by Sandra Field
“So,” said Reece, his eyes suddenly as intent as a hunter’s, “where do we go from here?”
Her fingers tightened around her glass. “Whistler,” she said fliply. “Where else?”
“I’m not talking geography.”
“In that case, nowhere.”
“We could go to bed. Now. Together.”
Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. “No, Reece, I won’t do that. We agreed to be lovers in public, not in private and we went through all this last night.”
“You want to make love with me.”
Only when you touch me. “It’s been nearly four years, why wouldn’t I?”
“You keep saying you haven’t been to bed with anyone for four years—you really expect me to believe that?”
“Yes,” she said, her chin raised, “I do.”
He swished the amber liquid in his glass, his eyes never leaving her face. “In which case, the way you respond to me—I shouldn’t take it personally. Anyone would do.”
“I don’t know,” she cried. “I’ve dated men in the last four years and not one of them has tempted me to abandon celibacy. Not like you.” She tossed back some wine. “And why am I telling you all this? The bottom line is that I’m not going to bed with you. And that’s that.”
He said disagreeably, “What are you holding out for?”
“You would think that!”
“Let’s quit the playacting, okay? I want you in my bed. But I’m damned if I’ll dress it up into something it’s not.”
“With adoring looks and endearments? The way we’ve been behaving in public?”
“Precisely.”
“Reece,” she said, “have you ever been in love?”
He scowled at her. “Not since I was sixteen and crazy about the girl next door.”
“So as an adult you’ve never given yourself to a woman body and soul?”
“No. Of course I haven’t.”
Delicately she raised her brows. “Of course you haven’t? Maybe you should try it sometime. It’d turn your controlled life upside down—I guarantee it.”
Very deliberately, he ran his finger down the curve of her cheek to the corner of her mouth, watching her eyes dilate. “Sex between you and me would be passionate, inventive and powerful. But I’m not going to call it romance, and I’m not going to call it love.”
“You’re not going to call it anything. Because it isn’t going to happen.”
“I could persuade you.”
She took an involuntary step backward. “How long since a woman said no to you? Too long. Obviously.”
“If you think I’m going to beg, you’ve got it wrong.”
Suddenly exhausted, her voice thin with strain, Lauren said, “I’ve had enough of this—this stalemate. What time do we leave in the morning?”
“Be ready by ten,” he said curtly.
“Fine. I’ll see you then.” She put her glass down beside the sculpture and turned to leave.
“Stalemate or no, we’re not finished with each other.”
She looked back over her shoulder. He was standing very still, the lamp beside the leather couch throwing planes of light and shadow over his strongly carved features; the force of his willpower struck her like a blow. She said, “Until you make it clear you believe me—that I’ve never been promiscuous, that I haven’t slept with anyone in four years—I’m keeping my distance. If we add Wallace to that equation, what have we got? Two people who shouldn’t be sharing a drink, let alone a bed.” She pushed a strand of hair back from her face. “Don’t you see? Truth is what I strive for in my work. So this is desperately important to me…and if I sound preachy and self-righteous, I’m sorry.”
He was gazing at her in a silence that screamed along her nerves and which she had to end. “Although please don’t assume if you do believe me that I’ll fall into your arms like a damson from a tree. I just plain don’t want to get involved with you.”
“Now you really are lying.”
The more quietly he spoke, the more he scared her. “We struck a bargain,” she said, “and we’re damn well going to stick to it.”
“You don’t back down, do you?”
“You’d prefer me to grovel?”
He suddenly laughed outright, his teeth very white against his tanned skin. “I have difficulty imagining it.”
“If I can act like I’m in love with you, a little groveling shouldn’t be a problem,” she said irritably. “Ten o’clock. I’ll be ready.”
“Lauren, it’s not all acting. With either one of us.”
