A Winter's Rose (11 page)

In Bentley's free time she read and studied every piece of literature she could on Baysafe and the plight of Galveston Bay and her wildlife. The more she read, the more intrigued she became. And the more she studied Baysafe, the more she understood Jackson's financial concerns. Baysafe was in trouble. Big trouble.

A great number of sponsors had pulled pledges in the past year. All oil-related.

Each night after Chloe went to bed, Bentley studied and thought about the situation. Baysafe was too dependent on industry donations, especially oil-related industry. She recognized a few names from the social register on his patron list, but only a few.

Jackson had yet to tap a whole market. He needed to diversify.

The more Bentley thought about it, the more excited she became. She thought about Bitsy Cassidy and of how easy it had been to garner her support of Baysafe.

Why not use her influence to benefit their cause? She knew dozens of women who had plenty of money and who loved causes.

Bentley laughed. Wouldn't Jackson be surprised and pleased if she managed to pull Baysafe out of its fiscal trouble without any help from him?

Giddy at the thought, Bentley began to make a list.

Chapter Seven

L
ight tumbled from the first-floor windows. Jackson pulled his car to a stop in the driveway, gazing for long moments at the warm, welcoming light. He ached. From fatigue and stress, from his large frame being folded into a coach-class seat for too many hours.

His flight had been delayed in D.C. because of bad weather. The airline had finally boarded the passengers, only to make them wait on the runway another three hours. It hadn't helped that small places for long periods of time put him on edge; he hadn't even been able to use the time to catch up on sleep.

Jackson leaned his head against the headrest and closed his eyes. The trip had gone well, although he knew from experience that more often than not, politicians talked out of both sides of their mouths and that their sympathies, in the end, went to the highest bidder.

And Big Oil had very deep pockets, indeed.

Jackson looked at the light spilling into his garden. Considering the sleeping arrangements, he expected Bentley to be waiting up. He hoped that she was…and prayed she wasn't.

An image of her asleep in his bed, the sheets a tangle around her, her dark hair fanned across the white pillow, played against the back of his eyes. Jackson muttered an oath. Thinking simultaneously of Bentley and of beds was a ridiculously poor idea.

And getting to be a habit.

He shook his head. Several times over the past week he had almost embarrassed himself when he'd let his mind wander to auburn curls against smooth, white skin, eyes the color of jade and small, quick hands.

After a couple of incidents like those, he had put a lot of energy into keeping his mind on business. During the day, anyway. But alone at night, he'd given his mind and imagination the freedom to roam deliciously, allowing himself to linger on one erotic possibility after another.

Jackson groaned as his body protested its confinement. This had to stop. He wasn't a teenager, wasn't an untried boy. And yet, that's exactly what he felt like. That's how he had acted for weeks now.

He looked at the house again, wondering if she would be up, wondering if she'd missed him. The few times he'd been able to break away to call the office, he'd gotten Bentley instead of Jill. Hearing her voice had affected him strangely, had filled him with longing, loneliness and a sense of urgency.

Jackson scowled at his thoughts. Tomorrow, or the day after, when he'd had enough sleep, dozens of lungfuls of fresh island air and had feasted his eyes on the magnificence of the Bay at least once, he would be himself again.

And if he wasn't? Jackson wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. That wasn't an option. He would be.

He climbed out of the car, took his bags from the backseat and headed up the walk. At the door he took a deep breath, then inserted his key into the lock and turned it.

Jackson stopped just inside the door. Bentley lay curled up on the couch, asleep in the golden light of the lamp. For long moments, he stood and stared at her, his chest tight, his heart pounding as if he'd just run an Olympic mile. Not wanting to wake her, he set his bags down softly, then tiptoed across to the couch, conscious of every creak and protest of the old pine floor.

Stopping beside the couch, he gazed down at her sleeping form. Her lashes made dark crescents against her cheeks; her hair tumbled charmingly across her forehead; her chest rose and fell with her rhythmic breathing.

She was so beautiful, Jackson thought, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch, still studying her. But it was more than her physical beauty that had his breath constricting in his lungs. Much more.

If only he knew what.

Jackson cocked his head. It had been so long since there'd been a woman waiting for him when he returned from a trip—or even at the end of the day. So long that the way it made him feel seemed new, extraordinary.

