Rebel Waltz (8 page)

“Of course. That's the other part of my favor, as a matter of fact. He thinks it's a dandy idea.”

“That's because he loves parties. Well, since you two have decided, I'll start making the arrangements.”

“Sure you don't mind? I could make them.”

“Oh, I don't mind. Just let me know whom to invite and how much to spend.”

“Jake's working up a list of guests. And you have no budget, milady. Sky's the limit.”

“You may regret that. In fact, I'm sure you will.”

“I trust you not to bankrupt me.” He grinned
down at her. “And I have a few touches of my own I'd like to discuss with you.”

She mistrusted the grin. “Really? What kinds of touches?”

“You think an elephant would be too much?”

The solemn tone got her for a moment. She stopped dead in her tracks in front of a particularly beautiful Forty-niner rosebush and stared up at him. Then, seeing the glint in his gray eyes, she relaxed. “My God—I thought you were serious.”

“A dog act, then?” he asked anxiously.

“Quit it.”

He started laughing. “It was worth it to see your face. Come on, show me the pool and we'll start planning.”

T
HE NEXT FEW
days were hectic ones. And peculiar. Raised in a family that traditionally loved parties, Banner was accustomed to planning quite lavish ones; Rory's barbecue-and-pool-party-cum- moonlight proved to be no exception. Clearly determined that she not be forced to do all the work, he threw his energy—which was considerable—into the effort. They worked together companionably over lists, shared the chore of innumerable phone calls and errands,
bickered amiably over what kind of music and who was to cater, and argued the merits of Japanese lanterns versus torches around the pool.

The Hall servants bore up nobly under the deluge of temporary help and delivery vans, although Conner, their butler, who had been given the prior week off to visit a sick relative, threatened to give notice when it turned out that the caterer Rory had hired was Creole and explosively temperamental.

Rory saved that situation, although Banner never could find out from the principals exactly how he managed. And she was desperately curious, because the normally taciturn Conner walked around for two days with a peculiarly shy smile on his face, and then tended to poker up whenever he saw her watching him.

“What on earth did you bribe the man with?”

“Shame on you. I'm above bribery.”

“Oh, of course. Did you find him a hot date?”

“Banner!”

“That shocked look sits ill on your devious face.”

“Just for that, I'll never tell you.” “Rory!”

One of Rory's “special touches” turned out to be a hayride, which he planned with meticulous detail. He managed to find six huge wagons, the teams to pull them, and a driver for each wagon. He found the sweetest- smelling hay in the county for the wagons. He even managed to locate an old rutted trail that wound for miles all around the plantation and never got near paved roads or the noisy sounds of civilization.

“The invitations look peculiar, you know.”

“How so?”

“Well, explaining the moonlight barbecue and pool party is no problem, but how do I warn the guests to bring jeans for the hayride?”

“You say: Optional hayride—bring jeans.”

“There's something lacking in that.”

“Who's going to care?”

“True.”

As the days slipped by, Banner was uneasily aware that Rory's companionship was becoming far too important to her. From their morning swim to a late snack before bedtime, they were almost constantly together. To be sure, it was an undemanding companionship; other than holding her hand or occasionally draping an arm around her shoulders, Rory made no attempt to put their relationship on a more intimate footing.

She told herself she was glad of that, told herself what was never begun could have no painful ending. She didn't believe herself.

She could at least partially put the matter out of her mind during the busy, laughter-filled days. But the nights were hell. It was more than irritating to one who had always slept easily and soundly to find herself suddenly restless and awake long into the night. She tried hot chocolate
and warm baths, and she tried counting sheep. Nothing worked.

On Thursday, the night before the party, she was particularly restless. A week of being constantly in Rory's company, trying vainly to ignore the tense awareness his nearness brought, had taken its toll. It was late, the house was dark and quiet, and Banner lay awake staring at a shadowy ceiling. The fifth time she looked at the clock on her nightstand, it was two A.M.