She wasn’t going to touch that one. “Good night,” she said coldly, and swept out of the room as best she could when wearing tights and granny boots. As she got undressed in the bathroom, all her movements jerky and uncoordinated, her thoughts went ’round and ’round like hamsters on a wheel. I can’t stand him. I want him. I can’t wait until I see the last of him. How will it feel to say goodbye to him? I will not go to bed with him. But I want to. I want to.
She tossed her underwear on the nearest chair and reached for her nightgown; and as she did so, caught sight of herself in the long mirror on the wall. Slowly she straightened. Sculpture of an enraged woman, she thought dryly. Or, to be more accurate, of a frustrated woman. Didn’t she, in her heart of hearts, crave for Reece to be here now, beside her, his gaze drinking in her creamy limbs and full breasts? His hands around her waist, pulling her back against his body? So that, once and for all, she could lay Sandor to rest? Or did Sandor have absolutely nothing to do with all this?
Her pulses racing, Lauren yanked on her nightgown and scrubbed her teeth with vicious energy. Then she jumped into bed and pulled the covers over her head.
She wasn’t going to think about Reece. In bed or out.
Only five more days.
CHAPTER SEVEN
TO SAY that Lauren was awestruck by Reece’s house in Whistler was an understatement. With Reece piloting his own helicopter, they’d flown up Howe Sound past a long range of snowcapped mountains, following the winding highway to the resort with its chalets and elegant ski lodges at the base of Blackcomb and Whistler mountains. The golf course was a swath of vivid green amid the tall evergreens; tourists were strolling along the walkways around the village shops.
The helicopter swung toward the lower slopes, then gently dipped down to land behind a house built of richly stained cedar and slabs of stone. The rotors stilled. They climbed out, and in the ringing silence, Reece said in a matter-of-fact voice, “Maureen and Graham look after the place. I have meetings all afternoon, and I’ve arranged a tour of the village for the wives. So you’re free until seven-thirty. And tonight, please wear something that keeps you decently covered.”
“What a concept,” Lauren said.
His lips narrowed. “Tomorrow I’ll be working in my office here, I’ve got some catching up to do. We’ll leave for Vancouver Island the next morning.”
The air smelled sweetly of pine and moss, and she had always loved being near mountains. Besides, she’d told Charlie she wouldn’t lose her temper so often. Lauren said sincerely, “This is a beautiful place, Reece. I’m glad I’m here.”
He looked her up and down, from her bulky wool sweater to her slim-fitting jeans and polished loafers. “The sun’s caught in your hair,” he said huskily, “it’s like a mixture of copper and bronze.”
“There’s no audience…you don’t have to say things like that.”
“I said it because I wanted to. Because it’s true.”
She flashed, “Do you believe it’s true that there’s been no one for me since Sandor?”
He hesitated. “I’m starting to, yes.”
“Until you stop hedging your bets, you can keep your compliments.”
“You’re utterly different from anyone else I’ve ever met,” Reece said with sudden explosive force. “I move with the jet set, where women trade lovers faster than stocks at the New York exchange. Where fidelity’s considered old-fashioned and affairs are
part of the entertainment.”
She was seared by a jealousy all the more horrible for being so unexpected. “And where do you fit in that picture?”
Something changed in his face. “For the last few years, I haven’t. I got tired of all the games. But I’d learned my lesson—wave your fortune in front of a woman and she’s after you. Spend money on her and she’s yours.”
“Let me tell you the first lesson I learned in art school, Reece Callahan. Money can’t buy talent—it’s a gift. So your money’s of absolutely no use to me.”
“I’ve been getting that message all along.” Again Reece hesitated, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “If we leave Sandor out of the equation, there’s still Wallace. Wallace did commit fraud, Lauren. The evidence is indisputable. I don’t want you thinking I made it all up out of thin air.”
She took a step backward. “He couldn’t have! I just can’t believe that of him.”
“So you don’t believe me—and I’m not ready to believe you.”
