Iris Johansen (16 page)

After those far-from-subtle threats he had made in the courtyard, why had he suddenly abandoned his determination to coerce her into staying with him? Why was he virtually ignoring her and driving himself
to exhaustion in that damned office? She supposed she should have been grateful that he had given up his plan of pressuring her, but she felt a strange unease, almost guilt, when she remembered the fleeting look of pain on Rafe’s face that last afternoon.

It was just like the man to do this to her, she thought in exasperation as she twisted restlessly on the silken sheets. Why couldn’t he react predictably instead of behaving with his usual arrogant stubbornness and individuality. Damn it, he had been ill, and it must have been fairly serious to incapacitate a man of Rafe’s almost bull-like strength. This constant driving labor was enough to break the health of a well man, much less one who’d been ordered to rest. If Pat had looked so exhausted, what must Rafe be feeling at this moment? The irritating man would probably be back in the hospital if he kept on at this pace.

She felt a sudden chill at the thought of Rafe lying weak and still in a sterile white hospital bed, and her heart started to thump with panic. It didn’t matter that the idiot probably deserved everything that happened to him. She was actually feeling physically ill with worry at that horribly vivid picture, and she felt a bead of moisture break out on her forehead. Why didn’t someone stop him? Pat Dawson must know where this type of thing would lead for a man who’d been as ill as Rafe. Why didn’t he tell Rafe what a fool he was to risk a setback like the one he was courting so recklessly?

She bit her lip, frowning in frustration as she realized just how ridiculous that possibility would be. Dawson was well aware that he would be no match for Rafe even if he weren’t in a subservient position. At any hint of interference, Rafe could annihilate him with either that scathing tongue or the power he wielded so ruthlessly. No, she could expect no help from Pat.

She
could expect no help? What was she thinking? Rafe Santine’s welfare wasn’t any concern of hers. It certainly wasn’t her responsibility if he wanted to work himself back into a hospital bed. But if she wouldn’t accept the burden of his well-being, who would? The fear and wariness that he engendered in those around him made him vulnerable to the ramifications of his own iron determination. He stood curiously alone, and Janna felt a throbbing ache as she realized the extent of that self-imposed loneliness.

She blinked furiously to rid her eyes of those maddening tears, and drew a long, shaky breath. The cowards would probably let him kill himself before they gathered enough courage to beard him in his den. Well, she couldn’t stand it any longer. Someone had to tell him a few home truths, and it seemed she was elected.

Without stopping to think, she threw back the velvet coverlet and slipped naked from the bed, stopping only to grab her honey-colored satin negligee and slip it on as she strode swiftly toward the door. She hurriedly buttoned the long, flowing robe as she traversed the corridor and flew down the stairs, her bare feet padding with catlike sureness on the plush Persian-carpet runner. It was dark in the hall, but she could see the thin line of light beneath the library door as she marched almost militantly toward it.

“Miss Cannon.”

The words had been almost a whisper, but, coming out of the darkened foyer behind her, caused her heart to nearly jump out of her breast. She whirled around in alarm, her startled eyes searching the darkness.

“I apologize for frightening you,” Stokley said quietly, coming forward with his usual regal bearing. He was in his customary discreet black jacket and looked as serenely wide awake as if it were three in the afternoon and not the middle of the night. He
was carefully carrying a tray with a silver carafe of coffee and a single cup and saucer. “I wonder if I might impose on you to take this tray in to Mr. Santine while I bring another cup and saucer for you.”

Janna accepted the tray. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, her tone as hushed as Stokley’s had been. “You can go on to bed, Fred. I only came down to persuade Mr. Santine to go to bed himself. He won’t need you any more tonight.”

In the shadowy dimness she couldn’t discern his expression, but there was relief and approval in his voice as he answered. “I’m very glad to hear that, Miss Cannon. It wasn’t my place to make the suggestion, but I’m sure Mr. Santine is overdoing it a bit. You’re sure I can’t be of any further service? Perhaps you might ask him if he’d like a snack before he retires. The maid said he barely touched his supper tray.”

“If he decides that he wants something, I’m sure we can find our way to the kitchen, Fred,” Janna said impatiently. “Run along to bed. There’s no use for the entire household to be stirring just because Mr. Santine doesn’t know night from day.”

There was an instant of shocked silence, and when Stokley replied, there was a thread of amusement in his voice. “If you say so, Miss Cannon. May I open the door for you?”

