by Kay Hooper
Banner tried—she really tried—to fight him on a level not too obvious to the guests. She introduced him to people and then attempted to slip away while he was occupied—which didn't work, since he kept her firmly by his side. She pleaded the duties of a hostess in overseeing the caterers, only to have Rory maintain— accurately—that since everything had been so meticulously planned, no overseeing was necessary.
But she couldn't fight her own response to his touch and his kisses, and even when those guests who'd attended the costume ball spread the word about the midnight waltz and what it meant, she found herself unable to make it clear to their audience that the truth was something very different.
Jake was no help at all, since he only looked benign whenever asked about his granddaughter's future plans, and maintained an overly innocent silence. He had stopped matchmaking, but then—he hardly needed to now.
Nearly crazy beneath the barrage of Rory's conspicuous attentions, Banner's one consolation was the fact—which he made no effort to hide—that it was driving him crazy as well.
He didn't refer to that until the sun was going down and they were, for once that day, relatively alone. He'd found a place for them in a secluded corner of the garden where there was a comfortable wooden bench and a small table to hold their loaded plates.
“Alone at last,” he murmured, smiling at her.
She ignored that. “You,” she said roundly, “are a menace.”
“Never say so, milady.” He kissed her shoulder.
Needing badly to occupy her hands, Banner picked up a barbecued rib and pointed it at him irritably. “A menace. I've been congratulated by total strangers. Three of your business acquaintances from Charleston told me how glad they were that you'd decided to settle down in the area, and one of Jake's oldest friends said he'd been saving his Georgian silver for me for years.”
Rory was unperturbed. “Nice of him, to say the least.”
Banner glared at him.
He laughed softly, then said in a thoughtful tone, “Emeralds would come closest to matching your eyes, but I think diamonds would look best on your lovely hands. What shape d'you prefer?”
“Stop it, Rory.”
“You'd rather have something else?” he asked anxiously.
She dropped the rib back onto her plate and twisted her napkin between her fingers, staring down at her ringless hands. “Stop it.”
His fingers warm on her cheek, Rory turned her face gently toward him. For the first time that day, his expression was grave and the gray eyes had gone dark. “If I hadn't already known,” he said huskily, “today would have shown me how necessary you are to my future.
It's been the most enjoyable, agonizing day of my life, Banner. I have to touch you, d'you realize that? I have to. Even though I know I won't sleep tonight. Even though I know that every touch makes me want you more and more, until I can't think straight. You do that to me, milady.”
Banner was drowning in his eyes, trying desperately to stay afloat. “You—you stopped last night,” she reminded him unsteadily.
He kissed her with an aching hunger all the stronger because of his taut restraint. “Because I love you,” he whispered. “Because I want you to be very sure of what you're doing. Trust me not to hurt you, Banner. Please trust me.”
He kept saying that, she realized confusedly, kept asking for that. But how could he, when he knew what the loss of the Hall would do to her? She could only stare at him mutely.
Rory sighed heavily and sat back, his fingers trailing down her cheek before dropping away reluctantly. He seemed to listen to the music coming faintly from the pool area for a moment, then shook his head as if to rid it of some uneasy thought. “We'd better eat while we've got the chance,” he said dryly. “The party isn't over yet.”
Silently, Banner picked up her fork.
She had wondered more than once why Rory had wanted this party, but somehow hadn't been able to ask him. Maybe that was because she was certain he wouldn't have answered with the truth. And she could think of no good reason herself, unless he simply wanted some of his friends to see the property he would likely buy; but why such an elaborate presentation?
He had introduced her to a good number of his friends and business associates from Charleston and surrounding areas, but none of them seemed aware that he was interested in Jasmine Hall—only that he cared about Banner. And though she was hardly thinking clearly, she saw that Rory's friends—a mixed group of ages and professions—thought a great deal of him. Each seemed sincerely happy that he'd apparently found the woman he wanted, and there was more than one teasing reference as to how happy his mother was going to be.
It wasn't until much later that evening, when the majority of guests were laughingly preparing to climb into hay-filled wagons for the hayride, that Banner finally asked a nervous question.
She gestured toward a man getting into the third wagon along the row—a lawyer acquaintance of Rory's from Charleston—and said, “He wasn't serious, was he? About calling your mother to tell her what her son's up to?”
“If he does, he'll be disappointed,” Rory said cheerfully. “She already knows.”
“What?”
Laughing, he grasped her tiny waist and lifted her into the first wagon before climbing in himself. “I said, ‘She already knows.’” He made himself comfortable in the sweet- smelling hay, then calmly pulled her onto his lap. “I called her days ago.”
Under the noisy cover of people getting into the wagons, she hissed wrathfully, “Damn you, Rory Stewart. You're putting me in an impossible situation.”
He pulled her even closer, the bright moonlight showing her his rueful smile. “I told Mother,” he murmured, “that I'd finally met the right woman and that she was hell-bent on refusing me. Mother was very amused; she can't wait to meet you. As a matter of fact, she'd have been here today, except that she had to be in Atlanta to help my sister with her new baby.”
