A Season for Love (5 page)

"Ronnie," he continued, rubbing a finger over the veins of her hand, "there are no can'ts, except that I can't let you go. You have to trust me, as you did when we met. I know you're fighting something, but I'll help you. I don't care about your past. I don't care about your present. I'll work mine into it. I don't believe that you don't care about me—as much as I care about you, no matter how ludicrous it is after only three days. I'll go as slow as you like. But you have to keep seeing me. I'll never convince you of my sincerity otherwise."

A torrent of sobs welled in her rib cage, threatening to spill forth. She had to build the wall, retreat, and then get away surely and quickly. The angle of his jawline was square and determined; nothing but the cold truth would keep him away, and she would have to risk his contempt whether it devastated her or not.

She withdrew her hand from his and picked up her coffee cup with cool dismissal. "Drake, I can't—repeat, can't—continue to see you. It's out of the question."

"Really?" An imperious brow arched even higher, and his lips tightened into a caustic line. "And why not? What happened to I love you and forever?"

I do love you, Ronnie whispered to herself sadly, but you'd never understand, and even if you did, I could never explain. . . .

She took a sip of coffee and set the cup down briskly. "Oh, come, Drake," she said, "surely a man such as yourself has had his share of flings! Love is just a word. So is forever."

"We didn't spend a day and night exchanging words," he told her sardonically, drawing the hint of a hoped-for blush. No one could make love as she had without feeling!

But his angel of the night had turned back to marble by day. "We played the game to make something pretty of a physical attraction," she said cuttingly. With a wry and glacial smile she added, "To spend a night making love sounds much nicer than spending a night having sex!"

She hadn't anticipated what happened next. He set his ironclad fingers around her wrist and drew her to her feet in an undeniable gesture that was barely civilized despite the crowd in the dining room. He didn't stop for a second as he led, or rather dragged, her down the corridor and back to her cabin, ignoring her comments, whether they were demanding, angry, or scornful.

He stopped inside the cabin, after he had slammed the door and pinned her to it, claiming her lips, plundering her mouth savagely. His hands moved over territory he knew by heart, aggressively taunting, cradling breasts that were his, searching beneath material to find the answer he expected—flesh that heated to his touch, nipples that grew taut on contact.

Ronnie furiously pummeled against him and twisted her head to avoid his kiss. But his lips were clamped on hers. Her comparatively feeble struggles had no effect on his steellike determination to have his way. Her protests were muffled as his teeth grazed hers, pitted against them, and his tongue found the access to probe her mouth with heady command. Ronnie's attempt at words died, her mouth gave sweetly to his. She would never be able to deny him. A moment later she was arched against his chest, moaning as his fingers worked their spell upon her, twisting at the peak of her breast to send chills of pleasure racing down her spine as he held her in that relentless embrace.

Then he pulled away from her, using his hands and arms as inescapable bars around her. Eyes that were as dark as night seared into hers with ruthless demand.

"Now tell me again that this all means nothing to you," he grated harshly, his breathing as strained as hers.

She was shaking, panting, unnerved. God help her, she couldn't cry. But a lie would not suffice.

"All right!" she flashed in answer to his challenge. "It means something. It means something very wonderful. But it can't be!"

"Why not?" He would not soften now. He wanted answers. The ship was docked in Charleston Harbor. Time was running out. "Ronnie, I want to marry you."

A sob did tear from her throat. "I can't marry you!" she cried, the ice finally melting from her eyes as they stared tremulously into his. "I can't marry anyone. I'm already married."

But she wasn't! her heart cried out.

She was, for all intents and purposes. Discovering the false validity of a piece of paper didn't change anything. And yet she knew in the back of her mind, no matter how irrevocable the future, that the discovery had allowed her this wonderful day. She had used it to rationalize her actions. . . .

Legally, she was free.

But her freedom was empty; the ties that bound her had never had anything to do with legalities.

And none of it could ever be explained to Drake, who stared at her now with deep, piercing fury. . . .

"I am married," she repeated aloud, wrenched from the pain of longing by the staunch reminder to herself of what must be.

Drake emitted a single, explosive oath. If he had been burned to cinders by the roaring heat of lava, he couldn't have been more shocked or wounded. He had been duped in the worst way possible; he had given everything to someone else's
restless
wife. Trust, he thought cynically, as his arms dropped to his sides. What a fool. He had thought he had found the one woman he could love, cherish, and trust eternally.