The sun glittered on the needles of the pines, a bird squawked in the undergrowth, and through the trees she could see the mountain’s stark outline, black and white against a blue sky. “I’m tired of fighting with you all the time,” she said unhappily, “because it doesn’t get us anywhere. Can’t we just fulfill our bargain and leave it at that?”
“I don’t know—can we?”
“Of course we can,” she said shortly. “I’ll see you at seven-thirty and I’ll be a model of decorum.”
“Decorum,” he repeated ironically. “Well, that’ll be a change.”
“Hey, I’ve been adoring, brash and charming. Decorum’s no sweat.”
“The ABCs of our agreement? What about assertive, beautiful and confident?” He grinned at her, his teeth as white as the snow on the mountains. “Not that we should omit delectable, erotic and fiery.”
“Or aggravating, bossy and controlling. Referring to you, of course.”
He laughed. “And then there’s deprived and extraordinarily frustrated.”
“Tell me about it,” she grimaced.
Reece shoved his hands in his pockets. “You know what?” he said. “I like you.”
The breeze was playing with his hair; his smile was far too infectious. Hardening her heart, Lauren said, “You can’t like someone who’s a promiscuous liar.”
“So I’m supposed to believe I’m the first man in four years to turn you on?” he retorted. “When most of the time you hate my guts?”
Put like that, it did sound unbelievable. Lauren said crossly, “Look at yourself in the mirror sometime. You’re gorgeous. You’ve got a great body, and you breathe power and confidence. I’d have to be a chunk of marble not to respond to you.”
He said with matching irritation, “Why do I feel like I’ve just been compared to a centerfold? Mr. Hunk-of-the-Month, guaranteed to turn you on, and all for five ninety-five.”
“It’s your personality I have the problem with,” she cried. “Wallace couldn’t have stolen from you, I’ll never accept that—so how can I go to bed with someone who believes that the only man who ever treated me with anything like kindness was a common thief?”
“Maybe he was both,” Reece said heavily. “Kind to you and deceitful to me.”
“We’re going around in circles,” she said helplessly. “And I’m sure you have more important things to do than stand here arguing with me.”
“I do. You’re right. Seven-thirty sharp, Lauren.” Then Reece turned on his heel and vanished through the trees, leaving Lauren with a sweet-scented breeze and an oddly hollow heart.
If she’d been completely truthful with Reece, she’d have put a stranglehold around his neck and kissed him senseless. And how was that for inconsistency?
Prompt at seven-thirty Reece discovered Lauren in the huge living room, with its vista of mountains and sky, augmented by an expanse of glass, a granite fireplace and a massive Haida carving of a killer whale. Lauren, not to his surprise, was standing in front of the whale, her head to one side. He said, suppressing a surge of pleasure that she should be here in a house that he loved, “A young carver from the Queen Charlotte Islands did that. What do you think?”
“It’s wonderful,” she said softly. “So obviously symbolic, yet so fully alive.”
It was exactly what he’d thought when he’d first seen it. Disliking an intimacy of thought that could, perhaps, be as strong a tie as any bodily intimacy, he ordered, “Let me look at you.”
She turned around, her eyes demurely downcast. Her black satin pants were topped with a tangerine embroidered jacket, high-collared and long-sleeved. Her hair was smoothed into a long plait down her back, and her makeup minimal. He said, trying to subdue the laughter that wanted to escape his chest, “How did you get rid of your curls?”
“Gloop,” she said.
With a touch of grimness, he added, “You have a persona for every occasion.”
“That’s the deal.”
“I rue the day you walked into my office—I haven’t had a moment’s peace since.”
“I hear the doorbell,” she responded, and laid her hand lightly on his sleeve. “Shall we greet our guests, dear?”
He was almost taken in, so soft was the curve of her lips, so sweet her smile. Keep your head, Reece, and don’t give her the satisfaction of knowing you want to undo every single button on that embroidered thing she’s wearing and caress her breasts until she begs on bended knee to be in your bed.