“I didn't know you had a sister,” Banner said, distracted in spite of herself.
“Mmmm. And a niece and a brand-new nephew. They all want to meet you.”
Banner stirred uneasily, then realized abruptly that certain actions weren't very wise when sitting on a man's lap. His arms tightened around her almost convulsively, and the gray eyes glittered with a sudden flash of fierce emotion.
He groaned softly. “If we were alone…”
But they weren't. Yet, when the wagons moved out, they discovered a curious intimacy between them. In the fragrant hay, the other guests seemed to have found the same thing, for couples sat close together, whispering softly, as if they were in a world of their own. The moonlight was bright, and the creak of the wagons and soft thuds of the teams’ hooves lulled everyone into just relaxing and enjoying the night.
Conscious of his jean-clad thighs beneath her own, Banner found it difficult to relax—particularly since the wagon wheels apparently had minds of their own when it came to finding ruts in the dirt road. Each jolt caused the passengers to sway inevitably, and made Banner tautly conscious of his building desire.
“This isn't very smart,” she breathed, but made no objection when he drew her head down to rest on his shoulder.
“I know. God… I know.” He didn't release her, however. One of his hands dropped to the middle of her thigh, rubbing slowly and rhythmically, while the other gently massaged the nape of her neck.
Banner's eyelids lowered slowly, with the languor of desire rather than sleepiness. She felt a shudder go through him and her breath quickened, matching his. Dazed, she tried to remember that she had known him just a week, tried to recall her belief that love would be a gradual thing. But it was no good. She loved him, and since he had forced her to admit that—to him and to herself—she could no longer ignore it.
She wondered why her trust was clearly so important to him, wondered why he was so determined that the situation with the Hall be resolved before they became—inevitably—lovers. Banner didn't want to wait, because she knew
very well that once the Hall was his, she would have to walk away from him. Her pride would allow nothing else.
And she didn't believe that was what he wanted; she might not be able to trust in his love, but his desire for her was very real, and very strong. No, he wanted them to become lovers as badly as she did. What was it he'd said? That she would come to him?
Banner tried to think it through, tried to figure out why he was waiting, what he was waiting for, but she couldn't. She was too aware of his body and his touch and his desire, and too aware of her own shivering need.
For the first time in her life, she deliberately and consciously pushed the Hall out of her mind.
By the time the wagons had wound their way back to the house, the other occupants had sung half a dozen songs that neither Banner nor Rory heard, and midnight was an hour past. Most of the guests were staying overnight, and as they clambered down from the wagons it became apparent that few were ready to turn in yet; the pool still held a strong appeal.
While the others brushed away clinging strands of hay and started back toward the pool, Banner silently and reluctantly left Rory's lap. She didn't speak until he'd jumped lightly to the ground and reached up to swing her down; then she spoke quickly and huskily, mistrusting her nerve.
“Are you going to turn in, or—”
His hands at her waist, Rory stared down at her for a long, silent moment. He seemed to catch his breath as he gazed on her upturned, moonlit face and wide, consciously inviting eyes, then a rough sigh escaped him.
“No. No—I think I'll join the others at the pool. How about you?”
She heard the reluctance in his hoarse voice, but that didn't soften the blow of rejection. Stepping back until he dropped his hands, she said in a carefully even tone, “I think I'll call it a night. See you in the morning.”
“Good night, milady.”
She turned away and headed quickly for the house, and if she had heard his soft and heartfelt “Damn!” behind her, she might have slept more easily. But she didn't hear, and she hardly slept at all.
Banner skipped breakfast the next morning, although she did come downstairs in time to see off what looked like the last of the guests. Rory was there as well, cheerful as usual, but his facade dropped abruptly when he caught her hand and she tried to pull it away.
“What's wrong?” he asked quietly as they stood in the open doorway and watched cars heading down the long driveway.
“Nothing.” Since he hadn't released her hand, she could hardly turn and walk away, as she wanted to.
“You didn't come down for breakfast.”
“I slept in.”
“Did you?” He turned her suddenly to face him. “There are shadows under your eyes, milady. You didn't sleep at all.”
“Gloating?” she asked evenly.
His free hand came up to cradle the side of her neck. “Is that what you think?” he asked seriously.
Incurably honest, she gave her head a tiny shake. “No.”
“Good,” he said flatly, “because sending you off to bed alone last night was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life.”
“Nobility,” she offered shakily, even while she marveled at the fact that neither of them seemed able to pretend with the other.
He laughed on a sighing breath. “No. Hardly that. I want more than one night from you, Banner. More than one night with you.” A faint light of self- mockery showed in his eyes. “I swam in that damn pool all night; I haven't been to bed at all.”
“It doesn't show,” she murmured, gazing up at him and seeing no signs of too many hours without sleep.
Rory shrugged. “It doesn't with me. Some things don't. Maybe that's why a certain lady could… misunderstand.”
“What else have I … misunderstood?” she wanted to know, her voice soft.
“My priorities,” he said simply. “You come first with me, Banner. Don't ever lose sight of that.”
