A Season for Love (16 page)

He shook himself mentally. She wasn't his. He had no right to be angry with her; her affairs or lack of them were Pieter's concern. Her
husband's
concern. He lashed out at her because of his own frustration and a haunting desire that overwhelmed him that could never be fulfilled again. . . .

Recognizing what ripped him apart—and admitting the root of his anger—suddenly calmed him. She was here with him today because he had forced her hand, both to quiz her on Pieter, and also to take a form of punishment out on her—to force her to be near him. Perhaps he wanted to force her to suffer as he did, because he loved her still every bit as much as he hated her for shattering the illusion of trust and happiness he had created with her upon his pedestal. . . .

"Drake."

He started as she said his name, obviously for a second time. "This is it," she said quietly as he stared at her blankly in return. "The ferry."

"Oh." Drake uncoiled his length and hastened dexterously from the car, suddenly determined to be courteous. But she was out of the driver's seat before he could reach her door. Not daunted, he slipped an arm through hers. The glance she gave him, peering at an angle through fringed lashes, was skeptical, to say the least.

"I'm opting for a pleasant day," he told her smoothly. "A tourist out with a native to see the sights. No past, no concerns. Deal?"

Ronnie slightly arched a doubting brow and pursed her lips in a small smirk, but nodded. "No past, no concerns."

And an hour later, as they crawled around the cannons and ruined brick of the island fort, she lost her cynicism and began to believe him. He was out to be charming.

They linked arms as they ambled about, occasionally listening to the guides, occasionally referring to the informative pamphlets, and reading aloud to one another. They discussed the war and the battle that had rocked Fort Sumter over a century ago, and from there the conversation progressed easily to present times. Without innuendo, Drake quizzed Ronnie on life in Paris, and she in turn discovered that he was well traveled and had a host of amusing anecdotes relating to difficulties for Americans in various European cities.

By the time the ferry took them back to the harbor, they were both comfortable with their strange truce. Drake assuredly plucked the keys from Ronnie's hand as they returned to the Ferrari, murmuring with a quiet firmness, "I'll drive."

"Oh?" she teased, obediently slipping into the passenger seat as he opened her door, "and where are we going?"

"I do know the town a little bit," he retorted. "And I know precisely where to go for dinner, dressed as we are."

Ronnie glanced ruefully at the jeans they both wore. She hadn't thought that they would be dining out, but they had passed lunchtime without thought, and she realized she was ravenous. She was also happy to continue the day. It had had a shaky start, but the afternoon had been so pleasant; a sweet interlude of a dream coming unexpectedly to life. In time they would return to the island, her coach would turn back into a pumpkin, her prince would turn back into Drake, and she would turn back into Mrs. Pieter von Hurst.

But the bewitching time was midnight, wasn't it? she thought, closing her eyes dreamily. Drake was taking her to dinner. It was a pity they weren't dressed. She would love to dance every second away and, like Cinderella, not lose a precious second, but leave on the stroke of twelve. . . .

"Where are we going?" she asked, her lips slightly curled from the whimsy of her imaginings. "There aren't any really nice dinner spots I know of where we can go like this."

Drake sent her a dancing ebony glance. "It takes a tourist!" he groaned with mock disgust. "We are going to a little private club near the city center. A casual place with impeccable stuffed mushrooms and the tenderest steak tidbits you'll ever sink your teeth into. And"—his sizzling coal gaze came her way again as if he had read her mind—"they employ a top forties band that is great. They lean a little toward hard rock, but they are good, and lots of fun. Any objections?" 

Ronnie shook her head and lowered her lashes to hide the extreme pleasure his words had given her. "No—no objections. It does sound like fun."

The club really wasn't little at all, Ronnie realized as they entered the comfortable redwood establishment. Like so many night spots, the decor was dark, basically black and crimson, and the lighting dim. It was split into several sections, with the band and dance floor a half level below the dinner tables. Ronnie approved of the design immediately. It was possible to talk with one's partner while intimately dining without being drowned out by the music, and then equally possible to fully enjoy the dancing and music without intruding on a voracious diner!

