Reckless Passion

by Stephanie James

  "I think you've been reading too much of that eighteenth-century philosophy I saw on your book­shelf. Just remember that back during the seventeen hundreds, during the so-called Age of Reason, it was still legal to beat one's wife! A very practical era."

  "Ah! But I'm not your wife!" she murmured tri­umphantly, lowering her lashes to hide the mischief in her eyes.

  "No," he agreed on a distant note. "You backed out of your deal the minute you woke up this morn­ing. But I'm not at all willing to do the same. I want you, little tabby cat, and I can make you want me."

  "The only way you can continue to see me is on my terms," she stated aloofly. "This weekend is sim­ply not going to be allowed to set the tone of our relationship, and that's final."

  "You are issuing a challenge," he accused, wav­ing his fork at her briefly.

  "The fact that you can say that only goes to show how little you know me."

  "It won't work," he told her darkly.

  "Our relationship?"

  "Trying to put it on another footing," he elabo­rated. "It won't work."

  "Then that will be the end of things."

  "I accept," he gritted.

  "Accept what?"

  "The challenge. To put it in elemental terms, I will prove I can seduce you and make you eat every last one of your fine words. Before I'm finished you will be begging me to marry you!"

  Dara forced down the excitement wafting through her senses. She was a long way from the finish line yet. With seeming casualness she raised her coffee cup in mocking salute.

  "Is that the Southern gentleman or the moonshine runner talking?''

  "That's me, Yale Ransom, talking, and I mean every word! Whatever else happened this weekend, the one abiding fact is that I made you mine. I'm going to make you admit it if it's the last thing I do on this earth!"

  "Fine," she said easily. "Now, if you don't mind, would you hurry up and finish that coffee? I'd like to get you out of this apartment as quickly as possible. With any luck maybe the neighbors won't notice the Alfa Romeo...."

  "Are you worried about being compromised?" he jeered.

  "As you said last night, I'd probably survive it, but there's no sense deliberately inviting any more trou­ble, is there?"

  "Speaking of which," he interrupted loftily, "what about the business with Hank Bonner's drug runner?" His smile was one of impending victory. "I still feel morally obligated to look after you as long as he's on the loose."

  "Try looking at page A12 in this morning's pa­per," she invited kindly.

  Shooting her a glaring frown, Yale flipped open the paper.

  "It's in fine print close to the bottom of the page under the advertisement for tennis rackets."

  His mouth moved into a harder line as he read the brief report. "So they got him last night, after all."

  "He never stood a chance, what with all those truckers looking for him."

  "And we're in the clear," he continued absently, finishing the few lines announcing the arrest of a man suspected of using interstate truckers to transport drugs.

  "No mention of us at all." Dara grinned cheer­fully. "Your reputation as a nice, staid, gentlemanly accountant is safe."

  "And your habit of getting involved in barroom brawls and then going off into the night with a trucker or two is also safely hidden. It looks like we'll both be able to show our faces in downtown Eugene to­morrow."

  "Something tells me you weren't as worried as you pretended to be about your reputation," she mur­mured, rising to clear away his plate in a pointed manner. She didn't offer him another cup of coffee.

  "Were you?" he asked suddenly, looking up spec­ulatively. "Would you have gone ahead and married me if we'd been made to look like a pair of reckless swingers?''

  "It's an interesting problem, isn't it? We'll never know the answer, I'm afraid." She flicked a quick smile at him, mentally shouting, Yes! Yes! I probably would have been tempted by that excuse. My repu­tation wouldn't have mattered as much as having a legitimate excuse for marrying you. But I haven't even got that now. And I want you to marry me for far more important reasons, Yale Ransom. I want you to fall in love with me the way I've fallen in love with you!

  "The answer might have been amusing," he drawled, sliding reluctantly to his feet, "but perhaps not as amusing as watching you trying to fend me off when you know you'll be aching to have me...."

  Before he'd finished the last word, Yale had reached out and slid his arms around her waist as she stood at the sink. She went very still, bracing herself against the counter.