Before she could respond, Conner had approached with his silent tread and apologetically interrupted them.
“Excuse me, Miss Banner, Mr. Stewart. Mr. Clairmont wonders if the two of you would join him in the library.”
As they turned toward that room, Rory said suddenly, “That reminds me—whatever happened to that book you were going to let me read?”
Shifting her mind to unimportant things, Banner shrugged. “I looked for it the other day, but couldn't find it. Maybe Jake knows where it is.”
“Well, it's not important,” he said, unconsciously echoing her thoughts. “I just wondered.” He halted before opening the library door and carried her hand to his lips. “Trust me,” he added in an entirely different voice.
Banner went into the library as he released her hand and opened the door, wondering why she could never answer a simple yes to that plea. It wasn't as if she didn't want to ….
Two men rose from their chairs as she and Rory entered the room, her grandfather and another man who had introduced himself to her yesterday as a friend of Jake's. His name was David Moore, and he was a silver-haired, sharp-eyed man of about Jake's age.
“Banner,” her grandfather began, “you and Rory have met David, haven't you?”
“Yesterday,” Banner agreed, watching Moore and Rory shake hands; the older man seemed amused, and there was a tiny frown on Rory's face. Before she could think about that, Jake was waving them to chairs and going on briskly.
“David was asking me about something, lass, but I think it's up to you to answer.”
She looked enquiringly at the other man, who seemed a bit uncomfortable. “What is it, Mr. Moore?”
“First of all, Miss Clairmont, I have to apologize for invading your privacy.”
“In what way?” she asked, surprised.
“Well, yesterday during the party, I was wandering around the grounds and happened to stumble onto your little cottage in the woods.” His eyes gleamed with sudden wry laughter. “Being human, and curious, I looked in the window.”
“I see.” Banner smiled at him. “I could hardly not forgive human curiosity, Mr. Moore.”
“Thank you. And what I was asking Jake was whether or not he thought you'd allow me inside that cottage. I would very much like to take a closer look at the painting I saw yesterday.”
Banner was surprised, and it was her turn to be uncomfortable. “You'd be disappointed, I'm afraid. I'm just a hobbyist.”
“Still,” he said persuasively. “I'd like to see it.”
“And so would I,” Jake put in, giving Banner a very old- fashioned look. “From what David tells me, lass, you've been hiding your light under a bushel.”
Banner's eyes sought support from Rory, who merely said in a dry voice, “I've told you what I think of your work.”
“Which is?” Jake asked curiously.
“It's damned good.”
“May I see that portrait?” Moore asked again.
She shrugged helplessly. “Well, I suppose there's no reason why not. But please don't expect too much—whatever Rory says.”
But when the four of them stood in Banner's cottage studio contemplating her portrait of the blond gentleman, Moore didn't seem in the least disappointed. Chin in hand, he stared consideringly at the painting for a long moment.
“Did Rory sit for you?” he asked absently.
Something about the question bothered Banner, but she couldn't pin down exactly what it was. “No. It's ridiculous, I know, but I painted that purely from my imagination.”
He grunted softly, but made no other response to that. He merely said, “I'd like to look at more of your work.”
Puzzled and a bit uneasy, Banner assented. Rory helped her to take canvases from the stacks around the room. They leaned the paintings against the walls or furniture, so that they could be seen. It was Jake who spoke first.
“I'll be damned,” he said, oddly hushed. “Why didn't you show these to me, Banner?”
“After all… it's just a hobby, Jake. It isn't important.” She was increas
ingly bewildered, because none of the men seemed to agree with what appeared so obvious to her.
Moore walked around, picking out half a dozen of the canvases, choosing a variety of subjects, and leaning them all around the easel holding the blond man's portrait. Then he stood back and stared at them for endless moments. “Look at the feeling for color and line,” he murmured, as if to himself. “And life. The detail. And the brushwork is superb.”
“Thank you,” Banner managed to say, stunned by the curious and sudden muted passion in his voice.
He turned to her then, his sharp eyes alight with what looked like excitement. “You've never had a show, Miss Clairmont, and I'd like to give you one.”
“A show?” she said blankly.
“In New York. I have a gallery there.”
“But—” To Banner, this enthusiastic offer was more than a shock. She had never even imagined her work displayed for the public to see and judge. Fear washed over her.
He seemed to see that fear even as she did.
“Miss Clairmont,” he said quietly, “you obviously don't realize it, but you have a very great talent. Artworks are more than a hobby to me— they're my life. And I can promise you that you could name your own price for any or all of these paintings.”
Banner sat down rather suddenly on the tall stool and stared at him. Then she stared at Jake. Then at Rory. All three nodded encouragingly. “I—I don't know what to say,” she murmured finally.
“Say yes,” Moore very nearly pleaded. “I'd consider it an honor to show you and your work to the art world.”
Only dimly aware that her entire life could be changed for good or ill when the public saw her work, Banner took her courage in both hands and nodded. “It's… my honor, Mr. Moore. And thank you.”