Thorne's Wife

by Joan Hohl

  “You’re the best man,” Val reminded him as she came to a stop in front of him.

  “I know.” Jonas smiled.

  Val chose to ignore his wry humor. “You should be mingling with the guests.” She knew what was coming when his smile grew.

  “If I’m going to mingle, sweetheart, I’ll…”

  “Jonas.” Val silenced him with that single warning murmur. “This is hardly the time or the place.”

  Supremely unconcerned with the laughter and conversation rippling around them, Jonas rooted her to the floor with an intense stare. “When is the time?” he asked softly. “Where is the place?

  The room was suddenly too warm. Val’s gown was suddenly too tight across her breasts. She couldn’t think. She didn’t want to. In that instant, all the discord between them dissolved in the achingly familiar heat that was rushing to her head, plunging to the depths of her femininity. Val was unaware that her feelings were clearly revealed in her violet eyes. All she knew was that she longed to drown in the blue-gray depths of his eyes.

  Normally a man of few words, Jonas didn’t speak; he acted. Pushing away from the ornate pillar, he grasped her hand and led her around the fringes of the crowd and through the open doors that led to the spacious patio and extensive country club gardens.

  The intoxicating scent of roses permeated the soft summer air. The velvet night sky sparkled with the light of millions of stars and the nearly full moon. A thrilling sensation of strangely illicit excitement trembled through Val’s overwarm body.

  She came to her senses when Jonas came to a stop, midway along one of the graveled walkways. Val had to smile at the first coherent thought that swam into her head. She was literally being led down the garden path. The low, terse sound of his voice jolted her back to reality.

  “When are you coming home?”

  “I was only away one night, Jonas.”

  Jonas released his grasp on her hand and then, catching her off guard, pulled her into his arms. His voice was a low, hungry growl near her ear. “I mean, when are you really coming home, back to our bed, where you belong?”

  Resistance flowed along Val’s spine. Always the same, she thought. It was always the same. For Jonas, the cure to any personal problem could be found in bed. Working a hand free, she pressed it against his shoulder.

  “Jonas, don’t.”

  “Don’t?” he repeated in an incredulous tone. “Val, I need you so much I can hardly think straight.” Sliding a hand up her spine to her nape, he tangled his fingers in her hair and tugged her head back. “And you tell me `Don’t’? You might as well tell me to stop breathing.” Lowering his head, he fastened his mouth onto hers.

  His kiss was heaven. His kiss was hell. And it was all the levels of sensation quivering between the two extremes. It was always the same…yet always different. His mouth was hard, yet warm. His lips were demanding, yet tender. His tongue was piercing, yet gentle.

  Needing the feel of Jonas, the taste of him, every bit as much as his taut body told her that he needed her, Val stole a moment out of their time of discord and surrendered to the sweet forgetfulness of his kiss.

  Her spine bowed in response to the tightening of his arm around her waist. Her soft, trembling body was fused to the rigid strength of his. Plundering her mouth, Jonas arched protectively, possessively, over her slight form.

  Her gown was being crushed; Valerie didn’t care. The curve of her spine was being strained; Valerie didn’t feel it. For the length of his kiss, her mind abdicated, her senses rejoiced, her passion reigned.

  His breath was a harsh sound on the still night when Jonas lifted his mouth from hers. “You want me as much as I want you.” His voice was low, raspy, intense. “Come home with me, Val. Come home and make love with me.”

  With the despairing thought that lovely dreams always seemed to end in rude awakenings, Val brought her hand from his shoulder and laid her palm against his cheek.

  Disarmed and heartened, Jonas combed his fingers through the silky strands of her hair, gleaming ebony in the wash of moonlight, and eased his grip around her waist. “Val,” he murmured, lowering his head for another kiss.

  Her small hand stroked his cheek, then she nimbly slipped out of his loosened embrace. “It would solve nothing, Jonas,” she said from a safe distance of several feet. “Except to alleviate the obvious, immediate discomfort.”

