A Season for Love

by Heather Graham

  Ronnie had lifted her glass to sip at her drink and found herself taking a huge swallow—one that left her choking as the heat of the brandy catapulted to her stomach. "Mero!" she gasped. He was well known in the world of sculpture, and highly respected. Pieter had many of his pieces, fine miniatures intricately wrought in flawless marble. "I had no idea . . ."

  "Few people do," Drake said. "I prefer to remain anonymous. As a gallery owner and critic, it becomes awkward to be known. I would appreciate your keeping my alter ego a confidence."

  "Certainly," Ronnie murmured, surprised and inordinately pleased that he should trust her enough to offer such a confidence. If only he could trust her a little as far as other things went. . . . Foolish. What good would it do? She couldn't change her own circumstances. She blocked her mind to pain and asked, "But then, why the galleries?"

  He laughed. "I'm a little too self-centered to be a completely dedicated artist. My love of art is widespread. I'm fascinated by the work of others, by the ancient masters, by the promising greats of the future. When I can discover a talent, and force that talent to expand and improve, I receive my greatest personal rewards. And when I can work with or encourage a Pieter von Hurst, I find my own personal achievement."

  "I don't find that self-centered at all," Ronnie murmured appreciatively, too enamored of his tale to make an attempt to sound indifferent. "I think it's wonderful."

  Drake grinned. "Thanks. Your turn."

  "My turn?" she echoed in dismay. "Not yet! You haven't really told me anything, uh . . ."

  "Personal?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose that is what I mean," she admitted. The drink, the cozy atmosphere, the muted sound of the band, all were making her unwittingly at ease with him. and bold enough to honestly pry. Her questions, she realized with a tug of pain, were part of a driving curiosity she couldn't contain, even as she accepted the fact weakly that the answers could cause agony. He said once, in another world, that he loved her. She didn't want to hear that he loved elsewhere, or that he had loved before, but with perverse voraciousness she had to know everything that she could about him; about his life, about the things that made up the man that he was.

  "Personal... hmm," he mused reflectively. "My parents are both living. They're a nice middle-class couple with a certain quiet charm who still reside in Des Plaines. I have two brothers and a sister, all younger, and the family meets each year for Christmas and the Fourth of July. You see, Katie lives in Arizona, Michael in Atlanta, and Padraic in northern Michigan. I have a lovely—if sometimes monstrous—collection of nieces and nephews."

  Ronnie laughed at his monologue, envying him the obvious warmth of his family. Apparently Drake had everything: success of his own creation, wealth, power, and, most important, an abundance of love. The desolation of her own life threatened to sweep over her, so she quickly joked, "And are these lovely but monstrous little nieces and nephews all dark as Satan like their hell-bent uncle?"

  Drake shrugged wide shoulders, flashing her a white grin at the comment. "Half and half. Perfect split. Padraic and I are dark like my father, Katie and Michael are blue-eyed blonds. Their offspring are all the various shades in between."

  "Prolific family," Ronnie said dryly, sounding light in spite of the catch in her throat. "What happened to the oldest O'Hara? No little creations to date?"

  "You would have known if there were," he told her bluntly, reminding her of the intimacy of their first meeting. Yes, he would have told her if he had any children. At that encounter, he had said that he wanted to marry her. . . .

  "You could have been married at one time," she said defensively, playing with her swizzle stick again to avoid his eyes. "I mean, you are well over twenty-one, and a healthy, virile male . . ." Ronnie's voice trailed away and she was thoroughly annoyed to feel a hot flush rising to her cheeks again. She deserved this loss of cool reserve. She was asking leading questions that could only return in circular fashion to their own brief relationship, and consequently to the tension that lurked beneath their best stiffens Mtrar Per aer make a comment about his bang a heaia ibwrt stupidity. She knew what he wiv but be describe Knew only too well what he was. . . .

  "No," he replied bluntly, "I have no children. I was married once, though, when I was very young."

  Ronnie waited for him to continue, but he didn't, and she was compelled to ask in a soft whisper, "What happened?"

  "She died," he said shortly, then catching the quickly hidden flicker of pain in Ronnie's eyes, he added, "My wife was an Italian girl. I met her while studying in Florence. There was a cholera outbreak."

  "I'm sorry," Ronnie murmured truthfully, her eyes misting ridiculously.

  "It was a long time ago," Drake said gruffly, watching her eyes as they shimmered with that soulful tragedy he had sensed before. Intuitively he knew she had suffered a similar loss, a pain that was not related to Pieter. He reached a forceful but strangely compassionate hand across the table to take hers. "Your turn, Ronnie. What happened to you before Pieter?"

  She looked for a barb in his tone, or cynicism in his eyes, but there was neither. She shrugged and smiled softly.. "The same. I lost a fiancé." Her lower lip trembled slightly.

