For the first time his departure didn’t bother her. He was going home. She felt she was home. This place was hers as no other house she had ever lived in had been. In part it was because the responsibility of its care rested on her shoulders, in part because here she was fully responsible for herself. There was no maid to cook or clean or make the bed, no handyman/chauffeur to open and close windows, to bring deck chairs in from the rain, to lock up at night. She did everything herself, when and how she wanted, and she loved it. She felt confident and capable and thoroughly self-satisfied. She felt free.
The first thing she did after Blake left was to drive into town to buy food, then to stop at a local shop and pick up several pairs of jeans and some T-shirts. There was a certain perverse pleasure in wearing Kennebunkport plastered across her chest; she had never done anything as…as plebeian before, but then, she’d never wanted to be a part of the crowd before. The chic shops she patronized in Boston and New York would never have dreamed of carrying either the knockabout sandals or no-name sneakers she bought, a fact that made these items all the more valuable to her. Moreover, she totally enjoyed the salespeople who helped her and spent a startling amount of time talking with them, such that it was nearly dark when she finally returned to the house.
Too dark to seek Michael out. And on a Saturday night, not right. After all, the man might not be married or otherwise attached, but he still had to date. He was human. Very male. Certainly sought after by women.
Hence, it was midday Sunday when she finally felt it fair to intrude upon his weekend. Donning one of her new T-shirts, the sneakers and a pair of the jeans she had spent the previous night washing and drying three times, she set out across the beach. She had never seen his house. It was time she did.
Set at the end of a winding road in a way hers was not, the house was perched above the rocks and was sheltered by numerous clumps of pitch pines that kept it hidden from view until well after she passed the familiar boulders. A stairway of stone, guarded by a weathered handrail, had been etched from the rocks and led to the deck. There wasn’t a back door, only a screen where the glass slider had been opened. Given the brightness of the day, she couldn’t see inside.
She started across the deck, then, unsure for the first time, moistened her lips and wondered if she was being too forward. Previously Michael had done the approaching and it had been on the beach, a casual enough place for an encounter with a friend.
Then she caught herself. He was a friend, and had he been a she, Danica doubted she would feel any of the hesitancy she did now. It was just going to take some getting used to—this close friendship with a man—she told herself.
Bolstered by that understanding and by the sheer excitement of seeing him again, she approached the screen, shaded her eyes from the outside glare with one hand and peered inside.
“Michael?” she called softly. She heard voices, but it was too late to turn back. “Michael?” Slightly louder. She still couldn’t see a thing.
Then she did. The man himself. Approaching the screen, sliding it back, surprise and pleasure lighting his face.
“Danica!”
She smiled, feeling as pleased as he looked. “I just, uh, just wanted to say hello.”
He took a caressive hold of her shoulder. “You’re back.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Looks that way.”
“That’s great,” he said softly, taking in her features before slowly lowering his gaze and arching a brow in amusement. “You’ve been shopping.”
“Uh-huh.” She glanced down. “What do you think? Will I fit in?”
“You would fit in anywhere. God, you look great!” The sound came from deep in his throat, a near growl that made her believe every word contained therein.
“So do you.”
He was wearing a velour robe that reached midthigh, and nothing else. Danica couldn’t seem to drag her eyes from his legs, which were long and lean and spattered with the same tawny hair that escaped the robe at his chest.
Her appraisal was enough to startle him into realization of his disheveled state, and he swore under his breath. “Hell, I’m a mess!” Before she could argue, he held up a hand and commanded, “Wait here.” He was halfway through the living room before he turned and hurried back to grab her hand and draw her into the house. When at his urging she slid into a chair, he popped a kiss on the top of her head. “I’ll be right back.” Then he was gone, leaving her grinning, which seemed to be a common affliction when she was with him, she mused.
His brief absence gave Danica time to look around, which she did with interest. The armchair she sat on, its mate and a matching sofa were of soft, aged leather that looked rich and well-worn, and wore the haphazardly strewn Sunday paper with flair. In the center of the room stood a low table of slate that matched both the fireplace and the floor. The latter was softened by a large and handsome area rug of Scandinavian design.
Very clearly, there had been a method to the basic decor, but basic was where the method stopped. For on every table, every wall, every shelf and the mantel were diverse assortments of plaques, masks, pieces of art and other memorabilia she guessed to have come from his travels.
Those that were within her reach she studied closely—a limestone burial jar, an ancient elephant tusk, a copper fish she guessed to be of Mayan design. Then she sat back and scanned the room again, marveling that one man could have amassed such an exotic collection.
By contrast, the small television, which rested atop the counter separating living room from kitchen, seemed mundane. It was, she realized, the source of the voices she’d heard when she first crossed the deck. But there was nothing mundane—or so the indoctrination went—about the program that was on.
Just then Michael reappeared wearing jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He looked freshly showered and shaven, and his hair was damp but combed. He looked wonderful.
“That was fast,” she breathed. “I always thought it took at least fifteen minutes for a man to shave, but I haven’t been here more than five.”
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting even that long. If I’d known you were coming…” He grew hesitant. “I saw both cars in the driveway and thought you’d be busy at least till tonight.”