  Stiff with anger and frustration, Jonas cursed under his breath. Watching him warily, prepared to make a run for it if he took one step toward her, Val listened to him swear in mounting surprise, amazed at his extensive vocabulary.

  When he at last fell silent, after having not once used the same word twice, Val asked, “Are you quite finished?”

  Jonas had the grace to be embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” he said, raking a hand through his neatly brushed hair. “But you have a positive talent for making me mad.”

  “That’s my line,” Val quipped, in a weak attempt to defuse his explosive temper.

  His burst of laughter was harsh, short, involuntary. But it did the trick. Jonas exhaled, easing the stiffness from his body. “And you’ve been using it a lot lately.” He took a step toward her; Val took a step back. In the bright moonlight she could see the cynical smile that curved his thin lips. “You can relax, sweetheart,” he said, slowly moving toward her. “I won’t pounce on you again.”

  Ignoring the twinge of disappointment she felt, Val gave him a considering look. “I’d like your word on it.”

  “You have it.”

  Val relaxed, and unwittingly offered him the compliment of physically displaying utter belief and trust in his given word. His smile tearing her poise into ribbons of shivering expectancy, Jonas closed the space that separated them.

  “We must go back inside,” Val said, clenching her hands into fists to combat the effects of his nearness on her senses. “As the best man and matron of honor, we are expected to mingle and be charming to the guests.”

  “I want to kiss you again.”

  “No, Jonas.” Now she was denying herself as well as him.

  “Just once more,” he murmured seductively.

  “No, Jonas.” Refusing him hurt her.

  “You’re my wife.”

  Val lifted her chin. “Are you issuing a veiled ultimatum?” she challenged.

  Jonas pinned her for an instant with an angry stare. Then he shook his head in sharp denial. “You know better.”

  Relief shivered through Val, for, although she thought Jonas would never force an issue with her, she wasn’t absolutely sure. “Then I suggest we go back inside. In case you’ve forgotten, our friends are celebrating their wedding.” Displaying a confidence she was light-years from feeling, Val turned and began walking toward the lights and sounds of music and laughter that were pouring from the open doors of the country club.

  “I haven’t forgotten a thing, Val,” Jonas muttered, falling into step beside her.

  You never do, Val acknowledged, but only to herself. To him she raised one delicately arched eyebrow. “Do we present a show of unity or dissension?” Her nod indicated the building they were approaching and the people inside.

  “Unity.” Marginally smiling, Jonas angled his arm in invitation.

  Faintly returning his smile, Val slid her arm through his. She glanced up at him in startled surprise when he came to a halt mere inches from the open doors. “Jonas?”

  “This is ridiculous.” His tone was adamant. “We don’t have time for socializing, Val. We must talk.”

  “Not here, Jonas.” Her tone betrayed her impatience. It succeeded in igniting his own.

  “When?” he demanded. He shouldn’t have.

  “When I return from California,” she answered in a fierce whisper as they crossed the threshold. The arm beneath her hand grew taut, revealing the control Jonas was exerting over his temper.

  “What?” Impervious to the startled looks sent their way from the guests who had overheard him, Jonas stared at her in furious disbeli
ef.

  Smiling sweetly for the benefit of the onlookers, Val repeated her answer, but this time succinctly and through her sparkling, gritted teeth. “I said when I get back from California, Jonas.”

  Chapter 6

  The weather in San Francisco was miserable. It had rained, at times in pouring sheets, at others in light drizzles, throughout every one of the seemingly endless four days Val had been on the West Coast.

  Val’s mood was in perfect harmony with the prevailing weather conditions. The rally for the protection of artistic individuality, over which she had fought with Jonas to attend, was, at least for Val, a complete farce.

  Bright-eyed and eager, Val had set out the morning after her arrival in San Francisco to be a part of the opening event. Disillusionment had set in minutes after she entered the designated display room.

  The garish, childishly executed paintings on the sitting-room walls in the elegant home of one of the rally sponsors had nothing whatever to do with individuality, and even less with artistry. In Val’s opinion, the general public deserved protection from the crude, overbearing idiot who had the temerity to refer to himself as a working artist.