They were led up a short flight of thickly carpeted stairs to a secluded booth in a corner. The smiling hostess seated them across from one another, and Ronnie was grateful as she sank into the plush booth. It would be too easy to forget she was just a Cinderella if she had to sit next to him and feel the heat from his body vibrate along the side of hers. And she was sure Drake never really forgot who she was, no matter how pleasantly he behaved toward her.

A silence fell between them after they placed their drink orders, and Ronnie pretended a great interest in her menu while sneaking covert glances at Drake. He was marvelous—though somewhat chilling—Just ftHoek'-ar Tonight he almost matched the decor of the club; his snag jeans were black, his casually tailored shirt black-and-red-patterned. The top two buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a V of crisp black hair upon his chest. Matching it all were his eyes, seeming of the deepest, darkest, ebony fire. With his wavy dark-brown hair and devilishly curved mustache, high, gaunt cheeks and foreboding but fascinating profile, he had already drawn the recurring gazes of the club's female patrons.

Yet it was more than looks that brought eyes to him like magnets. A sense of indifferent confidence was part of Drake. He emanated a totally male assurance, and something even more intriguing: that beguiling, mesmerizing look of the devil—a dangerous look, as compelling as fire. . . .

A hand, long and broad and sporting neatly clipped nails, suddenly swept away Ronnie's red-tassled menu. "You're reading upside down," Drake told her dryly, adding as she flushed and parted her lips for an explanation, "And you don't need to read anyway. Trust me, I won't lead you astray."

Glad of any excuse to bypass his observation of her upside- down reading habits, Ronnie inanely murmured, "I trust you." Then, alarmed at the multiple meanings her tone could give to the simple words, she chatted on at an impetuous rate. "Stuffed mushrooms, right? And the most tender steak tidbits in the world. Served, I assume, with some type of deliciously seasoned dipping sauce. And the mushrooms—stuffed with fresh crab- meat, delicately tipped with bread crumbs, and basted in seasoned butter to tempt, tease, and fully arouse the palate—" She broke off in confusion, wondering where she had found such words of description for food.

Drake was laughing. "They should hire you to write the menus. You just made a casual dinner sound like an erotic experience."

His laughter broke off abruptly, and it was he who stared down at his menu. They could both easily remember an erotic experience. Thankfully then-drinks arrived at table-before an uncomfortable silence could lengthen. Drake glanced at Ronnie only once as he gave their orders. He already knew she preferred her meat rare, sour cream for her baked potato.

Ronnie staunchly pulled her flustered demeanor together as Drake placed the order for their meal. A long sip of the brandy alexander she now had before her helped her regain a measure of aloofness, necessary with their words taking on unintentional insinuation. She didn't want to mar the day with a tense exchange of hostilities should one of them step too far.

The sweet, mellow taste of her drink hid but didn't diminish the combinad potency of the brandy and crème de cacao, which were mixed with only a hint of cream. A second sip steadied her while giving her the illusion of relaxation as a languorousness misted the world around her, taking away all the sharp edges. She almost giggled but stopped herself. She was floating on two sips of a drink, and she could only credit the sensation to her completely empty stomach.

She didn't want to giggle right now, though; she wanted to wear her cool image, her Mrs. Pieter von Hurst image. A giggle just wouldn't fit. Nor would the rumble in her stomach if it became loud enough to be heard. . . .

Placing an elbow on the table and resting her chin on her knuckles, Ronnie smiled distantly, unaware that the sparkling, wistful mist in her eyes was soft and bewitching. "Tell me," she said conversationally, "something about Drake O'Hara." She idly picked up the swizzle stick that had been in her drink and pushed absently at the floating nutmeg. Ruefully, her eyes then on the drink, she added, "You know a little too much about me, and I knew nothing about you. Except that your home is Chicago."

