A Season for Love (17 page)

"And Pieter?"

"Through Jamie. He was a student." Ronnie set her fork down for a moment, losing her appetite for the delicious food. Like she had done, Drake was going to keep quizzing until he had all his answers. These were things she could answer honestly, so she might as well give him a quick story

"Jamie and Pieter were close friends." she told Drake tonelessly, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes downcast. "When Jamie died, I was stunned, very young, and very lost. Pieter helped me through all the bad times. I'm—ah—I'm very grateful to him; I will never forget how wonderful he was."

"Von Hurst is an amazing man," Drake said simply.

Ronnie was still staring at her plate of half-eaten food, and so she didn't see the speculative look Drake covertly cast her way.

And he was speculating. For the first time since he had seen Ronnie beside his host, he had stopped envying Pieter von Hurst. Ronnie, he realized, did love the man. But not the way a man wanted to be loved. Her love for Von Hurst was gratitude, mingled with fondness and respect. It was not the all-encompassing passion and commitment that should exist, not the sharing, not two souls soaring ... not the love, he, Drake, could have shared with her.

A savagery gripped Drake, an emotion he controlled by cruelly ripping at a piece of meat with his knife and fork. Ronnie had married Von Hurst, no matter what her emotions, for better or worse. But her vow hadn't held her when "worse" had come into being. All his speculations were absurd, they were to no end. ... If she were suddenly as free as a lark, he wondered if he could ever learn to trust her.

He chewed his last piece of meat and pushed his plate aside, once more leaning back in the booth with crossed arms. "Enjoying the band?"

Ronnie glanced up to discover from his guarded ebony eyes that he had entirely withdrawn from her. "Yes, thank you," she replied coolly, "very much."

"Not too raucous for you?"

"No." She laughed. Drake had been right. The band, a five- member group consisting of a solid drummer, a keyboard player, two guitarists exchanging the vocal leads, and a talented saxophonist, tended to hard rock. They were careful to slip pleasant, mellow pieces into their repertoire, but they excelled at letting loose, playing popular pieces by The Stones, old Doors numbers, and other music that seemed tonight to stir wildly in her blood. Concentrating on the band, she forgot the air of aloofness that had settled over Drake and laughed. "I'm crazy about the band. They're making me feel very young."

Drake, caught by the vibrant yearning in her tone, laughed in return. "You can't be all that old!"

She tilted her head and quirked a shrugging brow. "I'll be thirty, and I know, that's not all that old. But they're making me feel really young—eighteen and, and . . ."

"Innocent again?" Drake supplied.

"Yes, I suppose that's what I mean."

Drake grinned with the satanish twinkle to his eyes. "Want to feel even younger? Let's try out the dance floor."

"Oh, I don't know," Ronnie demurred, watching the swirling dancers. "I'm not really sure what they're doing out there."

"Believe me"—Drake chuckled—"neither are they. These days, everyone does more or less what they feel like. Come on. Follow me, and I'll think of something."

He was on his feet, towering over her and reaching to escort her from her seat before she could protest further. His hand was on the small of her back as he led her down the short flight of steps and through the lower level to the shiny, light-colored wooden dance floor.

Just his touch was jolting. His hand upon her back sent traitorous tingles of anticipation and delighted memory racing along her spine. It was so natural to be touched by Drake, to drift into the warm masculinity of his arms, to curl her fingers at his nape.

The tune was a fast one, easily recognizable, and as he spun her about in deft circles, Drake laughingly informed her that the song had become popular after the movie 
Saturday Night Fever,
 and that it was a piece by the Bee Gees.

Panting as she dipped and swung and swirled, Ronnie haughtily replied, "I knew it was the Bee Gees! Even on the island we have a television—several actually—and a stereo system!"

"Did you see the movie?" Drake queried when another swoop of his arm brought them facing each other again.

"No!" she admitted, chuckling. She couldn't begin to imagine Pieter sitting through an American movie. "Did you?"

"Of course. Several times, actually." His grin broadened deeply. "I told you I had a score of nephews and nieces."

Ronnie laughed again, breathlessly. It was fun out here with Drake. It was almost as if—as if they were back on the boat; as if they had returned to that magical day when it had been her right to touch Drake, to feel Drake's touch upon her. . . .

The music rose to a pitch and clamored to a halt. "Slowin' down now," one vocalist called cheerfully. "One for all the lovers out there. . . ."

Before the young man had finished speaking, Ronnie felt herself crushed closely into Drake's arms, her entire form pressed to the warmth of his hard, strong body. Instinctively she arched to his hold upon her hips, nestling her head in the inviting curve of his shoulder. They danced silently, their movements synchronized, fluid with the tender beat of the music. Drake's hands moved caressingly along Ronnie's back, and with intuitive volition, her hands, once more resting around his neck, began an exploratory return. The silky sheerness of his shirt enhanced the play of hot muscles beneath her fingers, and she thrilled as she trailed them over his shoulders, then thread them through the thick hair at the back of his neck. She was dimly aware that she was being foolish, following a path that could lead nowhere. But she couldn't help herself. Her own arousal from the dance had to be apparent to Drake; her nipples, brushing against the heat and breadth of his chest, attuned to the crisp mat of curls that tickled them erotically despite the material of their clothing, were hardening to impertinent pebbles that seemed to reach out for further delectable contact. And she was quivering.., burning with the heat his body lent to hers. . . .

She was too close to him not to feel the desire rising inside him.

