by Nora Roberts
was also too tall, skinny, all eyes and elbows, and eleven years old. I passed them one day, devastated because he was carrying her books, and he called out ‘Head for the hills, it’s Pocahontas.’ That did it, I was a woman scorned. I planned my revenge. I went home and got the small scissors my mother used for mending, painted my face with her best lipstick, and returned to stalk my prey.
“I crept up behind him stealthily, patiently waiting for the right moment. Springing like a panther, I knocked my quarry to the ground, holding him down with my body and cutting off as much hair as I could grab. He screamed, but I showed no mercy. Then my brothers came and dragged me off and he escaped, running like the coward he was, home to his mother.”
Bret’s laughter ran out as he threw back his head. “What a monster you must have been!”
“I paid for it.” She lifted the glass of wine that Bret had poured during her story. “I got the tanning of my life, but it was worth it. Martin wore a hat for weeks.”
Their pizza arrived, and through the meal their conversation was more companionable and relaxed than Hillary would have believed possible. When the last piece was consumed, Bret leaned back and regarded her seriously.
“I’d never have believed you could eat like that.”
She grinned, relaxed by the combination of wine, good food, and easy company. “I don’t often, but when I do, I’m exceptional.”
“You’re a constant amazement. I never know what to expect. A study of contradictions.”
“Isn’t that why you hired me, Bret?” She used his name for the first time voluntarily without conscious thought. “For my versatility?”
He smiled, lifted his glass to his lips, and left her question unanswered.
Hillary felt her earlier nervousness return as they walked down the carpeted hall toward her apartment. Determined to remain calm, she bent her head to fish out her keys, using the time to assume a calm veneer.
“Would you like to come in for coffee?”
He took the keys from her hand, unlocked the door, and gave her a slow smile. “I thought you didn’t drink coffee.”
“I don’t, but everyone else in the world does, so I keep some instant.”
“With the Scotch, no doubt,” he said leading her into the apartment.
Removing her jacket, Hillary assumed the role of hostess. “Sit down. I’ll have coffee out in a minute.”
He had shed his own coat, carelessly dropping it down over the arm of a chair. Once more she was aware of the strong build beneath the dark blue rib-knit sweater and close-fitting slacks. She turned and made for the kitchen.
Her movements were deft and automatic as she set the kettle on the burner and removed cups and saucers from cupboards. She set a small sugar bowl and creamer on the glass and wicker tray, and prepared tea for herself and coffee for the man in her living room. She moved with natural grace to the low table, to set the ladened tray down. She smiled with professional ease at the tall man who stood across the room leafing casually through her collection of record albums.
“Quite an assortment.” He addressed her from where he stood, looking so at ease and blatantly masculine that Hillary felt her veneer cracking rapidly and fought back a flutter of panic. “Typical of you though,” he went on, sparing her from the necessity of immediate comment. “Chopin when you’re romantic, Denver when you’re homesick, B. B. King when you’re down, McCartney when you’re up.”
“You sound like you know me very well.” She felt a strange mixture of amusement and resentment that he had pinpointed her mood music with such uncanny accuracy.
“Not yet,” he corrected, putting down an album and coming over to join her. “But I’m working on it.”
Suddenly, he was very close, and there was an urgent need in Hillary to be on a more casual footing. “Your coffee’s getting cold.” She spoke quickly and bent to remove the clutter from the tray, dropping a spoon in her agitation. They bent to retrieve it simultaneously, his strong, lean fingers closing over her fine-boned hand. At the contact a current of electricity shot down her arm and spread through her body, and her eyes darkened to midnight. She raised her face to his.
There were no words as their eyes met, and she realized the inevitability of the movement. She knew they had been drifting steadily toward this since the first day in Larry’s studio. There was a basic attraction between them, an undefinable need she did not pause to question as he lifted her to her feet, and she stepped into his arms.
His lips were warm and gentle on hers as he kissed her slowly, then with increasing pressure, his tongue parted her lips, and his arms tightened around her, crushing her breasts against the hardness of his chest. Her arms twined around his neck. She responded as she had never responded to any man before. The thought ran through her clouded brain that no one had ever kissed her like this, no one had ever held her like this. Then all thought was drowned in a tidal wave of passion.
She made no resistance as she felt herself lowered onto the cushions of the couch, her mouth still the captive of his. The weight of his body pushed hers deep into the sofa as his legs slid between hers, making no secret of his desire. His mouth began to roam, exploring the smooth skin of her neck. The fire of a new and ageless need raged through her veins. She felt the thudding of a heart—hers or his, she could not tell—as his lips caressed her throat and face before meeting hers with possessing hunger. His hand moved under her sweater to cup the breast that swelled under his touch. She sighed and moved under him.
She was lost in a blaze of longing such as she had never known, responding with a passion she had kept buried until that moment, as his lips and hands moved with expertise over her warm and willing body.