  "Yale, it's time for you to go," she said steadily as he hugged her back against his strength.

  "Don't worry, honey, I'm on my way," he whis­pered huskily into her hair. "I told you, I've accepted the challenge. You can't go back to square one. We know too much about each other. We're lovers, Dara. We're going to stay lovers. You want me and I want you. Life is really very simple in some ways."

  "A bit of Blue Ridge Mountain wisdom?" she murmured.

  "A bit of Yale Ransom wisdom. And a young woman who didn't have enough sense to resist open­ing Pandora's box ought to pay attention. Because she's going to take all the consequences of her ac­tions!"

  His hands dropped away from her waist, leaving her feeling bereft. Dara spun around to watch as Yale strode out of the kitchen. She followed and stood in the doorway as he found his jacket and walked to the front door.

  "Goodbye, lover," he called, letting himself out into the early-morning sunshine. "I'll be seeing you soon. You can count on it!"

  She raced to the window and watched as he moved down the walk to the waiting car. As he settled into the front seat he turned and waved again. Even from here she could see the menace in his smile.

  As the Alfa Romeo pulled away from the curb, Yale's hand was once again extended from the win­dow. But this time he wasn't waving at her. He was acknowledging the gray-haired woman across the street who was peering eagerly through her kitchen blinds.

  Dara muttered a decidedly violent oath and let her own curtains fall back into place. What was it they said about the devil living in those Southern moun­tains? She seemed to recall some old tales. Tales that sent chills of warning down her nerves.

  Well, the devil was going to meet his match in her, she vowed silentiy.

  A long time later as she whizzed along the bike path beside the Willamette River, letting the spring sunshine put the world back into proportion for her sadly chaotic senses, Dara tried to imagine Yale's mood. Auto-matically she shifted the gears of her ten-speed.

  Was he frustrated the way a tiger is frustrated when its prey is rudely snatched from its jaws just after the feast has begun? Was he angry over her exposure of his past? He certainly hadn't been too pleased when she'd pushed him into revealing it.

  Whatever his reasoning at the moment, she had the satisfaction of knowing he was going to play the dan­gerous game for which she was setting the rules.

  Only now, in the clear light of day as she sped through one of Eugene's many parks, could she admit to herself how reckless she had really been.

  Not because she had spent a "lost" weekend with a man she had barely met, but because she had risked letting him back out of the net after she'd secured him with a promise of marriage. Would she ever make him understand, or would he be more wary this time?

  She was under no illusions about his determination to go on seeing her. She had deliberately challenged him, and his instincts had prompted him to accept. He'd even realized what she was doing and he'd still accepted, she reminded herself with a smile.

  What he didn't realize was that she wasn't going to let him win. It was too important for both their sakes that she control the next crucial moves.

  Dara knew she would be satisfied with nothing less than Yale Ransom's love. She was too proud, too determined, to settle for anything short of it. Once before she had done that, and she wasn't going to let it happen again.

  She might have gotten the love affair off t
o a shaky start by allowing herself to be swept up into a reckless and dangerous forty-eight hours, but she would sal­vage the disaster or lose everything trying. Once Dara Bancroft knew what she wanted in life, she went after it.

  Eight

  The hunt began the next day, and almost immedi­ately Dara knew she had underestimated Yale's nat­ural stalking skill. But who could have guessed that she would find herself the quarry of a split person­ality?

  The first appeared shortly before her lunch hour on Monday. The conservative, gently spoken, fine-mannered Southern gentleman walked through the front door of Edison, Stanford & Zane, nodded to the secretary and strolled over to Dara's desk.

  "Good morning, Dara." He smiled politely, only the hint of gold betraying the true nature of the ex­pression. "I've got all the information here that you'll need to transfer the account from L.A."

  Dara looked up a little warily, not quite trusting this genteel version of his accent. She was aware that more than one head in the office had turned in amused curiosity.