Had Victoria ever looked like this? he wondered, reaching out and gently touching Bentley's cheek. Had she ever looked so soft and so trusting?

And had looking at her ever made him feel quite this way?

He trailed his finger along the curve of Bentley's jaw, then twined one of her curls around his index finger, rubbing the silky strands between his fingers. Why did this woman make him feel so much?

Bentley murmured something he couldn't make out and stirred; the papers spread out around her crackled in response. Noticing them for the first time, Jackson drew his eyebrows together and eased one out from beneath her elbow.

“Where Will The Whooping Crane Go Now?”

It was an article he'd written for
Conservation Magazine
two years ago. He set it aside and scanned the other papers scattered over the sofa and coffee table—all were about Baysafe and its operation, some written by him, some by other conservation and marine professionals.

Warmth at her interest eased through him, and pleasure followed. Jackson looked at Bentley, working to fight off both emotions. He couldn't afford to care for this woman, he reminded himself sternly.
He couldn't afford to forget the lessons of his past.

He was dangerously close to doing just that.

Bentley's eyelids fluttered up. She smiled sleepily. “Hi.”

“Hi.” He brushed the curls from her cheek, gently tucking them behind her ear.

She yawned. “When did you get home?”

“Just now.”

“Mmm.” She snuggled into the throw pillow under her head. “What time is it?”

Jackson moved his gaze over her. “Late. I got held up by bad weather.” He couldn't resist and touched her hair again, lightly and only with his fingertips. He found her unbelievably sexy with her sleep-tangled hair and heavy eyes. “Go on up. I'll take the couch.”

Bentley shook her head. “You're twice as big as this piece of furniture.” She pulled herself into a sitting position. “I'll go.”

“I'd rather you stayed.”

The words hovered between them for a moment, then she met his eyes. “Would you?”

“Yes.”

She touched his cheek, caressing lightly. “You look tired.”

He smiled. “Exhausted. And hungry.”

“We saved you dinner.”

His heart stopped for just a fraction of a second, and in that time he wondered how he had gone so long without hearing those words. He called himself a fool even as he searched Bentley's gaze. “What did we have?”

“Tuna noodle surprise.” She yawned again. “Chloe made it.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “Chloe? That
is
a surprise.”

“She really missed you.”

“Did she?” Jackson looked away, then back, a muscle working in his jaw. “Considering the way it was between us when I left, I find that hard to believe. Although there was a time when she…”

He let the words trail off, then began again. “I wanted to call…I wanted to talk to her.” His mouth twisted in self-derision. “But I was afraid. Isn't that something? Afraid of calling my own daughter.”

Bentley laid a hand on his arm and squeezed reassuringly. He looked at her again, then away once more. “I just couldn't face the thought of going another round with her. Not when I was so far away.”

“It's going to be okay,” Bentley murmured, lifting her gaze to his.

“Is it?”

“Yes.” Bentley smiled. “No doubts.”

He wished he could say the same, wished he could believe her words, her reassuring smile. He couldn't, but neither could he openly discount or question them. Because tonight he needed words like those, needed warmth and reassurance and company.

Bentley's company.

Only hesitating a moment, Jackson sat back and eased her into the curve of his arm. She made a sleepy sound of pleasure, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, allowing himself to question what he was doing.

Living dangerously. Following his urges rather than his intellect. Giving in to his need for her.

If she weren't so warm and pliant and sweet, maybe he would have the self-discipline to be smarter, stronger. Maybe, if he weren't so fatigued, so beaten down from a week alone with the enemy, he could tell her good-night and walk away.

Maybe. But right now smart and good-night weren't even possibilities.

“You never said,” she murmured, tilting her head against his shoulder. “Was the trip a success?”

“I don't know.” He frowned in thought. “It's difficult to accurately judge. The environment is a popular topic right now—to talk about. Everybody's giving it lip service. But will any real action be taken?” He shook his head. “I don't know.”

“I'm sorry.”

He tangled his fingers in her hair. “I often wonder how everybody's values got all screwed up. Mandatory double hulls on all tankers is such a simple step, but it could save so much. If the
Valdez
had had one, the Prince William Sound would have been saved.”

He made a sound of frustration. “I went there, you know. I was one of the specialists called in to help assess the damage, help plan the clean-up. I couldn't sleep at night. I had nightmares about the destruction I was seeing…and nightmares about it happening to our Bay. We've had so many close calls.”