His hands moved to the flatness of her stomach, and when she felt his fingers on the snap of her jeans, she began to struggle against him. Her protests were ignored, his mouth devouring hers, then laying a trail of heat along her throat.
“Bret, please don’t. You have to stop.”
He lifted his head from the curve of her neck to look into the deep pools of her eyes, huge now with fear and desire. His own breathing was ragged. She knew a sharp fear that the decision to stop or go on would be taken out of her hands.
“Hillary,” he murmured, and bent to claim her lips again, but she turned her head and pushed against him.
“No, Bret, no more.”
A long breath escaped from his lips as he removed his body from hers, standing before removing a cigarette from the gold case he had left on the table. Hillary sat up, clutching her hands together in her lap, keeping her head lowered to avoid his eyes.
“I knew you were many things, Hillary,” he said after expelling a swift and violent stream of smoke. “I never thought you were a tease.”
“I’m not!” she protested, her head snapping up at the harshness of his tone. “That’s unfair. Just because I stopped, just because I didn’t let you …” Her voice broke. She was filled with confusion and embarrassment, and a perverse longing to be held again in his arms.
“You are not a child,” he began with an anger that caused her lips to tremble. “What is the usual outcome when two people kiss like that, when a woman allows a man to touch her like that?” His eyes were dark with barely suppressed fury, and she sat mutely, having been unprepared for the degree his temper could reach. “You wanted me as much as I wanted you. Stop playing games. We’ve both been well aware that this would happen eventually. You’re a grown woman. Stop behaving like an innocent young girl.”
The remark scored, and the telltale flush crept to her cheeks before she could lower her lashes to conceal painful discomfort. Bret gaped at her, anger struggling with stunned disbelief. “Good heavens, you’ve never been with a man before, have you?”
Hillary shut her eyes in humiliation, and she remained stubbornly silent.
“How is that possible?” he asked in a voice tinged with reluctant amusement. “How does a woman reach the ripe old age of twenty-four with looks like yours and remain
as pure as the driven snow?”
“It hasn’t been all that difficult,” she muttered, and looked anywhere in the room but at him. “I don’t normally let things get so out of hand.” She made a small, helpless shrug.
“You might let a man know of your innocence before things get out of hand,” he advised caustically, crushing out his cigarette with undue force.
“Maybe I should paint a red V for virgin on my forehead—then there’d be no confusion.” Hillary flared, lifting her chin in bold defiance.
“You know, you’re gorgeous when you’re angry.” He spoke coolly, but the steel vibrated in his tone, casual elegance wrapped around a volatile force. “Watch yourself, or I’ll have another go at changing your status.”
“I don’t think you would ever stoop to forcing a woman,” she retorted as he moved to pick up his jacket.
Pausing, he turned back to her, gray eyes narrowing into slits as he hauled her to her feet, possessing her again until her struggles had transformed into limp clinging.
“Don’t count on it.” His voice was deadly soft as he gave her a firm nudge back onto the couch. “I make a point of getting what I want.” His eyes moved lazily over her slim body, pausing on the lips still soft from his. “Make no mistake,” he went on as she began to tremble under his prolonged gaze. “I could have you here and now without forcing, but”—he moved to the door—“I can afford to wait.”
Chapter Four
For the next few weeks shooting moved along with few complications. Larry was enthusiastic about the progress that was being made and brought Hillary a file of work prints so that she could view the fruits of their labor.
Studying the pictures with a professional objectivity, she admitted they were excellent, perhaps the best work Larry and she had done together or separately. There was a touch of genius in his choice of angles and lighting, using shadows and filters with a master hand. Added to this was Hillary’s ability to assume varied roles. The pictures were already beginning to form a growing study of womanhood. They were nearly halfway through the planned shooting. If everything continued to go as well, they would be finished ahead of schedule. Bret was now planning a crash publication, which would put the issue on the stands in early spring.
Sessions would resume following the Thanksgiving weekend, while the art director and staff, with Bret’s approval, began the selection of what would be printed in the final copy. Hillary was grateful for the time off, not only for the rest, but for the separation from the man who filled her thoughts and invaded her dreams.
She had expected some constraint between them when she returned to work after their evening together, but Bret had greeted her in his usual way, so casually, in fact, that she thought for a moment that she had imagined the feel of his lips on hers. There was no mention of their meal together or the scene that followed, while he slipped with apparent ease into the partly professional, partly mocking attitude he invariably directed toward her.
It was not as simple a task for Hillary to mirror his nonchalance after the emotions he had awakened in her—emotions that had laid sleeping within her until his touch had brought them to life—but outwardly she displayed a casualness at odds with her inner turmoil.
All in all, the remainder of the shooting time passed easily, and if Larry was forced to admonish her from time to time to relax and not to scowl, he was characteristically preoccupied and saw nothing amiss.