“Yes, please,” she answered absently. “Good night, Fred.”

“Good night, Miss Cannon.”

The silver tray and carafe were surprisingly heavy, and she kept her eyes lowered and fixed on her burden as she passed through the door, which Stokley then closed quietly behind her.

“For God’s sake, stop dillydallying and put down the coffee and get out, Fred,” Rafe said roughly. “I told you I didn’t want it to begin with.”

Janna glanced up to see just what she expected to
see. Rafe Santine was sitting hunched over the desk, in the massive leather executive chair, his gaze on the paper he was perusing in the pool of light from the desk lamp. It was the only light in the room, with the exception of the flickering blaze in the fireplace across the room. The sleeves of his crisp white shirt were rolled up to the elbow, baring brown, muscular forearms, and he’d unfastened the first few buttons for comfort, revealing the strong line of his throat. There was a dark lock of hair falling carelessly on his forehead, and the broad planes of his face were boldly prominent, the skin stretched taut with strain.

“Good,” Janna said composedly, gliding forward silently to place the heavy tray on a corner of the mahogany desk. “Caffeine can’t be good for you at this time of night anyway.”

Rafe looked up quickly, surprise rapidly superseded by guarded cynicism as he saw her standing there watching him from the other side of the desk, her slim, graceful form in the honey satin robe shimmering in the lamplight.

“On second thought, I believe I will have a cup,” he said, leaning back in his chair to regard her mockingly. “Pour me one and bring it over here, Janna.”

Janna sighed impatiently, gritting her teeth in exasperation as she picked up the carafe and poured the hot black brew into the cup. It was obvious Rafe was in one of his more difficult moods, reacting like a stubborn little boy to any hint of coercion. She looked up to see his brooding eyes fixed on her hands as she picked up the cup and saucer. “You do that quite beautifully,” he said absently. “There’s something intrinsically serene and graceful about the action, almost a homeliness.” He looked up to smile mirthlessly. “It’s very deceptive, for there’s no one less domestic or home-oriented than you. Isn’t that right, my little wild thing?”

She didn’t answer as she came around the desk to place the coffee before him on the desk. She would have stepped back, but he stopped her, his hand swiftly grasping her wrist. “No, stay,” he ordered curtly, his lips curving sardonically. “I want to have something pretty to look at while I enjoy my coffee.”

She shrugged, and half sat, half leaned on the corner of the desk, watching him as he picked up the cup and took a sip, his hand still loosely holding her wrist. “That coffee is awfully strong,” she said, frowning disapprovingly. “It’s going to make it difficult for you to sleep.”

“Your concern is touching,” he drawled caustically, taking another swallow. “Is that why you decided to honor me with your presence? Are you playing little mother?” His lips curled scornfully. “You’ll forgive me if I lack appreciation for the nuances of the role. I’m afraid my childhood was lacking in the gentle maternal influences.” He shrugged. “It’s just as well; I never really needed it.” He took another drink of coffee, his eyes fixed challengingly on her face. “I still don’t.”

He was so much like a difficult little boy issuing a dare to all comers that she felt a queer tug at her heart. She carefully smothered a smile of amusement. “I agree,” she said briskly. “You’ve absolutely no need for a mother. But you could use the services of a game warden, and I’m uniquely qualified in that area. I’m used to dealing with stubborn, irascible beasts.”

His eyes widened in surprise, and there was a blank instant of silence before he gave a short bark of laughter. His gaze narrowed on her face. “I’m waiting with bated breath for you to tell me just what sort of beast you think you’ve caught in your magic spell, Pocahontas,” he said silkily.

She cocked her head consideringly, studying him objectively. “Well, your roar is rather like a lion’s, you have the bad temper of a rhinoceros, and the
callous toughness of an elephant,” she said gently. “I think that about covers it.”

“At least you didn’t draw any mental comparisons with your animal friends,” Rafe said wryly. “I suppose I should be grateful for small favors.”

“I was coming to that,” Janna said. “I just wanted to get the more obvious similarities out of the way first. Actually, in that department you rival the dodo bird, which is probably why it’s extinct. Is there some reason why you’re trying to follow its example?”

“Perhaps I’m trying to arouse your sympathy,” he answered, scowling. “It appears that only an endangered species can lay claim to your long-term interest.”