Reaching up, Bentley stroked his cheek. She knew if he hadn't been so fatigued, he wouldn't be talking to her so openly and emotionally, knew he wouldn't have let down his guard. But she didn't care. Being with him like this felt too good to question or worry over the reasons.

Jackson tipped his head into her caress, his expression sad. “With all the money Exxon spent, they hardly made a dent. After days of high-pressure hosing the beach, all we had to do was dig our fingers into the gravel and sand to come up with oil. The truth is, only nature has the power to clean up that spill. And we don't know how few or how many years that will take. It could take ten, it could take five hundred. Nor do we know exactly how the ecosystem's been permanently changed by the spill. We can only guess.”

“Oh, Jackson.”

He looked at her, his eyes full of doubt. “And sometimes, especially after a week like this one, I wonder if maybe I'm not the one whose values are screwed up. If I'm not the dinosaur standing in the way of progress. Victoria thought so. Chloe probably does, too.”

“You're not,” Bentley murmured, twisting to look at him, tenderness wrapping around and enveloping her. She'd never known a man who cared so deeply about life, only men who cared about their careers and money. The kind of men who truly didn't care who or what they destroyed in their pursuit of both.

He smiled at her. “No?”

“No.” Reaching up, she touched the laugh lines that radiated from his eyes. So often she'd yearned for Jackson to look at her with warmth and tenderness, with an understanding of her, a silent communication—the way he was looking at her now.

Her heart turned over, and she realized she was dangerously close to feeling too much for this man. And that it was already too late to do a thing about it.

Bentley took a deep, shuddering breath. She tried to recall their last argument, tried to remember the reasons she loathed him. She couldn't think of one. Even as she told herself it was madness, she moved her hand higher until she tangled her fingers in his hair.

“What am I, then?” he asked, his voice thick.

“Sexy and stubborn,” she murmured. “Arrogant, yet somehow sweet.” She lowered her voice to a throaty whisper. “Driving me crazy.”

“I like that,” he said, lowering his mouth. “Because you're driving me crazy, too.”

As his mouth took hers, Bentley sighed. It seemed years since he'd touched her, decades since his mouth had been on hers. Searching. Heating. Exploring.

And she responded like a starving woman, opening her mouth to his, too greedy to savor, too hungry to do more than devour. When he lifted her so she straddled his lap, all she could do was murmur her appreciation.

Jackson dragged his mouth from hers to taste the shell of her ear, the fragrant and milky skin of her throat. A small and rational part of him acknowledged that Chloe slept upstairs and that this was madness. That part was small indeed.

He'd denied himself the pleasure of touching her for too long.

He yanked her soft chambray shirt from the waistband of her jeans, then slid his hands beneath. A shudder moved through him as he felt her skin for the first time. Warm as sunlight and smooth as silk, the sensation against his palms was pure luxury. He could only imagine how her skin would feel against other, even more sensitive parts of his anatomy.

His imaginings were unbearably exciting.

Although it cost him, Jackson moved his hands slowly, taking his time, exploring and savoring. Beneath his touch, Bentley quivered, goose bumps racing ahead of his hands. He eased his hands over her rib cage to the curve of her breasts. He cupped her, sucking in a sharp breath as her flesh molded to his palms, as the peaks pressed against him.

Bentley made a sound of pleasure and arched against him, trapping his hands on her breasts. She was still straddling his lap, and his arousal pressed against her. She moved against him, delighting in the feel of him against her womanhood and the way he muttered her name, deep in his throat, before capturing her mouth in a hungry kiss.

As they strained against each other, the events of the week tumbled through her head, kaleidoscope fashion. With them came satisfaction and pride. A feeling that, for once, she was good enough for anybody. She wanted to share the feeling with him, just as she wanted to share her body.

Bentley broke away from him, breathing heavily. She smiled and touched his lower lip with her thumb. “There's so much I have to tell you…so much happened this week.”

“Tell me first that you want to make love,” Jackson murmured, sliding his hands from her breasts to her bottom. Cupping her, he fitted her against his arousal. “Tell me that, Bentley.”

Her mind emptied of everything but the thrum of blood in her head and the sensations skittering through her. She curled her fingers into his shirt, crumpling it, holding on to the fabric as if it were her only anchor to the real world.