A Season for Love (13 page)

"No," Pieter returned abruptly. "Send Henri to me. Then please do not disturb me. I wish to be alone for the day."

Ronnie slid out the door, nodding. He was being rude, as was usually the case when he had his bad bouts, but he wasn't angry. Nor did he seem upset. Apparently he had accepted Drake's knowledge of her anatomy as imagination. As she closed the door she could still hear him speaking with Drake and, if anything, his tone was warmer and more cordial than before.

Pieter's thinking, however, involved more than mere suspicion. He had been watching Drake and Ronnie all week, and today had been the final assurance. He had known Ronnie was in love with Drake shortly after Drake's arrival. She wasn't in any way obvious, but Pieter could remember the way she had looked before Jamie died. That marvelous sparkle of sapphire in her eyes was a giveaway probably only he could fathom. Today he had learned for sure that Drake loved his wife. No, not his wife. He had to stop thinking of her with that title. Somehow he had to force himself to make the break before he could expect her to.

The two had been lovers at some time, Pieter knew. Fate, or coincidence, Drake must have been aboard the cruise. It hurt, he admitted. It hurt badly. And yet he was touched and flattered. Ronnie did care for him deeply. Even with the love that people spent their lives dreaming about within reach, she was refusing to leave him. And he knew the two of them were never intimate in his house.

It was also strangely palatable to lose her to a man like Drake. A lesser man would never have done. His ego wouldn't have tolerated it; there were times when his pride now went raw.

The knuckles in Pieter's bony hands cracked, and he realized how tightly he was clenching his fists. It was time he let her loose. She had never been his, just a loan from compassionate powers. She had given him the strength he now needed. But she was a tigress. Pairing her with a black panther was going to be tricky business, and he would still have to watch himself, because it did hurt.

Once in her room, Ronnie chose to wear her fawn-colored riding habit rather than jeans and a shirt, which she would have preferred. The habit was formal; jeans were not. Formality and distance were essential when she spent time with Drake.

With her hair in a neat knot and her riding cap in place, she zipped up her high black boots, sought out Henri to send for Pieter, and hurried out to the stables to have the horses saddled. Ronnie's mare, Scheherazade, was a gently spirited bay. Sure that Drake was the equestrian of Pieter's compliment, she chose Black Satan, a seventeen-hand magnificent stallion who lived up to his name, to be saddled for him. The two, she decided, matched one another. They were both the devil's own.

There was also a streak of mischief in her choice. Drake would be very busy handling the independent stallion, so busy, he couldn't possibly plague her with questions.

Drake appeared just as the groom was leading the horses to the mounting block. He watched Black Satan prance and snort and toss his well-defined head, then turned to Ronnie with an arched brow and a glint of amusement in his dark eyes.

"Is this an attempt at entertainment"—he chuckled—"or have you determined I have overstayed my welcome on your island? Am I supposed to be cast from the cliffs to the sea?"

Ronnie pursed her lips enigmatically. "I wouldn't think of offering you anything but our finest mount." Spinning in a smart circle, she sprang onto Scheherazade with practiced ease.

Drake shrugged and repeated her action with equal finesse, not losing a shred of confidence as the sleek black horse attempted to sidestep the man mastering him. Drake held the reins with a firm hand as he spoke gently to the animal, in a low tone that soothed but conveyed absolute command. Granting him grudging admiration as chills overcame her from the sound of his voice, tenderly guiding as she had once heard it, Ronnie led her bay out of the stable yard. Drake followed her with Black Satan under perfect control.

"The island covers about two miles," Ronnie said informatively. "We can ride up through the cliffs, or take the beach route. Either is a nice ride—"

"Ronnie."

Twisting her head quizzically at his halting, low tone, she arched a brow in question.

"I want to apologize." His eyes were as darkly fathomless as ever.

"For what?" she demanded shortly.

"For several of the things I said. I can't pretend I'm happy about this situation, or that I could ever condone your behavior, but I know there's more here than meets the eye. I have no right to judge you."

Ronnie kept her eyes glued to the trail in silence. What could she say? But he wanted a response. She heard an impatient oath from him, and then Black Satan trotted up alongside her. The house was far behind them now, hidden from their view by the dense foliage of the rising cliff. Drake passed her, reaching near Scheherazade's muzzle to catch her reins and stop the horse.

"Ronnie!" Drake persisted. "If you would talk to me, I might be able to do something."

"There is nothing that anyone can do," Ronnie said flatly, sighing as the horses strained at their bits. She raised her eyes imperiously. "I thank you for being so quick to assure Pieter. ..." Then anger suddenly overtook her cool resolve. "What in the hell possessed you to sculpt—to sculpt—"

"More than met the eye?" Drake provided laconically. "I didn't do it on purpose, I promise you. I just knew, and my hands—"

"You sound like Pieter," Ronnie said with unintentional bitterness. "The hands of the artist just move."

Drake shrugged. "Something like that." His voice went hard and grim. "But I told you once I would never intentionally cause Pieter any pain. Whether you want to admit it to me or not, the man is dying. That is why I find it so terribly difficult to understand you."

"I don't remember asking you to understand me," Ronnie replied smoothly.

"No," Drake responded critically, adding in curt reminder, "but you are asking other things of me."