She flinched. “You’ll make that list in short order if you don’t take better care of yourself,” she retorted tartly. “You’re supposed to be convalescing. Do you want to kill yourself?”

“Bull!” he shot back gruffly, crashing the cup down in the saucer with barely restrained violence. “I’m almost well. A few late sessions at my desk won’t hurt me.”

“You know very well your doctor forbade any concentrated work schedule,” Janna said fiercely. “You’ve been slaving like a maniac for the past three days. Even Pat is beginning to look exhausted.”

“Pat?” Rafe asked, his voice tight, his dark eyes flaring. “I should have known it wasn’t any concern for me that caused your nocturnal visit. Did Dawson come running to you for sympathy? I’m sure he was willing to accept all that sentimental maternal balderdash you’re offering.” His hand tightened agonizingly about her wrist. “And a good deal more.” His face grew taut, and his eyes narrowed menacingly. “What else did you offer him, Janna?”

“Nothing,” Janna gasped, struggling vainly to release herself from his clasp. “For God’s sake, he’s practically been in your back pocket for days. When
would I get the chance to vamp the poor man? Will you please let me go? You’re hurting me.”

“I want to hurt you,” he said harshly, and, incredibly, she felt his hand tighten on her wrist with bruising ferocity. She gave an involuntary cry as a white-hot jolt of pain ripped through her, and he dropped her wrist as if he’d been burned.

She stared dazedly at her wrist, which was white with livid streaks from the pressure he’d exerted in that sudden brutal clasp. Instinctively she reached out her other hand to cover the marks, as if they were a brand of shame.

“You can’t hide them,” Rafe said dully, his eyes fixed on her arm in almost morbid fascination. “You’ll probably be bruised black and blue tomorrow.” He lifted his head, and his eyes were so sick and tormented that Janna felt her breath catch in her throat. “I really am the beast you named me.”

“No,” Janna said quickly, pulling the long, loose sleeve of the negligee over her wrist. “It was an accident. You really didn’t mean to hurt me.”

“Didn’t I?” he asked bitterly. “I think I did.” He shook his head slowly, his face white and set. “I think I wanted you to feel something, anything, even if it was pain or hatred for me. I couldn’t stand being the only one in this quagmire of emotion. Do you think I didn’t know it was only pity that caused you to come to me tonight? You stand there looking so damn beautiful that it makes me ache inside, and I want to explode and strike out at everything in sight.” He smiled bitterly. “Well, I did strike out, didn’t I?” He closed his eyes. “God, I feel sick.”

“You’re exhausted,” Janna said. That look of pain and supreme self-disgust was hurting her far more than Rafe’s temporary loss of control. “If you’d been yourself, I know you’d never have touched me.”

He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. “Oh, I would have touched you.” He laughed mirthlessly. “Perhaps not in violence, but I assure you
that I’d have touched you. Why do you think I’ve been working myself into a frazzle since we got back from the reserve?”

“I don’t understand,” she said falteringly, wishing desperately he would once more assume that hard, ruthless mask with which he usually faced the world. This vulnerable, pain-wracked Rafe slipped effortlessly beneath the barriers she had lifted.

He raised his head and opened his eyes. “I didn’t expect you to,” he said wearily. “I’m well aware I’m all alone in this. Let’s just say it’s my last-ditch struggle against this damn spell you’ve woven about me. My work has always been the most fascinating mistress I’ve known. No other woman has ever stood a chance against it. I thought if I could drown myself in it, I could forget you.”

“And did you?” Janna asked softly.

“Well, it made me so tired that it kept me out of your bed,” he answered bitterly. “But it didn’t keep me from thinking about you or wanting you. I don’t know why I thought it would work. Nothing else has.” His sable gaze was suddenly flaring with anger. “And now I’ve hurt you, damn it! Why couldn’t you stay away from me? Didn’t your precious training ever teach you to stay away from an animal in pain?”

“No,” Janna said quietly. “It taught me to try to remove the source of the pain and heal the hurt.” She stepped forward and gently brushed the errant lock of hair from his forehead. “Why won’t you believe that you didn’t really hurt me?” He went suddenly still as her hand soothingly stroked his dark, glossy hair. “I’ll probably not even have a bruise tomorrow.” Her voice was laced with humor as she continued. “I’m accustomed to far worse casualties every day at the reserve.”