But he said nothing; he made no movement to draw away. If anything, he pulled her irrevocably closer. His warm breath fanned against her hair, stirring new sensations of longing. Was it wistful thinking, or did his lips form a kiss at her temple? She had no way of knowing. Her eyes were closed, her face pressed against his shoulder, feeling heat, feeling the beautiful, lulling pounding of his heart—feeling, absorbing, becoming one with every breath he took. It was torture, it was agony, it was wonderful. She was secure and content, ablaze with an unquenchable fire. It didn't matter. She wanted the dance to go on and on. As long as the music played with the incessant beat of the drums, she was in an exotically haunting heaven.

She must have had mind control, a powerful telepathic bond with the band leader. The next three numbers, which finished the set, were slow, romantic tunes. They came to her ears infinitely sweetly. Never once did Drake break his hold. She was immersed in him, cocooned in his drugging body heat, intoxicated with the woodsy scent he wore that combined so well with his essence of virility.

Unknown to her, Drake's mind was running along the same lines. As long as the music played on, he could forget the world, and luxuriate in sheer sensation. Each time he inhaled, the air was sweet with the light perfume of her hair; each time he moved she molded to fit his body, her incredibly soft but firm curves taunting him with captivation. God, he wanted her. No other woman had affected him so totally, stirring his blood intensely at mere sight, reducing him to yearning with a simple touch or a look from shimmering eyes as depthless as the oceans. . . .

If he had to think, it would be wrong. But as long as the music played, he didn't have to think. He could hold her, feel the sensuous femininity of her straining breasts against his chest, the undulating fluidity of her hips against his. . . .

No, he didn't have to think. He couldn't possibly think. This little bit of ecstasy was his.

But the music did stop. He didn't meet her eyes, and she kept her head lowered as he silently led her back to their booth, his hands rested near the base of her spine. With they returned, 
he
 ordered them each another drink

He needed a drink She did, too. Thar contact was broken, and it was as if the sun had set on a dark day leaving both empty and numb.

Drake glanced at his wristwatch with a frown. "We'd better drink up and head back. It's almost midnight." He opened his mouth and then shut it. He had been about to say "Your husband might be worried." But he couldn't phrase it that way. It would be a sacrilege at the moment. He started over. "I don't want Pieter to worry."

Ronnie smiled wryly in return, sighing silently with resignation. Midnight. Did everyone know that that was the bewitching hour? At the stroke of twelve, would all be lost?

Irrevocably. There was no glass slipper.

"Yes," she said smoothly, unconsciously straightening in the booth. Her chin tilted a little. "We'd better get going."

Drake payed the check and escorted her from the club. He took the wheel of the Ferrari without comment, so like Drake, always in charge.

They spoke little as they drove to the dock. Ronnie was exhausted. It was all she could do simply to stay awake. She didn't dare sleep; she was afraid she would convince herself that her dreams could be a reality and awaken to a devastating nightmare —reality.

Dave was sound asleep in the cabin of the Boston Whaler, but he cheerfully awoke as they came aboard, anxiously inquiring if they had had a nice day.

Even Dave liked Drake, Ronnie thought wearily.

Drake answered for them both, apologizing for being so late, assuring Dave they had had a wonderful day.

"No apologies necessary, Mr. O'Hara," Dave proclaimed with a proud grin. "Don't matter to me what part of the sea I'm on, so long as I can feel the water beneath me. As long as Miss

Veronica is happy and looked after, you stay anywhere as late as you like."

Drake voiced polite thanks and sat topside along with Ronnie. "Are you cold?" he inquired, his distant courtesy reinstated.

Ronnie shook her head. The night wind as they left the harbor was cold and brisk, but she welcomed its slapping chill and the salt spray it carried. The night and the sea were as dark and brooding as her heart... as fathomlessly, intensely, dangerously dark as Drake's ebony eyes.

At the clock's twelfth stroke they reached the island.

Thanking Dave, Ronnie was quick to hop from the Boston Whaler unescorted. As Drake watched her, her graceful, lithe cat movements, he felt a curious anger grow within him again.

She was once more cloaked in her cape of invincibility, her shield of marble ice. Following her up the path to the house, he felt his rage take on monstrous proportions. He wanted to shake her, to tell her to put on no airs around him. Damn it! He knew her. He knew her more thoroughly than any man alive, more thoroughly, he was sure, than the man who could rightfully claim her.

Something snapped in him as they reached the house and she set a slender, delicate hand upon the door. His arm shot out and he spun her around, nailing her to the wood with his body, pressing against her so that she was forced to adjust her form softly to his. Her eyes stared into his, naked for a second, startled and alarmed.

"Drake!" She whispered his name with beseechment, but neither knew if she pleaded for him to release her, or to carry out the action he couldn't control.

His lips were swift and harsh as they claimed hers, bruising and hungry. Her mouth had been parted and moist, and he found its plunder easy. She had no chance to resist, and his tongue drove deeply in demanding circular play that made response mandatory. She whimpered deep within her throat, and the sound brought out all that was primitive in Drake. His hands trailed her face and wove over her body, wedging space to cradle her breasts possessively. His thumbs grazed over the nipples that had taunted him all night, and s satisfaction tilled him as 
they rose instantly to his caresses, it is crazy it was insane. He wanted to drag her into the garden, divest ber of her garments, and gaze upon her exquisite marble beauty. She was his only, glowing with grace and majesty in the moonlight.

Drake ripped himself away from her as abruptly as he had wrenched her into the ruthlessly quick embrace. Ronnie stared at him, appalled, her knees buckling. Only the door kept her standing; only years of dignity kept her from quailing beneath the shocking ferocity of his dark scowl.

"Home, Mrs. von Hurst," he growled bitterly, bowing low with a terse mockery. "Once again, I thank you for a lovely time."

Ronnie pushed open the door and fled up the stairs, unaware that even her hasty exit was a regal, graceful sail and equally unaware that all of Drake's anger and mockery was directed at himself.

Chapter Six