Deciding that it was better to be up and doing something if she must be awake, she threw back the covers and left the bed. After flipping a mental coin, she exchanged the sleep shirt for one of her swimsuits. She normally wore a relatively modest one-piece when she swam in the mornings, but this time chose a daring bikini she never wore unless she was sure to be alone; it was her “tanning suit,” purchased simply because it was the briefest thing she had been able to find.

She pulled a white terry beach caftan from her closet and drew it on, picked up a thick towel
from her bathroom, then padded barefoot downstairs and through the silent house.

The day had been hot and still; the night was warm and a bit muggy. It was typical midsummer weather for the South, and the weather prediction promised another such day and night for their party. Banner automatically followed the garden path out to the pool. She stopped at the side of the cabana to flip the switch activating the underwater pool lights, then opened the gate and stepped inside the two-acre “privacy fence” that surrounded the pool.

It wasn't until she'd crossed several yards of sparkling tile that she realized she hadn't been the only one in the house with this idea.

“Hi,” Rory called softly from the middle of the pool.

The underwater lights bathed the entire area in a hazy blue light, and between that and the full moon, she could see him clearly. He had spoken while floating lazily on his back, but now swam toward the side closest to her with the easy, powerful strokes she knew so well from
their morning swims. Banner dropped her towel on a table and slid her hands into the deep pockets of her caftan, suddenly very conscious of the lateness of the hour and of the fact that they were more alone than they'd ever been. Even though they had shared the pool early every morning this past week, she had always been aware of the sounds of gardeners working to ready the area all around the pool for their party.

She didn't cross the remaining couple of feet of tile, but remained where she was. “Hi. I—I didn't think anyone else was still up.”

“I've been out here every night about this time,” he said calmly, resting his elbows and forearms on the tile as he gazed up at her.

“Every night? I didn't realize you liked swimming that much.”

“What I don't like is staring at a dark ceiling. Come on in. The water's great.”

Banner forced herself to ignore the implications of his first comment; he probably just meant he was a confirmed insomniac, that was all. At
any rate, she was suddenly too busy remembering her scanty swimsuit to think about much else. She considered making some excuse to avoid entering the water, but knew that whatever she said, he'd think she was avoiding him.

If only he wouldn't keep watching her. Once in the water, her suit wouldn't look quite so brief, but standing here in full view of God and everybody—

“What's wrong?” Then, in a suddenly altered voice, he added, “I can leave if you'd rather swim alone.”

“No. No, of course not.” Banner walked to the edge of the pool at right angles to him, where wide steps led down into the shallow end. Trying to move as quickly as possible without looking as if she were hurrying, she pulled the long caftan up over her head, tossed it aside, and stepped down into the water.

She didn't look toward Rory, still at the side and utterly motionless, but instead struck out for the far end, swimming the length of the pool in her easy, graceful crawl. She swam back until
her feet touched bottom in the shallow end, standing upright, so that the surface of the water came just to her breasts.

“You're right,” she said breathlessly to the man who still hadn't moved. “The water is great.”

“So's that suit.”

Banner knew that it was hardly possible, anatomically speaking, for a heart to turn over; she wondered vaguely what actually happened to that organ to produce such a peculiar feeling. And she stood very still, because there had been something in his voice, an oddly taut, leashed quality, that warned her this moment was a dangerous one.

“Another thing that would have tried Rhett's patience,” he added huskily.

Banner managed a shaky laugh. “I only wear it when I'm—when I think I'll be alone. For sunbathing.”

He left the side, moving toward her until he stood just an arm's length away. “There's no sun now,” he pointed out.

“But I thought I'd be alone.”

“Don't ask me to leave.”

It was half command and half plea. Banner found herself staring, almost hypnotized, at the broad expanse of his chest. It should have been unthreateningly familiar to her after a week of morning swims, but it seemed to her then that she'd never really looked before. Never really let herself look before. Now she saw the sleek, dark gold mat of hair covering tanned, muscled flesh, and swallowed hard.