He quirked a brow as she met his eyes again. "Not fair. I don't really know anything about you. Not about the real Ronnie who hides behind the marble mask. I know nothing about your past, about your own dreams."

Ronnie bit down lightly on her lower lip in an imperceptible movement of an eyetooth. It was a damn good thing he knew nothing about her dreams. They were as far fetched as a piece of the moon.

"You first," she told him. "Were you born in Chicago?"

"Right in the heart," he replied wryly, lounging back in the booth, one finger running idly up and down the icy moisture on the side of his rock glass. "I grew up in a suburb, Des Plaines, and then picked up my B.A. at Northwestern." He grimaced ruefully. "My major was actually business, but I was offered an art scholarship to the University of Florence. I picked up a master's degree there and became passionately involved in what I had previously decided—wisely, as my parents had instructed —to be only a hobby: sculpture. It was impossible not to become aggressively and passionately involved, not with the works of Michelangelo and other great Italian masters within reaching distance. I used to spend hours in the Medici Chapels, just staring at his work on the tombs."

"I don't understand," Ronnie interjected. "You must be very good. Pieter says so, and he never flatters anyone, and you received a scholarship. Why do you only dabble in sculpture now?"

Drake shrugged. "Actually, I don't just dabble. I work under another name. Mero."

Ronnie had lifted her glass to sip at her drink and found herself taking a huge swallow—one that left her choking as the heat of the brandy catapulted to her stomach. "Mero!" she gasped. He was well known in the world of sculpture, and highly respected. Pieter had many of his pieces, fine miniatures intricately wrought in flawless marble. "I had no idea . . ."

"Few people do," Drake said. "I prefer to remain anonymous. As a gallery owner and critic, it becomes awkward to be known. I would appreciate your keeping my alter ego a confidence."

"Certainly," Ronnie murmured, surprised and inordinately pleased that he should trust her enough to offer such a confidence. If only he could trust her a little as far as other things went. . . . Foolish. What good would it do? She couldn't change her own circumstances. She blocked her mind to pain and asked, "But then, why the galleries?"

He laughed. "I'm a little too self-centered to be a completely dedicated artist. My love of art is widespread. I'm fascinated by the work of others, by the ancient masters, by the promising greats of the future. When I can discover a talent, and force that talent to expand and improve, I receive my greatest personal rewards. And when I can work with or encourage a Pieter von Hurst, I find my own personal achievement."

"I don't find that self-centered at all," Ronnie murmured appreciatively, too enamored of his tale to make an attempt to sound indifferent. "I think it's wonderful."

Drake grinned. "Thanks. Your turn."

"My turn?" she echoed in dismay. "Not yet! You haven't really told me anything, uh . . ."

"Personal?"

"Well, yes, I suppose that is what I mean," she admitted. The drink, the cozy atmosphere, the muted sound of the band, all were making her unwittingly at ease with him. and bold enough to honestly pry. Her questions, she realized with a tug of pain, were part of a driving curiosity she couldn't contain, even as she accepted the fact weakly that the answers could cause agony. He said once, in another world, that he loved her. She didn't want to hear that he loved elsewhere, or that he had loved before, but with perverse voraciousness she had to know everything that she could about him; about his life, about the things that made up the man that he was.

"Personal... hmm," he mused reflectively. "My parents are both living. They're a nice middle-class couple with a certain quiet charm who still reside in Des Plaines. I have two brothers and a sister, all younger, and the family meets each year for Christmas and the Fourth of July. You see, Katie lives in Arizona, Michael in Atlanta, and Padraic in northern Michigan. I have a lovely—if sometimes monstrous—collection of nieces and nephews."

Ronnie laughed at his monologue, envying him the obvious warmth of his family. Apparently Drake had everything: success of his own creation, wealth, power, and, most important, an abundance of love. The desolation of her own life threatened to sweep over her, so she quickly joked, "And are these lovely but monstrous little nieces and nephews all dark as Satan like their hell-bent uncle?"