  Nevertheless, reserving judgment, Val sought out the sponsors she had corresponded with. They were not difficult to identify. Never before in her life had she encountered such a group of dilettantes, sycophants, pseudointellectuals and just plain phonies.

  Edging away from the group, she unobtrusively drifted toward the front door. Slipping out of the house, Val went sightseeing in the rain.

  When she got back to the hotel late in the afternoon of that first day, Val considered returning home. She felt foolish for making the trip in the first place. She was discouraged and depressed. Not even sight-seeing in the city she had longed to explore had managed to lift her spirits.

  And, irascible as he often was, Val missed Jonas even more than she had three years before, when she’d left him, ostensibly to visit her mother in Australia, but with every intention of not returning. After only one day away, Val ached for the sight of Jonas. Yet she knew that if she went home, she would have to explain to him why she had cut short the trip. There was no way she could lie to him about it. And, though Jonas might not say “I told you so,” Val knew he would definitely think it. Unwilling to admit he’d been right, Val decided to remain in California.

  During the remaining three days of her stay, Val followed the same routine. After breakfast, she made her way to the first scheduled rally event of the day, each of which grew successively worse. Then, having put in an appearance, she escaped to spend the day on her own.

  By the end of the third day, Val concluded that being on her own, even in a city as interesting and varied as San Francisco, was not her idea of a fun time. If only she and Jonas had resolved their differences…

  But they hadn’t. Trudging along the sidewalks, all of which seemed either straight up or straight down, Val chastised herself for the aloof, withdrawn attitude she’d maintained with Jonas during the week between the wedding and her departure for the coast.

  And all because of stupid pride…hers as well as his, Val acknowledged. But, stupid or not, Val’s pride had still been smarting over the revelation that Jonas had been supporting Lynn financially. And Val knew that she had stung Jonas’s pride by rejecting his advances the night of Janet and Charlie’s wedding.

  By spiriting her away from the reception, Jonas had initially excited, then angered Val. The setting of a moon-washed garden drenched with the heady scent of early summer roses had been conducive to romance. Jonas had not only ruined the mood with his blatant sexual overtures, he had thrown away the perfect opportunity to effect a reconciliation.

  Why were married men so incredibly dense? Val railed in silent frustration, panting as she climbed yet another steep hill. She had often heard married men deride women, married as well as single, for being gullible enough to fall for a smooth line pitched by a glib-tongued male. Whenever she had overheard remarks of that nature, Val had had to bite back the urge to upbraid the speaker for his own lack of insight. Why, she’d asked herself, couldn’t the poor fools—Jonas included—figure out that, if they gave even half as much attention to their wives or lady friends as they paid to their work, the glib-tongued men would be out of business?

  And so, since Jonas had made Val angry by wasting the romantic setting of the garden, she had determined to let him cool his heels, waiting for the “talk” he’d insisted upon, until after she had returned from the coast.

  There was one final event for her to attend—a large formal gala, to be held in the ballroom of one of the oldest, most prestigious hotels in the city. Val wasn’t looking forward to the event, but since she had shelled out a bundle for two tickets in the vain hope that Jonas would condescend to join her, she was determined on going, alone or not…maybe because, though she was on her own, she was never completely alone.

  Sitting in a cable car as it screeched down the paved face of a hill, Jonas was with her.

  Wandering in and out of the stalls on Fisherman’s Wharf, examining the ordinary and the exotic merchandise proffered there, Jonas was with her.

  Standing on the bay shore, the wind whipping her hair around her head, watching the fog shroud the Golden Gate Bridge and the island of Alcatraz, Jonas was with her.

  And as she dressed for the gala in the gown Jonas had so violently disapproved of, he was definitely with her, scowling in spirit, if not in person.

  * * *

  For three days after Val’s departure for California, the employees of J.T. Electronics took great care to avoid their employer. To put it in their words: the cracker was on the warpath. In fact, Jonas was mad.