After that, the evening seemed to go on forever, weighted by a formality that normally Reece enjoyed. The food was delicious, from sushi to tempura; from his position cross-legged on the floor, he watched Lauren charm the guests in her vicinity. She was being a perfect hostess. His mother would have approved of her, and suggested in her well-bred voice that he marry her; Clea, his sister, would have adored her. And Lauren, unless he was very much mistaken, would have liked Clea. More than she liked him, for sure.
Clea, younger than he by seven years, dead these five years…
As always, his thoughts slammed to a stop. After all this time, he still couldn’t bring himself to remember the last day they’d spent together, the casualness with which he’d left her on the sidewalk outside the bank in Chicago, without the slightest premonition that he would never see her alive again. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass. Stop it, he thought savagely. There’s no point in thinking about it. It’s over. Over and done with.
Then he suddenly found himself looking up, aware almost instinctually of being watched. Lauren’s turquoise eyes jolted into his; she was gazing straight at him, such compassion on her face that for a moment he longed simply to take her in his arms, put his cheek to her hair and pour out to her everything that had happened that fateful afternoon. An afternoon that had marked him forever.
Oh, sure, he thought caustically, what would you do that for? You’ve never told anyone how you feel about Clea’s death, so why would you start with Lauren Courtney? With a deliberation he knew would wound her, he hardened his features against her, shutting her out as effectively as if he’d turned his back on her; and watched her eyes darken with pain. Then her gaze dropped to her plate. Her neighbor on her right asked her a question. She fumbled for an answer, her cheeks as pale as the delicate porcelain plates they were eating from.
Clea wouldn’t have approved of the way he’d behaved. But Clea was dead.
Clea was the reason he’d bought the statue of the Madonna and child; somehow it symbolized all that she’d lost.
Longing to be alone, Reece smiled at the elderly gentleman across from him, and asked about a temple he’d visited on one of the northern islands; minute by minute the time went by, until eventually he and Lauren were standing in the wide front door saying the last of their goodbyes. He raised his hand in a salute as the final car vanished down the driveway and closed the door on the cool, pine-scented darkness. “That went very well,” he said.
Lauren didn’t even bot
her to respond. Resting her hand on his sleeve, she asked with the directness he’d come to expect from her, “What were you thinking about at the dinner table, Reece? You looked devastated.”
His earlier brief impulse to confide in her had buried itself under the layers of reserve that had been his only defense all those years ago. He said bitingly, “The lousy stock market index? The fact I’m going to have to fire my Thailand CEO? You’re the one who keeps insisting we stick to our bargain, so why don’t you keep your curiosity to yourself?”
“Can’t you admit you’re human like the rest of us?” she implored. “Do you think the world would come to an end if you said that sometimes you hurt?”
“Shut up,” Reece grated.
Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. Biting her lip, she said, “I saw your face…you looked haunted. Whatever happened, or whatever you did—it couldn’t be so bad that you can’t tell me about it.”
He stared down at her hand as though he’d never seen it before. No rings. Tangerine polish on her nails. Unhealed cuts on two of her fingers. These were the fingers that had carved the statue in her bedroom, so pervaded with ageless emotion that his throat had closed when he’d seen it. These same fingers two nights ago had stroked his belly and lain against his rib cage, warm and strong, filling him with a primitive desire more intense than any he’d ever known.
She wanted his body, yes. But she wanted his soul, too. And that she couldn’t have. It wasn’t up for grabs.
He picked up her hand, lifted it from his sleeve and let it drop. Then he said coldly, “Your imagination’s functioning overtime and your pushiness turns me off. Go to bed, Lauren.”
Her lashes flickered under the dark wings of her brows. Then, with a courage he had to admire, she raised her chin. Her voice perfectly level, she said, “You may have lots of money, Reece. But you’re poor in the things that matter. Like intimacy. And sharing.”