  "Fine, Yale, won't you have a seat?' she mur­mured politely, indicating one of the client chairs in front of her desk. She reached for the sheaf of papers he extended. "I'll see to these today."

  He settled his neatly suited leanness into the chair and the hazel eyes were full of laughter which the lenses of his glasses failed to hide.

  "I've got some time, so I thought I'd stop by and discuss my financial goals in the market. Always a good idea for client and broker to feel each other out, so to speak, don't you think?" he drawled politely.

  "Of course," she agreed briskly, reaching for a pad and pen. She could play this every bit as cool as he could. It was, after all, her idea, damn it!

  "I see your portfolio emphasizes growth stocks," she observed in her best professional tones, glancing at his statement from the other firm. "I gather you're not concerned with income producers?"

  "I have no need of dividends. I'm looking for the long-term-growth stocks. Find me a few dozen bar­gains in the over- the-counter market and I'll be sat­isfied," he said easily.

  "Bargains?" She half smiled. "What's your defi­nition of a bargain?"

  "Why, something that doubles or triples in the first year, naturally," Yale explained kindly.

  "And you expect a few dozen such winners from me?" she inquired coolly.

  "Your manager assures me you're good. Very good." He met her eyes, daring her to deny it.

  "I am, but I'm not perfect." She smiled aloofly. "I happen to be following a couple of interesting electronics stocks at the moment, however. They're down from their highs for the year and selling at rather good P/E ratios. There's also a small cable tele­vision firm which hasn't been 'discovered' yet but which I think will really go places. Would you like to see some information?"

  "I would be most interested in discussing all of them further. Over lunch? It is just after one o'clock, I believe. The markets should be closed back East..."

  Dara slanted her new client a cautious glance. Yale was on his best behavior at the moment, but the hu­mor in his eyes held more than simple amusement. The expression was compounded by something else, something she couldn't quite put her finger on but which the commonsense portion of her brain warned against.

  "I'll have to be back in an hour," she began care­fully. "I have a lot of work to do this afternoon...."

  "I'll have you back by two. You have my word on it. I should be back in my own office shortly after that, myself." He got to his feet expectantly.

  Dara hesitated and then took the plunge. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? Time for them to get to know each other on other levels besides the physical?

  "I'll get my coat," she said calmly.

  Whatever it was that was sending tiny warnings along her spine failed to materialize over lunch in a downtown restaurant. Yale was the complete and per­fect escort, attentive, polite and charming. Slowly, as she worked her way through a large salad, Dara began to relax. If this was going to be his approach, she could handle it. It was exactly the sort of relationship she wanted at the moment.

  "You never did tell me what you did for a living before you became an account executive with Edison, Stanford and Zane," Yale said invitingly at one point.

  "A great many things, I'm afraid. My resume reads like the want-ads column. You name it and I probably tried it." Dara smiled at him, remembering her fre­quent job-hops. "I worked in an insurance office, a department store, a travel agency, a temporary sec­retarial help firm, city government, a restaurant, a ho­tel, an airline—"

  "Okay," he interrupted, chuckling, "I get the pic­ture. Is selling stocks merely another passing job in­terest?"

  "Oh, no," she said in surprise. "Selling securities is what I wanted to do all along. I just didn't know it until I stumbled onto it," she explained.

  "How do you know you won't lose interest and go on to something else?"

  She lifted a shoulder, helpless to explain her in­stinctive knowledge of the tightness of some things in her life. "I know," she said, smiting. "I just know." The same way that I know I love you, she thought.

  "You sound very certain," Yale said quietly, giv­ing her an oblique look.

  "I am. I've always been like that, going from one thing to another until something clicks. But when it does click, I know it instantly. I stick with it. For example, Eugene clicked after I moved here from Portland."

  "Did your first marriage seem to click?" he asked softly, a little relentlessly.

  Dara's eyes hardened for a second and then she relaxed. "No. But I was a lot younger then and I hadn't learned to pay attention to all the important clicks or lack thereof."