  "What happened?" He returned her own question.

  She bit her trembling lower lip to cease its action. "Drugs," she said faintly. "I never even knew until it was too late and all the signs were there."

  Drake's handclasp on hers shook roughly, and with surprise she found an unusual and oddly harsh sympathy in his eyes. "Surely you don't blame yourself!" he said sternly.

  "No," she replied, startled at the realization that she did in a way. "Not really."

  "Not at all," he commanded. "No one can change a situation like that."

  Ronnie broke his gaze with a tentative smile of thanks, moving her eyes with sudden interest to the stage. Their conversation had grown a little too personal, and she didn't want her soul completely bared to this man who still condemned her on one hand while offering encouragement on the other.

  "The band is marvelous," she offered enthusiastically. "And, if I'm not mistaken, we no longer have to starve. I believe our waitress is coming our way."

  Her intent to change the subject was obvious, but as their dinner arrived, steaming with succulent aromas, her switch to a lighter, more casual conversation seemed easily accomplished. But after munching into and savoring a large mushroom cap, Drake returned to his interrogation of her with a single-worded question.

  "Parents?"

  "Pardon?" Ronnie stopped uneasily, her fork halfway to her mouth.

  "Your parents. Are they living?"

  She bit into her mushroom and shook her head. "They were killed in an auto crash in my senior year of high school."

  Drake offered no more sympathy; it wasn't needed, he knew. Still, he felt his heart constricting for her and was consumed with an overwhelming desire to take her into his arms and shield her, protect her, and offer her all the love she had lost. He understood now the strength of her marble beauty, the brick wall of dignity that hid the giving, sensuous woman he had known so briefly.

  But she wasn't his to protect or love. She was Pieter's. And she had never denied the love she felt for the husband she saw fit to leave from time to time.

  "Siblings?" he asked, continuing to eat.

  "None."

  "What took you to Paris?"

  "After college, I had nothing to go home to," she said matter- of-factly. "I majored in the French language, so it seemed logical to go to Paris. I met Jamie at The Louvre one day."

  "And Pieter?"

  "Through Jamie. He was a student." Ronnie set her fork down for a moment, losing her appetite for the delicious food. Like she had done, Drake was going to keep quizzing until he had all his answers. These were things she could answer honestly, so she might as well give him a quick story

  "Jamie and Pieter were close friends." she told Drake tonelessly, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes downcast. "When Jamie died, I was st
unned, very young, and very lost. Pieter helped me through all the bad times. I'm—ah—I'm very grateful to him; I will never forget how wonderful he was."

  "Von Hurst is an amazing man," Drake said simply.

  Ronnie was still staring at her plate of half-eaten food, and so she didn't see the speculative look Drake covertly cast her way.

  And he was speculating. For the first time since he had seen Ronnie beside his host, he had stopped envying Pieter von Hurst. Ronnie, he realized, did love the man. But not the way a man wanted to be loved. Her love for Von Hurst was gratitude, mingled with fondness and respect. It was not the all-encompassing passion and commitment that should exist, not the sharing, not two souls soaring ... not the love, he, Drake, could have shared with her.

  A savagery gripped Drake, an emotion he controlled by cruelly ripping at a piece of meat with his knife and fork. Ronnie had married Von Hurst, no matter what her emotions, for better or worse. But her vow hadn't held her when "worse" had come into being. All his speculations were absurd, they were to no end. ... If she were suddenly as free as a lark, he wondered if he could ever learn to trust her.

  He chewed his last piece of meat and pushed his plate aside, once more leaning back in the booth with crossed arms. "Enjoying the band?"

  Ronnie glanced up to discover from his guarded ebony eyes that he had entirely withdrawn from her. "Yes, thank you," she replied coolly, "very much."

  "Not too raucous for you?"

  "No." She laughed. Drake had been right. The band, a five- member group consisting of a solid drummer, a keyboard player, two guitarists exchanging the vocal leads, and a talented saxophonist, tended to hard rock. They were careful to slip pleasant, mellow pieces into their repertoire, but they excelled at letting loose, playing popular pieces by The Stones, old Doors numbers, and other music that seemed tonight to stir wildly in her blood. Concentrating on the band, she forgot the air of aloofness that had settled over Drake and laughed. "I'm crazy about the band. They're making me feel very young."

  Drake, caught by the vibrant yearning in her tone, laughed in return. "You can't be all that old!"

  She tilted her head and quirked a shrugging brow. "I'll be thirty, and I know, that's not all that old. But they're making me feel really young—eighteen and, and . . ."

  "Innocent again?" Drake supplied.

  "Yes, I suppose that's what I mean."

  Drake grinned with the satanish twinkle to his eyes. "Want to feel even younger? Let's try out the dance floor."