“Blake had to be back in Boston last night. I would have come by sooner, but I wasn’t sure if you’d be free.”
Her suggestion was subtle but too obvious to ignore. “I did go out last night, but it was an early evening.” He’d tried; oh, yes, he’d tried. But no other woman seemed to measure up to the one before him now.
Danica cast a glance at the television, which was still on. “It looks like I’ve disturbed you anyway.”
“Are you kidding?” Padding barefoot across the stone floor, he flipped off the set. “I turn this on more out of habit than anything.”
“Face the Nation? Shame on you. No Sunday is complete without it.”
At her lightly mocking tone, he felt instant sympathy. “That’s how it is?”
“You bet. Nothing, and I do mean nothing, comes between my men and Face the Nation.”
“We’re not all like that,” Michael said, pushing aside the business section to sit on the sofa not far from her. Then he looked back down at the paper, gathered it and several nearby sections and tossed them onto another pile on the table. “Sorry about this. Living alone, I get carried away.”
“Don’t apologize. I love the way things look.”
“Now you are kidding.”
“Uh-uh. It’s refreshing.” How often she used that word to describe things to do with Michael! “In my house the paper never gets a chance to be scattered. Blake keeps everything in neat piles, and if something by chance does get out of order, Mrs. Hannah is right there to straighten it.” Another dig at Blake, and she felt quickly contrite. Yet she could neither apologize nor take the words back. Michael inspired an honesty in her, an impulsiveness she couldn’t deny. She was just going to have to be more careful. After all, she really didn’t
want to malign Blake. He was her husband.
“Anyway,” she sighed, looking around her, “I love your house. I’ve never seen it before.”
“It’s not much different in design from yours.”
“No, but it looks lived in.”
“It looks messy, is what it does.”
She shook her head. There was so much to see here; by comparison, her own house seemed stark. “Lived in, and very happily so. These are all souvenirs of your escapades?”
“Yup.” When she rose from the chair and crossed the room to gently finger one of a pair of unusually shaped iron candlesticks that stood on the mantel, he explained that they were from Portugal and that he had been studying emigration patterns when he found them. When she moved on to examine a hand-carved Mexican lava ball, then a pair of Majorcan grinding rollers, he told of their acquisitions, as well.
What he really wanted was to learn more about her home life, her husband, the frustrations she felt. But she was so enthused about the collection of hats on the wall, the cluster of baskets in the corner, the bronze Japanese vase on the table, that he found himself wrapped up in telling her one story, then another and another.
“You lead such an exciting life,” she breathed, returning to sink down into the chair at last. Her face was glowing, as though for that little bit of time she had lived the excitement with him.
He knew then that that was what he wanted her to do, though he knew that life with her would be exciting in very different kinds of ways.
“It looks like you’ve been all around the world!” she exclaimed.
“Almost. There are still some places I’d like to see.” He paused. “You must have done your own share of traveling.”
She shrugged. “Some, but to none of the out-of-the-way places you’ve been.”
“You didn’t travel with your parents?”
“Only to vacation spots—the Caribbean, Hawaii, Hilton Head.” Once a year, the mandatory family jaunt. “When it came to the truly exotic places, they went alone.”
“Why? Surely it would have been educational for you.”
“You’d think so,” she mused, “but they kept me involved in other activities and assumed I wouldn’t mind.”
“What other activities?”
“School.” She didn’t yet want to go into her tennis years, when every free minute had been spent on the court. She had failed her parents’ expectations there, and to a certain extent, she believed in that failure herself.
Her answer had been pat and was theoretically without argument, yet Michael wasn’t ready to let the subject of her past drop. “Do you travel much with your husband?”
Her eyes clouded then. “I used to. He’d take me on business trips—in this country and abroad—and we’d have a few days to ourselves when the business was done. Lately, though, he’s been so busy that it’s just as well he goes alone.”
“He doesn’t have time for you,” Michael stated quietly.
Danica opened her mouth to disagree, then closed it. “You have a way of hitting home, Michael Buchanan,” she murmured.
He reached over to lightly stroke her cheek. “I don’t mean to hurt, but something’s not right.” They both knew they were dealing with the present now. “What man in his right mind would leave his wife on a Saturday night.”
“It was another political thing, and I’m very much in overload when it comes to those. So it was my fault as much as his. If I’d been agreeable, I’d have waited for Monday to drive up.”
“Then he wouldn’t have come at all.”
She didn’t deny that possibility. “He really was helpful. I wanted to bring lots of things with me. He helped carry them in and put them away.”
Michael swallowed the sarcastic remark that was on the tip of his tongue. He knew that to openly criticize Blake at this point might endanger his relationship with Danica. As it was, Blake was the major obstacle standing between them. If that was ever to change, Danica had to be the instigator, not Michael.
Besides, something else interested him, something written between the lines. “How long are you up for this time?” he asked with studied nonchalance. He had dreams, and in those dreams he had made plans. He was tired of being alone. There was lots to do during a summer in Maine. He would settle, albeit regretfully, for a platonic friendship if it meant he might spend more time with Danica.
