A Season for Love (12 page)

She could honestly say that she had loved Jamie. And Pieter had a part of her heart that he would hold forever, Yet neither began to compare with the intensity of emotion she felt for Drake. His touch stirred senses she hadn't known existed; the mere sight or sound of him sent her mind reeling. But it was more than a physical draw. During that one day that now played havoc upon her world in memory, she had come to love him for the man he was, for the honesty of his word and his actions, for the tenderness only a man of his character could freely display

Damn it! she thought with annoyance. It wasn't safe to think about anything anymore! All roads led to Drake O'Hara.

"Goodness, woman! How the hell do you stay so thin eating like that?"

Ronnie's eyes flew to the doorway, where Drake stood, dressed in a casual short-sleeved shirt and black pants, one hand stuck in a pocket, the other bracing his frame as he lightly leaned against oak paneling. His lips were curled in a half-smile that tilted his mustache to a rakish angle, making the harsh contours of his face devilishly charming.

She wondered if the look was a form of peace treaty. He acted as if they had never exchanged words—or anything else for that matter.

Determined not to be the one to cast oil upon still waters, Ronnie answered him with the polite truth. "I don't usually get quite this carried away."

Drake smiled in return and walked to the buffet to pour himself a cup of coffee. Lifting the silver pot, he arched a brow to her. "Can I refill your cup?"

"Please." Ronnie pushed her coffee cup forward and watched as the dark liquid rose in a cloud of steam. She added cream and sugar to her coffee as Drake sat in the chair beside hers.

"This is a beautiful place," Drake commented.

"Thank you."

"Where are you really from?"

Ronnie shot him a wary glance, but the question was straightforward. At her look his lips curled even further, lightening his eyes. "I mean, you are from the South."

Slightly amused by her own rush to be defensive, Ronnie suppressed a full-scale grin and nodded. "Durham, North Carolina."

"Did Pieter choose Charleston for you?"

"No," Ronnie told him, glad for the comfortable normalcy of their conversation. "He owned this place long before I met him. I believe he bought it on his first trip to the States."

"Well," Drake mused, idly stirring his spoon in his coffee, "you fit it well. But then you also—" He stopped, and Ronnie bit her lip. His first nontaunting compliment had been unintentionally marred. She was sure he had been about to say that she had also looked well upon the cruise ship.

Not wanting to let the easy repartee that had come between them dissipate, Ronnie ignored the abrupt end of his statement.

She lifted her cup and sipped her coffee musingly. "I've never been to Chicago. What is it like?"

"New York"—Drake grinned —"except that it's Chicago."

Ronnie laughed, and Drake went on to describe the city, extolling the virtues of the midwestern metropolis, but also giving a blunt appraisal of the problems and drawbacks. "It's a good city for artists," he ended. "The community supports the theater and the visual arts."

Ronnie chewed thoughtfully on a last piece of cheese blintz. "Charleston is much smaller, but I would say it's a supportive community." She found herself talking about the charm of southern living, unaware that she became more and more animated as she spoke, and beautifully charming. Drake again found himself fascinated by her voice and her every movement. She was such a complex creature. So cold with that tragic reserve, part warm with a wealth of spirit and vitality. He began to forget his reason for seeking her out.

"Ah, I've found you both!" Pieter broke in from the doorway. "Ready?"

"Yes, I am!" Drake declared, rising and moving to Ronnie to pull back her chair. "Ronnie?"

She glanced to her husband with a hint of confusion.

"The sitting," Pieter explained with a hint of exasperation. "I'd like to work now. The afternoons drain me, I'm afraid."

"Oh," Ronnie murmured uneasily. She rose and followed Pieter with no further comment, her spine straight, her shoulders squared. She knew now why Drake had called his unspoken truce and she wasn't sure whether to be grateful or suspicious. He had known the idea of posing before him and Pieter had disturbed her, and he had tried to ease the situation. But had it been an act of kindness, or was it self-beneficial?

It really didn't matter. An hour later Ronnie had already endured the misery she had expected, and had withdrawn from it, setting her mind as far away as possible. She was posed upon a settee, holding her position exactly as she had been long and laboriously trained to do. A single movement could send Pieter into a tirade.

Stiff muscles meant nothing to him in his pursuit of art. When she modeled, Ronnie knew, she lost her identity completely. She was nothing more than a tool to Pieter. He would set her up with fingers of ice and bark commands until she was perfect in his mind's eye.

Today had been worse than usual.

She was actually clad with a fair amount of respectability. She held her drapery high over her breasts, and Pieter had tucked it securely over her legs. Only her back was visible, but it was a visibility that would inherently make one nervous. To turn one's back on anyone for any length of time was to feel uncomfortably vulnerable. Especially when that back was the topic of conversation. Pieter was instructing Drake in planes and angles and curves. Clinically. She might have been an inanimate object . . . and certainly not his wife.

All her reserves of inner strength were called upon as Pieter asked Drake to learn by sense of touch. And she had to wonder sickly as she stared straight ahead, not breathing, blinking, or daring to move an eye covertly what Drake was thinking and feeling as his hands moved over her back, their touch fire to

Pieter's ice She was amazed that her body followed the strict 
dictates of her mind, and that she neither flinched nor constricted into a mass of helpless quivers.