He stepped away from her, still looking into her eyes, now seeing nothing but traitorous blue; magnificent, treacherous, radiant blue.

He had been used by a conniving witch he had deemed the soul of honesty.

The look alone that he gave her could have shattered a shell of lighter stuff. But even as she felt herself agonizingly ripped asunder inside, as if her heart had been torn from her body, Ronnie stood still.

Composed as marble.

If he touched her again, she would break. But he didn't touch her. She had the feeling that he controlled his temper because he feared what he might do if he let it loose. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, his broad shoulders appeared imposingly massive. But it was his dark face that set her blood racing. His glowering eyes were daggers; his mouth a white line of condemnation. His teeth were clenched together; she could see the twisted angle of his jaw as he ground them against each other.

She wanted to throw herself into his arms and explain. It was unbearable that he hate her so. But for all the rogue she had assessed him to be, she learned swiftly now that he was a man of certain morals. Affairs were fine. Extramarital affairs were unthinkable.

If she could explain, if there was any way—which there wasn't —it would be senseless to fly to him anyway. He would cast her aside as tarnished goods. Her situation was too incredulous to believe or to understand.

Her hands were behind her on the door. She braced them now, for support. "I think you should leave now, Drake."

"As you wish," he replied glacially. "Mrs. uh . . . ?"

"It doesn't matter," Ronnie said blandly, praying he would leave.

"It does matter, Ronnie," he told her gravely. But he didn't press the point. Instead he reached for her arm and pulled her from the door, dropping her arm again quickly after he had moved her out of his way. His touch had been as red-hot as a branding iron.

He stopped for only a second to gaze back at her. "Oh—thank you for a most interesting cruise."

Then he was gone. His piercing gaze, his towering disdain, were all that remained imprinted on her mind. Her knees buckled beneath her and she slid to the floor, gripping her stomach as if he had dealt her a blow with a two-by-four.

But still she didn't cry. She sat rocking, biting her lip. They were calling the passengers ashore. She pulled herself back to her feet by grasping the bedpost. After walking into the cabin's small bathroom, she splashed her face with cool water and made a few makeup repairs, her hands moving mechanically. She curled her hair into a tight bun at the back of her neck and donned sunglasses and a chic, wide-brimmed beige felt hat that matched her smart heels and small sling handbag.

Gathering her things, she left the cabin. But not without looking back at the still-rumpled bed.

She had never intended to; it had been foolish. But she had fallen in love. The precious memories were the ones she would learn to recall, not those of his dark ferocity at her deception. She would learn to remember his eyes as they blazed the tender fire of passion, not the charred embers of scorn.

And in the loneliness of her austere existence, she would sort out the misery of the different types of love. Her tears would come later. Upon the remote windswept island that was her home, she would find ample time for solace. And she would be plunged back into grueling reality.

The woman the world knew as Mrs. Pieter von Hurst walked away from her breakaway cruise, her heels clicking briskly upon the deck.

The immaculate sophisticated lady.

Beautiful, poised, reserved, genteel—yes, the perfect, seldom- seen wife of the world's most brilliant contemporary sculptor.

And one of the most unhappy women alive.

Chapter Two

It was amazing that the sea could change so quickly. It had been calm, glassy, and cobalt-blue for the cruise, serene beneath powdery skies.

Now it matched Ronnie's mind. Foam-flecked waves were pulsating in wild whipped peaks, rising with the whistling of the wind. The sky was losing its early-morning glow, growing gray with a vengeance.

"Storm's blowin' in," Dave Quimby announced unnecessarily, pulling his yellow slicker cap lower over his forehead. He scratched his grizzled beard and gave Ronnie a gap-toothed smile. "Maybe ye'd best head on in to the cabin, Miss Veronica."

Ronnie shook her head and smiled back with affection. Dave, her husband's fulltime captain—a necessity when one lived on one's own island miles off the the shore of Charleston—was her one true friend in her home of five years. He was a man unintimidated by Pieter von Hurst; if he feared and respected anything, it was only the sea. To his credit, Pieter respected and admired Dave.

And if Dave cared for any human being with a degree of his softer nature, it was Pieter's young wife. She might be the courteous Mrs. von Hurst to the rest of the world, but to Dave she was Miss Veronica, as she had been on that day long ago when Von Hurst had returned to the island to stay as a recluse forever.