  He was mad at the world, he was mad at Val, but most of all he was mad at himself. Being human and male, Jonas didn’t like facing his own failings. But he had failed, and knew it. He had failed Val and, in so doing, had ultimately failed himself.

  Frustrated, agitated, impatient, Jonas prowled the confines of his office just as he had three years previously, the first time Val had left him alone.

  He and Val had been estranged then, too, Jonas recalled with painful clarity.

  Come to that, Val had withdrawn from him at that time, too, in much the same way she’d withdrawn into herself after the wedding reception for Janet and Charlie.

  Jonas came to a halt at his brooding spot before the wide window that overlooked the rear parking lot. A derisive smile curved his thin lips. He had spent an inordinate amount of time on this spot during the past three days, he reflected, fighting an inner battle with himself—one that he’d been waging in silence throughout every one of those three days.

  Three years ago, Jonas had allowed Valerie a month. Now she had told him she would be gone four days.

  Jonas made a rude sound. His assistant was off on a romantic honeymoon with one of his executives. Charlie and Janet were very likely making love at that very minute, Jonas thought with envy, while he, the boss, stood like a statue, staring out a window, aching in every inch of his being for his woman.

  It’s only two nights and one more day, Jonas told himself, staring bleakly at the golden glow of the sunset. He could wait one more day.

  “Like hell.”

  Fully aware of growling the decision aloud, Jonas turned away from the window and strode to his desk. Stabbing the intercom with his long index finger, Jonas issued terse instructions to his secretary.

  “Linda, I want the Lear made ready to depart for San Francisco tomorrow morning. Take care of it.”

  “At once, Jonas.”

  Even in this edgy mood, Jonas had to smile, if faintly, at the woman’s immediate response. Linda wasn’t a good secretary, she was damn near perfect. And at thirty-two she wasn’t merely attractive, she was gorgeous.

  When Jonas thought about it, which wasn’t often, he invariably smiled. Linda had been handpicked and scrupulously trained by his former secretary, his wife, Valerie. If nothing else, Linda’s presence in the outer office bespoke
Val’s trust in him.

  It was something. Jonas hung on to that something like an invisible talisman.

  * * *

  The elegantly appointed hotel ballroom was packed. Tuxedoed men and exquisitely gowned and bejeweled women stood in small groups conversing with the cadre of “artists” for whom the benefit was being held.

  If nothing else, the normally scruffy self-declared artists had cleaned up well, Val thought wryly as she drifted from one group to another. Even the obnoxious young man she’d had the misfortune to meet at the first day’s event looked reasonably presentable, having made the supreme sacrifice of trimming his shaggy beard and having his too long, lank hair shampooed.

  Quiet, composed, reserved, Valerie chose to sit at a table near the back of the room for dinner. The food was excellent. Val barely tasted it. The speeches were blessedly short. Val didn’t hear them. Behind a facade of interest, she asked herself what in hell she was doing there, allowing herself to be bored to numbness, when she could be at home, fighting with her blockhead of a husband.

  Steeped in her loneliness for the only man who possessed the power to make her pulse race and her heartbeat play leapfrog with itself, Val was immune to the blatantly overt looks sent her way by many of the men present.

  When the dinner was at last concluded, Val followed the lead of the other guests and mingled, listening to bits of a discussion here, adding her voice to bits of conversation there, then moving on, restless, yet unwilling to return to her hotel room to be alone with her own thoughts and fears.

  In her preoccupation, Val was as unaware of the speculative glances sweeping her face and form as she was of the impact of her appearance and the challenge presented by her cool, untouchable attitude.

  She was repeatedly invited onto the dance floor. She politely, but repeatedly declined.

  The evening dragged on. Beginning to wonder if the interminable reception would ever come to an end, Val was standing with a small group of women, sipping at a glass of champagne she really didn’t want, when her wandering attention was snared by the throaty low exclamation made by the beautiful, thirtyish, self-admittedly bored woman standing beside her.