked to the edge of the pool at right angles to him, where wide steps led down into the shallow end. Trying to move as quickly as possible without looking as if s
he were hurrying, she pulled the long caftan up over her head, tossed it aside, and stepped down into the water.
She didn't look toward Rory, still at the side and utterly motionless, but instead struck out for the far end, swimming the length of the pool in her easy, graceful crawl. She swam back until her feet touched bottom in the shallow end, standing upright, so that the surface of the water came just to her breasts.
“You're right,” she said breathlessly to the man who still hadn't moved. “The water is great.”
“So's that suit.”
Banner knew that it was hardly possible, anatomically speaking, for a heart to turn over; she wondered vaguely what actually happened to that organ to produce such a peculiar feeling. And she stood very still, because there had been something in his voice, an oddly taut, leashed quality, that warned her this moment was a dangerous one.
“Another thing that would have tried Rhett's patience,” he added huskily.
Banner managed a shaky laugh. “I only wear it when I'm—when I think I'll be alone. For sunbathing.”
He left the side, moving toward her until he stood just an arm's length away. “There's no sun now,” he pointed out.
“But I thought I'd be alone.”
“Don't ask me to leave.”
It was half command and half plea. Banner found herself staring, almost hypnotized, at the broad expanse of his chest. It should have been unthreateningly familiar to her after a week of morning swims, but it seemed to her then that she'd never really looked before. Never really let herself look before. Now she saw the sleek, dark gold mat of hair covering tanned, muscled flesh, and swallowed hard.
“Rory, I—”
“Do you know,” he interrupted, stepping even closer, “what I first noticed about you? Green eyes and an impossibly tiny waist. I thought: Scarlett O'Hara, for heaven's sake! But with you around, she'd never have been the belle of three counties.”