Her smile sent his hopes soaring. “The summer. The whole summer.”
“The whole summer?”
“Uh-huh. I promised Blake that I’d go back for a day or two now and again, but otherwise I’m here to stay.”
“Will he be up much?”
“He’s very involved with the convention—he and my father, both. It’s important that he be around. He said he’d make it whenever he could, but I’m not sure how often that will be.”
“Was he upset with your coming?”
She crinkled her nose in a gesture that might have answered his question either way. “I think it’ll be easier for him with me up here. He knows that I’m not as enamored with politics as he is.”
“Strange, given who you are.” He thought. “Then again, not strange at all. Rebelling at last?”
She grinned. “It’s about time, don’t you think?”
“I think,” he stated with care, “that it’s good you’re beginning to think of yourself. I also think that I couldn’t be happier.” He paused. “Will Blake mind if I draft his wife to go to the flea market with me today?”
Danica answered his roundabout invitation by beaming. “The flea market! Fun! Are you looking for something special?”
“Just a few hours of relaxation, and it wouldn’t be the same alone.”
“You may not believe this, but I’ve never been to a flea market.”
She was right; he didn’t believe it. “Never?”
“Well, maybe an open-air market in London or Venice. But those were different, and they were very much souvenir-hunting excursions. I’ve never been to a real country flea market, and certainly never just for the sake of enjoyment.”
“Well, pretty lady,” Michael drawled, rolling to his feet and drawing her up with him, “you’re in for an afternoon to remember.” He was holding her hand, looking down at her, and suddenly he paused, all amusement gone. Her cheeks were flushed, her violet eyes filled with excitement and softness and warmth. He swallowed hard and squeezed her hand. “Danica, will Blake mind?”
“Blake doesn’t know.”
“You haven’t told him about me?” Unable to resist the lure of flaxen silk, he stroked her hair. It was soft and shimmering beneath his fingers.
Giving a nearly imperceptible head shake, she held her breath. She was totally aware of the man before her and knew she should turn and run but was rooted to the spot.
“Why not?” he asked softly.
“You’re my friend,” she whispered. “Blake rules the rest of my life. You’re mine.
Michael closed his eyes. His hand fell to her neck. He lightly kneaded the soft skin there. “Oh, God—” his deep voice trembled, as did his arm “—I’m not sure if I can do this.”
“Do what?” she breathed, though she knew. She felt; she needed; she wanted. And she feared. She feared because what she craved was wrong, forbidden. Still, one part of her had to hear the words. She had to hear that she was wanted, needed in return.
Framing her face with both hands, he looked at her then. She felt the touch of his gaze flow through her like sweet honey, momentarily healing all those bruised and lonely spots left by a lifetime of need. “I’m not sure I can be just your friend, Dani. You mean too much to me.”
She was thrilled; she was scared. Her eyes told of her dilemma, but before she could speak, Michael did.
“I need more. I want to hold you, to touch you. Right now, I want to kiss you.”
She wanted it, too, more than she would ever have believed possible. Blake had never stirred her this way, and she felt a sudden anger at what she had missed. But the an
ger was fleeting because Michael was here with her now, making her forget…almost.
“We can’t,” she gasped, feeling torn apart inside.
“I know. Which is what makes it so unbearable.” Swearing softly, he strode away from her, pausing before the slider, propping his hands low on his hips and dropping his head forward. He was the image of dejection, and Danica felt a new kind of pain.
She started to approach, “Michael…”
He held up a hand, though he didn’t turn. “I have to ask you something.” The hand that had held her off now rubbed the back of his neck. “Why did you come here today?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“Did you know how I felt?”
“I thought…I thought…”
He whirled around, jaw tight. “Didn’t you know after last time that I wanted more? Didn’t you feel it yourself?” Her eyes held the guilt that was answer in itself. “What did you think was going to happen?”
Insides churning, she tried to gather her thoughts. “I was looking forward to seeing you. I thought we could talk like we did before, maybe…see each other from time to time.” She wrapped her arms around her waist in a gesture of self-defense. It hurt when Michael spoke to her this way, even though she knew he was justified in doing so.
He persisted, his ultimate need at the moment being to air all that had been festering in his mind for weeks. “But what did you think would come of it all? Didn’t you wonder how long I’d be able to take being with you without…without…” He didn’t need to finish. He had said it before, and the words only made the wanting that much greater.
“No,” she whispered, frowning in faint surprise. “I never wondered that. I guess I assumed that the fact of my marriage to Blake would be enough to keep us both in line.” She paused, then heard herself go on. She needed to air things, too. “I guess I was thinking of myself. You’re something new to me, Michael. With you I act differently, feel differently.” She lowered her gaze. “I felt something last time. I think I’ve felt things from the beginning.” She looked up and went on with more urgency. “But there’s so much more. I can talk to you. I can relax, be myself. You don’t expect; you simply accept. And I need that.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’ve never had it, and I want it so badly. I suppose, after last time, one part of me knew I was playing with fire by coming up here for the summer, by coming over here today. But I couldn’t help myself! I swear I couldn’t! You have to believe that! I couldn’t help…myself…”
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