Hillary stood staring from the window of her apartment, her state of mind as bleak as the scene that greeted her. The late November sky was like lead, casting a depressing spell over the city, the buildings and skyscrapers taking on a dismal hue. Leaves had long since deserted the trees, leaving them naked and cheerless, and the grass, where sidewalks made room for it, had lost its healthy green tone, looking instead a sad, dreary yellow. The somberness of the day suited her mood precisely.
A sudden wave of homesickness washed over her, a strong desire for golden wheat fields. Moving to the stereo, she placed a Denver album on the turntable, halting in her movements when the image of Bret standing in the very spot she now occupied swept through her mind. The memory of the hardness of his body against hers and the intimacy briefly shared filled her with a painful longing, replacing homesickness. With a flash of insight, she realized that her attraction for him was more than physical. She switched on the player, filling the room with soft music.
Falling in love had not been in her plans, she reminded herself, and falling for Bret was out of the question, now or ever. That road would lead nowhere but to disaster and humiliation. But she could not quiet the voice that hammered in her brain telling her it was already too late. She sank down in a chair, confusion and depression settling over her like a fog.
It had grown late when Hillary let herself into her apartment after having joined Lisa and Mark for Thanksgiving dinner. The meal had been superb, but she had hidden her lack of appetite under the guise of keeping a careful watch on her figure. She had hidden her depression and concentrated on appearing normal and content. As she closed the door behind her, she breathed a sigh of relief, at last removing the frozen smile and relaxing. Before she could move to the closet to hang up her coat, the phone rang.
“Hello.” Her voice reflected her weariness and annoyance.
“Hello, Hillary. Been out on the town?”
There was no need for the caller to identify himself. Hillary recognized Bret immediately, glad that the thumping of her heart was not audible over the wire.
“Hello, Mr. Bardoff.” She schooled her voice to coolness. “Do you always call your employees so late?”
“Grouchy, aren’t we?” He seemed unperturbed. The thrill of hearing his voice warred with irritation at his composure. “Did you have a nice day?”
“Lovely,” she lied. “I’m just home from having dinner with a friend. And you?”
“Spectacular. I’m very fond of turkey.”
“Did you call to compare menus or was there something on your mind?” Her voice grew sharp at the picture of Bret and Charlene enjoying a beautifully catered dinner in elegant surroundings.
“Oh, yes, I’ve something on my mind. To begin with, I had thought to share a holiday drink with you, if you still have that bottle of Scotch.”
“Oh.” Her voice cracked, panic-filled. Clearing her throat, she stumbled on. “No, I mean, yes, I have the Scotch, but it’s late and …”
“Afraid?” he interrupted quietly.
“Certainly not,” she snapped. “I’m just tired. I’m on my way to bed.”
“Oh, really?” She could hear the amusement in his voice.
“Honestly.” To her disgust, she felt herself blushing. “Must you continually make fun of me?”
“Sorry.” His apology lacked conviction. “But you will insist on taking yourself seriously. Very well, I won’t dip into your liquor supply.” Pausing, he added, “Tonight. I’ll see you Monday, Hillary, sleep well.”
“Good night,” she murmured, filled with regret as she replaced the receiver. Glancing around the room, she felt a swift desire to have him there, filling the emptiness with the excitement of his presence. She sighed and pushed at her hair, realizing she could hardly call him back and issue the invitation had she known where to reach him.
It’s better this way, she rationalized, better to avoid him whenever possible. If I’m going to get over this infatuation, distance is my best medicine. He’ll tire soon enough without encouragement. I’m sure he gets an ample supply of it from other quarters. Charlene is more his style, she went on, digging at the wound. I could never compete with her sophistication, I haven’t the knack. She probably speaks French and knows about wines and can drink more than one glass of champagne before she starts to babble.
On Saturday Hillary met Lisa for lunch, hoping the short outing would boost her flagging spirits. The elegant restaurant was crowded. Spotting Lisa at a small table, Hillary waved and made her way through the room.
“Sorry, I know I’m late,” Hi
llary apologized, picking up the menu set before her. “Traffic was dreadful, and I had a terrible time getting a cab. Winter’s definitely on its way. It’s freezing out there.”
“Is it?” Lisa grinned. “It feels like spring to me.”
“Love has apparently thrown you off balance. But,” she added, “even if it’s affected your brain, it’s done wonders for the rest of you. I believe you could glow in the dark.”
The blissful smile that lighted Lisa’s face was a heart-catching sight, and Hillary’s depression evaporated.
“I know my feet haven’t touched the ground in weeks. I guess you’re sick of watching me float around.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s given me a tremendous lift watching you light up like a neon sign.”
The two women ordered their meal, slipping into the easy camaraderie they enjoyed.
“I really should find a friend with warts and a hooked nose,” Lisa commented.
Hillary’s fork paused on its journey to her mouth. “Come again?”
“The most fascinating man just came in. I might as well be invisible for all the attention he paid me. He was too busy staring at you.”
“He’s probably just looking for someone he knows.”
“He’s got someone he knows hanging on to his arm like an