"Could you let go of my horse's reins, please?" Ronnie asked, preferring to ignore his statement. "I think we should take the beach path."

He had barely released his grip before she hugged her knees tightly to Scheherazade's ribs. The animal, attuned to her mistress's lightest touch, broke immediately into a smooth canter.

The black stallion was not far behind.

"Ronnie!"

Ignoring Drake's demanding shout, Ronnie continued on. She had no intention of enduring a question-and-answer period.

There was little else she could say to Drake; no way to redeem herself in his eyes.

The wind drove against her face, giving her a wonderful sensation of wild, abandoned freedom. Scheherazade moved beneath her with powerful magic. It was possible to believe she could race forever, away from the turmoil of her life, away from the man who now relentlessly pursued her.

"Ronnie!" he shouted again imperiously.

She glanced behind her quickly to see him scowling darkly. He was still shouting, but she couldn't make out the words. She didn't want to hear them anyway. The pounding of Scheherazade's sure hooves was tempestuous music to her ears. Breaking out of the trail through the foliage and onto the beach, she gave her horse full rein. Scheherazade, as exuberant for freedom as she, tore gladly into a thundering gallop.

Drake was still shouting. The mare was a powerful animal, but no match for the stallion. Ronnie was forced from her world of wind and speed to glance at Drake as Black Satan pounded abreast of the mare.

"Damn it, Ronnie—"

She turned back around. Racing along the beach, she thought with irritation, and he was still determined to give her the third degree!

Impossible. He was still talking, but she couldn't make out the words. Scheherazade could hold her own. Ronnie was not going to give in to Drake; she would run until both she and the bay had tired, and Drake could go hang.

Racing was one of her great pleasures. Either on Scheherazade, or in the Boston Whaler, she loved the feel of wind and sea in her face. Riding on the beach was almost like combining the two. She could feel and hear the wonderful, vibrant gallop of the horse; she could feel and hear the infinite rolling of the surf; salt spray sailed into her face, and sand flew behind her. . . .

And Drake was still shouting for her to stop. He was telling her something, but she had closed off. Purposely.

The great black stallion pulled alongside of her again.
"Ronnie!"

Still she ignored him. It was a contest of wills. It was one that she could win—they were on her turf.

He was furious, and she knew it. She loved it. She had enough of Pieter maneuvering her to his will, she'd be damned if she would find Drake anything more than mere annoyance.

She glanced to her right to give him a grim smile, but perplexity furrowed her brow instead. Something in his tone began to crack through the wall of of sound with which she had cocooned herself. "The gir—"

She lost the rest of his word, but she then noticed more than anger in his dark scowl. His bronze skin was stretched taut over his features, his brows seemed to meet in a single tight arch, and his lips were thin and white beneath the black curl of his mustache. He was concerned, frightened. . . .

Black Satan began to head her off into deeper water, forcing her to slow down just as a movement beneath her seat made her sickly aware of the word Drake had been saying. The girth was slipping on her saddle. In another few minutes she would be thrown under Scheherazade.

Drake reached for her reins just as she began to pull them in herself. The cinch belt gave entirely, and the polished leather saddle swerved awkwardly off the horse, dumping Ronnie unceremoniously into three feet of saltwater.

Sputtering, she thrashed around to regain her balance, and then stood, shivering despite the late summer heat. She was mortified—her appearance totally undignified—but embarrassment was far preferable to the broken bones that could have resulted had Drake not forced her to slow down in the deeper water. . . .

He leaped off his own horse, mindless of the water that filled his Frye boots and saturated his jeans, and strode toward her, grasping her in his arms as he reached her.

"I'm all right," she protested feebly as he lifted her off her feet and carried her to the white sand. "I'm all right," she repeated, gasping. But she didn't fight him. Her arms curled around his neck, she closed her eyes, unable to deny the pleasure of the stolen moment of being held by him, of feeling the pounding of his heart, of resting her head against the breadth of his chest and having his heat radiate new warmth through her.

All too soon she was lying on the beach. She lay still as his eyes raked over her, with tender caring. . . .

Briefly. Very briefly. A second later he was standing, legs apart and firmly planted in the sand, tight-knuckled hands clenched on his waist.

"Good Lord, woman! What the hell is the matter with you! Why didn't you listen to me? Of all the unmitigated fool things to do . . " He railed on in the same tone, and Ronnie felt the chills—and any sense of grateful tenderness—drain from her swiftly as her own temper rose to match the dark, burning fury in his eyes. She took enough harassment from Pieter! And she took that for a reason! She'd be damned if she'd tolerate another man venting anger in her direction—deserved or not.

Springing to her feet and spraying Drake with water and sand with the the fury of her pounce, she marched straight to him, her own legs spread in a defiant stance, her arms flying with wild vehemence.

"Don't you dare—don't you dare!—speak to me like that! I won't have it. I will not have it! All right, so I should have listened, but how the hell did I know you had something to say that wasn't an insult or a none-of-your-business question? I have had it up to my neck, Mr. Drake O'Hara. You're right—you don't know a damn thing and you have no right on earth to judge me." Ronnie wasn't winding down at all. All the frustration and wrath she had so carefully bottled up rose to the surface and, before she knew it, she was pummeling Drake's chest with tightly clenched fists.