  "Were you passionately in love?"

  "I was...infatuated, I suppose, is the word. He was very charming, very amusing and kind. I liked him. How can I explain it? I thought we had a lot in com­mon and I thought we could make a go of it."

  "But there was no 'click'?" Yale pressed delib­erately.

  "No. There was no click," she admitted.

  "Has there ever been someone with whom every­thing feels right? Will you know it if it does hap­pen?" he prodded, hazel eyes flickering with an en­igmatic expression.

  "Yes, to both questions," she said as lightly as possible, "but I'd rather not discuss it."

  The amusement faded completely from his eyes as Yale studied her speculatively. "Where is he now? What happened to the relationship?"

  "I told you, I'd rather not discuss it," Dara said with the serene sureness she was capable of projecting when she had made up her mind.

  "Was he married? Does he live here in Eugene?"

  "Yale, I'm not going to discuss it with you. Hadn't you better finish your steak? It's getting late."

  "Dara..." he began determinedly, leaning forward with a surprisingly grim resolve. "Tell me about him.

  "No. I'm ready to go, Yale. Are you going to take me back to the office, or shall I walk?"

  "Did you run off into the night with him within a few hours of meeting him? The way you ran off with me?"

  "Goodbye, Yale. I'll call you when I get the ac­count transferred. In the meantime, I'll send you the information on those electronics firms I men­tioned...." Dara was getting to her feet, smoothing the white skirt of her suit with a casual hand and reaching for her fawn-colored shoulder bag.

  He stood up at once, and she could almost see the restraint he flung around himself like a cloak.

  "I'll take you back," he muttered with determined politeness.

  "Careful, Yale," she taunted gently. "The South­ern gentleman is slipping a little."

  "I'll behave," he promised, guiding her out of the restaurant with a hand on her waist. "Although I'll have to admit it was never this hard before I met you."

  "Keep up the good work. I'm rather fond of you when you're good. You make a very charming es­cort."

  His mouth twisted wryly as he held the car door for her. "In that case, will you have dinner with me tomorrow night?"

&nbs
p; Dara smiled. "I'd be delighted." Privately, she wondered why the invitation hadn't been for this eve-ning. But it was just as well. She had a variety of things to do, anyway.

  He drove her back to the office in an almost med­itative silence. The Alfa Romeo slid neatly into the curb in front of Edison, Stanford & Zane, and Dara's hand automatically went to the door handle.

  "Thank you for lunch, Yale," she began with mocking formality and then stopped as his hand left the wheel to settle purposefully on her arm. She glanced down at his gripping fingers and then back up into his eyes with a questioning smile on her mouth.

  "A little something to help you remember me by until tomorrow night," he said huskily and pulled her close for an unexpected kiss.

  Before Dara could make up her mind how to re­spond, it was over. She fumbled briefly with the han­dle and jumped out of the car. "Goodbye, Yale!" She didn't turn her head as the car reentered traffic.

  All things considered, it hadn't been a bad begin­ning, Dara decided several hours later as she stopped by the supermarket on her way home. Yale had been firmly in his Southern-gentleman role that afternoon. Perhaps he had determined to charm her back into bed. She smiled ruefully to herself at the thought. Per­haps she would allow him to do exactly that. After she'd decided he felt something more for her than simple desire.

  She pushed the cart quickly down the aisle, scoop­ing up milk and butter and other essentials from the dairy case. With a small frown she deliberated over dinner and decided on pasta. She would pick up some cheese and then...

  Her train of thought halted abruptly as something familiar nickered at the comer of her vision. Curi­ously she turned her head to glance back down the aisle.

  Yale stood at the far end dressed in black, close-fitting slacks and a black, long-sleeved shirt. He was watching her, his hands thrust into his back pockets, feet slightly apart and braced. The honey-amber hair was ruffled from the wind and he wasn't wearing his glasses.

  "Yale!" Dara whispered in astonishment, smiling automatically and starting forward with the cart. What a coincidence, she mused.