  "Oh, I don't know," Ronnie demurred, watching the swirling dancers. "I'm not really sure what they're doing out there."

  "Believe me"—Drake chuckled—"neither are they. These days, everyone does more or less what they feel like. Come on. Follow me, and I'll think of something."

  He was on his feet, towering over her and reaching to escort her from her seat before she could protest further. His hand was on the small of her back as he led her down the short flight of steps and through the lower level to the shiny, light-colored wooden dance floor.

  Just his touch was jolting. His hand upon her back sent traitorous tingles of anticipation and delighted memory racing along her spine. It was so natural to be touched by Drake, to drift into the warm masculinity of his arms, to curl her fingers at his nape.

  The tune was a fast one, easily recognizable, and as he spun her about in deft circles, Drake laughingly informed her that the song had become popular after the movie Saturday Night Fever, and that it was a piece by the Bee Gees.

  Panting as she dipped and swung and swirled, Ronnie haughtily replied, "I knew it was the Bee Gees! Even on the island we have a television—several actually—and a stereo system!"

  "Did you see the movie?" Drake queried when another swoop of his arm brought them facing each other again.

  "No!" she admitted, chuckling. She couldn't begin to imagine Pieter sitting through an American movie. "Did you?"

  "Of course. Several times, actually." His grin broadened deeply. "I told you I had a score of nephews and nieces."

  Ronnie laughed again, breathlessly. It was fun out here with Drake. It was almost as if—as if they were back on the boat; as if they had returned to that magical day when it had been her right to touch Drake, to feel Drake's touch upon her. . . .

  The music rose to a pitch and clamored to a halt. "Slowin' down now," one vocalist called cheerfully. "One for all the lovers out there. . . ."

  Before the young man had finished speaking, Ronnie felt herself crushed closely into Drake's arms, her entire form pressed to the warmth of his hard, strong body. Instinctively she arched to his hold upon her hips, nestling her head in the inviting curve of his shoulder. They danced silently, their movements synchronized, fluid with the tender beat of the music. Drake's hands moved caressingly along Ronnie's back, and with intuitive volition, her hands, once more resting around his neck, began an exploratory return. The silky sheerness of his shirt enhanced the play of hot muscles beneath her fingers, and she thrilled as she trailed them over his shoulders, then thread them through the thick hair at the back of his neck. She was dimly aware that she was being foolish, following a path that could lead nowhere. But she couldn't help herself. Her own arousal from the dance had to be apparent to Drake; her nipples, brushing against the heat and breadth of his chest, attuned to the crisp mat of curls that tickled them erotically despite the material of their clothing, were hardening to impertinent pebbles that seemed to reach out for further delectable contact. And she was quivering.., burning with the heat his body lent to hers. . . .

  She was too close to him not to feel the desire rising inside him.

  But he said nothing; he made no movement to draw away. If anything, he pulled her irrevocably closer. His warm breath fanned against her hair, stirring new sensations of longing. Was it wistful thinking, or did his lips form a kiss at her temple? She had no way of knowing. Her eyes were closed, her face pressed against his shoulder, feeling heat, feeling the beautiful, lulling pounding of his heart—feeling, absorbing, becoming one with every breath he took. It was torture, it was agony, it was wonderful. She was secure and content, ablaze with an unquenchable fire. It didn't matter. She wanted the dance to go on and on. As long as the music played with the incessant beat of the drums, she was in an exotically haunting heaven.

  She must have had mind control, a powerful telepathic bond with the band leader. The next three numbers, which finished the set, were slow, romantic tunes. They came to her ears infinitely sweetly. Never once did Drake break his hold. She was immersed in him, cocooned in his drugging body heat, intoxicated with the woodsy scent he wore that combined so well with his essence of virility.

  Unknown to her, Drake's mind was running along the same lines. As long as the music played on, he could forget the world, and luxuriate in sheer sensation. Each time he inhaled, the air was sweet with the light perfume of her hair; each time he moved she molded to fit his body, her incredibly soft but firm curves taunting him with captivation. God, he wanted her. No other woman had affected him so totally, stirring his blood intensely at mere sight, reducing him to yearning with a simple touch or a look from shimmering eyes as depthless as the oceans. . . .

  If he had to think, it would be wrong. But as long as the music played, he didn't have to think. He could hold her, feel the sensuous femininity of her straining breasts against his chest, the undulating fluidity of her hips against his. . . .

  No, he didn't have to think. He couldn't possibly think. This little bit of ecstasy was his.

  But the music did stop. He didn't meet her eyes, and she kept her head lowered as he silently led her back to their booth, his hands rested near the base of her spine. With they returned, he ordered them each another drink

  He needed a drink She did, too. Thar contact was broken, and it was as if the sun had set on a dark day leaving both empty and numb.