“Rory, I—”

“Do you know,” he interrupted, stepping even closer, “what I first noticed about you? Green eyes and an impossibly tiny waist. I thought: Scarlett O'Hara, for heaven's sake! But with you around, she'd never have been the belle of three counties.”

“You're hung up on that book,” she said with forced lightness.

“Parallels, I suppose.” His voice was absent. One hand lifted to touch her cheek gently, then slid down to her throat, his thumb stroking her
jawline. “Green eyes and a tiny waist. And the Hall's your Tara. But you're not in love with another man—are you?”

“No.” She knew he could feel the pulse pounding in her neck, knew that her quick, shallow breathing was obvious to him. But she could only stare up at him, fascinated by the sparkling droplets of water adorning smooth golden skin. Fascinated by his deep voice, by the warmth of his hand. And she caught her breath audibly when his free hand found her waist beneath the water.

“I always thought,” he mused softly, “that Rhett was misunderstood by everyone—not just Scarlett. He wanted her so badly, and waited so patiently for her to want him. And they came so close, those two. Do you think she got him back, by the way?”

Banner knew dimly that he was drawing more parallels, knew that he was telling her something. But her bemused mind just couldn't cope with cryptic ideas. Not then. So she answered his question. “Yes. She got him back.”

“But he left her,” Rory reminded softly. “He said he didn't give a damn what happened to her.”

“He was tired. He was exhausted.” Banner wasn't really listening to her own words; she just spoke instinctively. “But he loved her. He'd loved her for so long. He would have come back to her. He did come back to her.”

Rory bent his head until his breath was warm on her face, and smiled slowly. “Your sense of romance is definitely fine, milady.”

“Do—do you think he came back?” she murmured.

“I know he did.”

Banner's eyes remained open, staring into the darkened slate gray of his; they seemed to fill her vision, her mind, velvety pools she wanted to drown herself in. His lips teased hers, brushing in a satiny caress that tempted her, tortured her. His tongue probed the sensitive inner flesh of her parted lips, sending shivers through her body.

His body was taut against hers, his tension evident when his hand moved to the small of her back and pressed her hips to his. But he made no
move to deepen the kiss. Instead, the tormenting, unsatisfying little caresses went on and on, sapping her strength and willpower. His fingers stroked her throat, the back of her neck, then tangled in her thick curls to hold her head firmly.

Jerkily, her hands lifted to his chest, fingertips exploring silky hair and firm flesh. She wanted so badly to touch him, wanted so badly to feel his strong arms locked around her body. Nothing else seemed to matter. Knowingly, willingly, she closed her eyes and abandoned a fight that had never begun.

Whether he sensed her feelings or simply lost patience himself, Rory abruptly deepened the kiss in fierce need. His mouth slanted across hers hotly, desperately, drawing from her more than she could afford to lose.

But Banner didn't care. Since the passionate embrace of that first night and during all the casual touches of the past week, hunger had built within her like floodwaters behind a dam. She was lost in the swirling rush of escaping passion, afloat only because he held her. Her arms slid
around his neck, and the feeling of his arms locked around her body fed the hunger inside her.

The warm water lapped around them, caressing them, and the warm night air carried the heady scent of roses—the traditional flower of love. In a blue-lit haze, they were alone, and Banner wanted to stop time.

She could feel the feverish heat of his body and her own; they were pressed so tightly together she could even feel his heart thudding against her. The hardness of his body lent weakness to her own, and his taut tension was hers. When he lifted his head finally, she had no strength even to open her eyes, and her breath was suspended somewhere far away, out of reach.

“Look at me,” he whispered roughly.

She forced leaden eyelids to raise, gazing up at a handsome face that was tense and gray eyes that were dark and compelling. Aching from head to foot, she was conscious of nothing but her need for him.

“I want you,” he said huskily, his head lowering
once again and lips feathering down her throat as Banner instinctively let her head fall back. “You know that.”

“Yes.” Mindless, she twined her fingers among the silky strands of his thick hair.

“And you want me.” It wasn't a question.

But she answered. “Yes,” she whispered.