Drake shrugged wide shoulders, flashing her a white grin at the comment. "Half and half. Perfect split. Padraic and I are dark like my father, Katie and Michael are blue-eyed blonds. Their offspring are all the various shades in between."

"Prolific family," Ronnie said dryly, sounding light in spite of the catch in her throat. "What happened to the oldest O'Hara? No little creations to date?"

"You would have known if there were," he told her bluntly, reminding her of the intimacy of their first meeting. Yes, he would have told her if he had any children. At that encounter, he had said that he wanted to marry her. . . .

"You could have been married at one time," she said defensively, playing with her swizzle stick again to avoid his eyes. "I mean, you are well over twenty-one, and a healthy, virile male . . ." Ronnie's voice trailed away and she was thoroughly annoyed to feel a hot flush rising to her cheeks again. She deserved this loss of cool reserve. She was asking leading questions that could only return in circular fashion to their own brief relationship, and consequently to the tension that lurked beneath their best stiffens Mtrar Per aer make a comment about his bang a heaia ibwrt stupidity. She knew what he wiv but be describe Knew only too well what he was. . . .

"No," he replied bluntly, "I have no children. I was married once, though, when I was very young."

Ronnie waited for him to continue, but he didn't, and she was compelled to ask in a soft whisper, "What happened?"

"She died," he said shortly, then catching the quickly hidden flicker of pain in Ronnie's eyes, he added, "My wife was an Italian girl. I met her while studying in Florence. There was a cholera outbreak."

"I'm sorry," Ronnie murmured truthfully, her eyes misting ridiculously.

"It was a long time ago," Drake said gruffly, watching her eyes as they shimmered with that soulful tragedy he had sensed before. Intuitively he knew she had suffered a similar loss, a pain that was not related to Pieter. He reached a forceful but strangely compassionate hand across the table to take hers. "Your turn, Ronnie. What happened to you before Pieter?"

She looked for a barb in his tone, or cynicism in his eyes, but there was neither. She shrugged and smiled softly.. "The same. I lost a fiancé." Her lower lip trembled slightly.

"What happened?" He returned her own question.

She bit her trembling lower lip to cease its action. "Drugs," she said faintly. "I never even knew until it was too late and all the signs were there."

Drake's handclasp on hers shook roughly, and with surprise she found an unusual and oddly harsh sympathy in his eyes. "Surely you don't blame yourself!" he said sternly.

"No," she replied, startled at the realization that she did in a way. "Not really."

"Not at all," he commanded. "No one can change a situation like that."

Ronnie broke his gaze with a tentative smile of thanks, moving her eyes with sudden interest to the stage. Their conversation had grown a little too personal, and she didn't want her soul completely bared to this man who still condemned her on one hand while offering encouragement on the other.

"The band is marvelous," she offered enthusiastically. "And, if I'm not mistaken, we no longer have to starve. I believe our waitress is coming our way."

Her intent to change the subject was obvious, but as their dinner arrived, steaming with succulent aromas, her switch to a lighter, more casual conversation seemed easily accomplished. But after munching into and savoring a large mushroom cap, Drake returned to his interrogation of her with a single-worded question.

"Parents?"

"Pardon?" Ronnie stopped uneasily, her fork halfway to her mouth.

"Your parents. Are they living?"

She bit into her mushroom and shook her head. "They were killed in an auto crash in my senior year of high school."

Drake offered no more sympathy; it wasn't needed, he knew. Still, he felt his heart constricting for her and was consumed with an overwhelming desire to take her into his arms and shield her, protect her, and offer her all the love she had lost. He understood now the strength of her marble beauty, the brick wall of dignity that hid the giving, sensuous woman he had known so briefly.

But she wasn't his to protect or love. She was Pieter's. And she had never denied the love she felt for the husband she saw fit to leave from time to time.

"Siblings?" he asked, continuing to eat.

"None."

"What took you to Paris?"

"After college, I had nothing to go home to," she said matter- of-factly. "I majored in the French language, so it seemed logical to go to Paris. I met Jamie at The Louvre one day."