But finally, after vaguely listening to two hours worth of discussion on her own contours and the virtues of Venetian pink marble, Pieter let out a drawn sigh. "I believe I've pushed a bit too far. We'll quit for the day."

A haze of grateful tears welled in Ronnie's eyes to be instantly flicked away. She fought the urge to gather her drapery and shoot from the room like a bat out of hell and rose gracefully instead, calmly heading for the door. She even risked a cool glance in Drake's direction, but his eyes were on the tools he was 
carefully cleaning. Thank God for small favors. . . .

* * *

By the end of the week, however, Ronnie had learned to be grateful for Drake's presence in the studio. She had sneezed once, and Pieter's chisel had gone flying across the room. Drake's shocked stare had brought Pieter to the instant contrition he normally wouldn't have found for hours.

The entire house seemed to breathe new life with Drake in it. Although Ronnie was careful never to see him alone, she began to look forward to mealtimes, when she knew she would see him. Since the moments they had shared at the breakfast table on the day after his arrival, he had made every effort to be constantly cordial, if distant. And now that the initial shock of his arrival had subsided, Ronnie had regained the composure to act the collected hostess of her training and old-time southern background. She learned a new discipline, one that allowed her to be remotely yet perfectly polite while still enjoying the sight and sound of Drake's lean body and the mellow twang of his deep voice when he spoke.

The nights were still hell. She couldn't forget the fact that he slept just down the hall, and her body would burn as she tossed and turned, engulfed with longing, yet awash with shame. Sometimes when she finally slept, she would awaken again with a start, and she knew that she expected—and hoped—Drake had entered the room. And it was so stupid, because she also knew he would never enter again, and that if he did, it would be senseless. He wanted no further part of her; he had made that clear. And even if he did want her, she couldn't want him. . . .

It was a pity that the existence she had learned to tolerate with complacency had been so completely shattered.

Pieter cut the session extremely short on Friday morning. Startled, Ronnie took an uneasy look at her husband.

His skin had turned a terrible gray pallor; his hands, when he did not hold them behind his back, trembled with palsy. The health he had been clinging to since Drake's arrival was surely draining from him, and Ronnie knew he was hanging on to his last reserves of strength until he could be alone. He would not want Drake to see him feeble and in the chair.

Knowing her husband, Ronnie began to excuse herself, tallying an account of the things she had to do.

"Forget it, Ronnie." Pieter waved aside her plans. "We've offered Drake so little! I'd like you to take him for a ride around the island today. He's an expert horseman—I'm sure you'll find him up to our most rugged paths."

Ronnie had no doubt that Drake would be an expert horseman; she bitterly decided he would be an expert at anything he chose to do. But she couldn't think of a more trying afternoon than being alone in his company.

"Pieter, perhaps I should be here," she began tentatively.

"For what?" he demanded, his voice sharp. He couldn't tolerate a statement that he might need her.

"It's up to you, Ronnie," Drake interjected smoothly, intuitively stopping a battle before it could begin. His dark devillike eyes looked into hers with the briefest glint of understanding, "I would very much enjoy a good look at the island, but if you do have plans—"

"Nonsense," Pieter declared. "Ronnie has no plans that cannot wait."

"Ronnie?" Drake persisted.

"I'll be happy to accompany you for a ride around the island," Ronnie said uneasily, covertly watching Pieter. She would have promised anyone a ride in a spaceship to ease the tension and the sunken grayness of Pieter's skin, which was increasing by the second. "I'll, uh, need about fifteen minutes. I'll meet you by the stables."

"Fine," Drake agreed, his face troubled, his eyes on Pieter.

But Pieter was watching neither of them. He was attentively studying the work Drake had done for the day. Realizing he was being watched by them both, he looked up with a short laugh. "That's amazing," he murmured, his hands moving reverently over the marble.

"Oh? What's that?" Drake queried, striding to join Pieter and glance down at his own creation with a puzzled frown.

"Those dimples," Pieter muttered. His eyes were still downcast over the marble, so neither Ronnie nor Drake saw the pensive speculation that lurked within them. "Those dimples beneath the spine... you've captured them in a stunning essence, and I hadn't even realized the draping was that low."

Ronnie stood dead still, hoping Pieter hadn't heard the horrible rasping of her indrawn breath, and hoping that Drake would answer suavely. . . .

He did. There wasn't a fraction of a second's hesitation before he smoothly chuckled in return. "The draping
wasn't
that low. I was taking a little artistic license, I'm afraid." His expression became suitably sheepish. "I suppose I haven't reached the point where artistic license is in order, but the chisel just seemed to go that way."

"No, no," Pieter protested, "you have done excellent work. The intuition was marvelous. I think you are wasting your time in the business side of the field."

"Thank you," Drake said quietly.

Ronnie sprang into action. "I'll go change," she murmured swiftly, gliding to the door. Turning for a moment of uncertainty, she kept her eyes blank and unwavering. "Pieter, shall I get you anything first?"