by Joan Hohl
In fact, he didn’t get completely out of the jeans. As Brett was about to lever himself to his feet, Jo called his name softly, beguilingly. The jeans, along with the cotton boxers he wore underneath them, were forgotten the moment they pooled around his knees. Whispering her name in a voice made rough with urgency, Brett filled Jo’s body with his own.
The tension building inside Jo coiled tightly, and still more tightly, until, Brett’s name filling her mind in an endless scream and reverberating in the tiled room like an arching whimper, it snapped, springing her into near oblivion where she was conscious only of the ecstasy shuddering through her and the sound of her own hoarsely cried name beating against her eardrums.
Jo surfaced from the mind-blanketing fog of sensuality to the awareness of the crushing weight of Brett’s collapsed body on hers and the soothing sensation of his hand stroking her hip. She was still wet, only now the moisture that sheened her body was the natural result of strenuous physical activity. Raising a lazily limp hand, she smoothed her palm down his equally slick back, her sensitized skin monitoring the responsive shiver that followed the path from shoulder to waist.
“God! You are one exciting woman,” Brett rasped through uneven breaths, the tip of his tongue testing the saltiness of her skin. “I feel as though I’ve been pulled through the wringer and hung out to dry.”
“Is that good?”Jo murmured, gliding her hand up his back to tangle her fingers in his sweat-dampened hair.
“Extremely good. In fact, it’s what all the noise has been about all these many centuries.” Brett laughed softly, “What do the French call it? The little death or some such?”
“Some such.”Jo sighed contentedly. “It must be true because I feel a little dead right now.”
Brett’s bark of delighted laughter pried her heavy eyelids up, and Jo stared, bemused, into his laughing face. He was handsome when he laughed like that, but then, he was handsome when he didn’t laugh like that too. At that moment, Jo knew she could refuse him nothing. Apparently, possibly because of the dreamy expression on her face, Brett knew it too.
“You’ll stay here with me through the twenty-third?” Brett was all seriousness now.
“Yes.”Jo smiled as she felt his chest expand and depress on a sigh of relief.
“And you’ll go with me when I fly south on the twenty-fourth?” His chest expanded again, then became still as he held his breath.
“Yes.” Jo’s smile deepened as his sharply released breath feathered her cheek. Why ruin the effect by telling him she had decided to go with him before his exhausting inducement?
“Hmmm ... have I told you you’re beautiful?” Brett nibbled gently along Jo’s jawline.
“Not nearly enough.” Jo laughed as he nipped on her chin in tender punishment.
“And did I thank you for wringing me out so deliciously?” He teased her lips apart with his tongue.
“I think your wringing was more than enough thanks.” Jo admitted to her own intense pleasure in his body.
“Do you suppose we could manage to drag our two wrung-out bodies into the shower?” Brett’s eyes were silver bright in appreciation of her candid reply.
“I suppose we had better,” Jo mimicked his heavily laid on drawl. “Because if I don’t get up very soon, the fibers of this bath mat are going to be imbedded in my back, and your chest hair will be imbedded in my front.”
Jo felt the expulsion of air into her mouth a millisecond before she heard his shout of laughter. Displaying what she considered a disgusting amount of energy, Brett eased his body carefully from hers, then sprang agilely to his feet. His shoulders still quaking with laughter, he kicked his legs free of jeans and boxers before bending to help her up. When Jo winced at the twinge of pain the sudden exertion caused in her thighs, Brett grinned wickedly.
“All that standing under a hot shower to ease overworked muscles for nothing,” he commiserated falsely, making her aware now of what she had unconsciously admitted to him earlier. “But don’t fret, darling. If the hot water doesn’t work this time, just keep in mind what the physical fitness enthusiasts claim.” Afraid to ask, Jo arched a delicately winged brow at him. “Why, that regular workouts will keep the muscles from tightening up.” His grin telegraphed the punch line. “And I intend to work those muscles very regularly.”
* * * *
For two days Jo basked in the light of Brett’s lovemaking and approval. And for two days she ate better than she had since leaving home at age nineteen. Brett did all the cooking. Jo did all the cleaning up. Personally, she thought she was getting the better of the bargain. In bed, Brett was demanding but gently so and, with his expert guidance, Jo emerged from behind her psychological wall of inhibitions. Never had she felt so free, so light, so at ease in the company of a man. Unselfconsciously, she teased him, sometimes dryly, other times wickedly. Brett, laughing often, responded in kind, leaving no doubt that he was enjoying himself every bit as much as she was.
Nervous apprehension began eating at Jo as the purring Porsche entered New York City. What would she find on arrival at the farm in Florida, besides a houseful of Renningers? Why had Brett’s mother invited her there on a traditionally family-oriented holiday? Had Wolf related to his mother Jo’s less-than-happy family situation? And if Wolf had turned blabbermouth, why? He’s probably getting bored from inactivity, Jo answered her own question. Intermingled with the whys revolving in her mind was one recurring assertion. She did not want to go to Florida.
* * * *
She was going to Florida. Jo examined the thought as the plane soared into the bright winter sunlight the following afternoon. She had coaxed and wheedled and pleaded to no avail the night before. Brett had remained adamant. Oh, he had loved being coaxed, and wheedled, and pleaded with, and he laughingly admitted it, but he had remained adamant none the less.
Strangely, Brett had grown tense during the drive to the airport and had barely spoken to her since he’d buckled himself into his seat belt. Now, sitting stiffly in her seat, Jo studied his rigid profile wondering what emotional tick had burrowed into his craw. He looked, she finally decided, like a man set in his determination to do a particularly unpleasant duty.
Trying to relax, Jo closed her eyes to the sight of Brett’s harshly set features and her mind to futile speculation. But one thought persisted. Was Brett tired of her already? It was not a thought conducive to in-flight relaxation.
Relaxation in the form of sleep snuck up on Jo while she wasn’t looking. She woke to the mild jolt of the wheels touching down and the realization that her seat belt had been fastened for her. Brett was busy zipping his laptop into its case, and ignoring the fact that she sat beside him. The moment the plane came to a stop he stood up, only then deigning to notice her.
“I think you’ll be warm enough if you drape this over your shoulders.” Brett held up the camel wool coat Jo had worn onto the plane. “The pilot said the temperature is in the low fifties.”
How wonderful, Jo thought wryly, turning her head to glance out the small window. He doesn’t say one word from New York to Florida then he gives me a weather report! As she could discern nothing in the darkness except the blue-tinged lights delineating the runway of the small, private landing field, Jo turned back to face him again. Brett’s features still gave the impression of having been carved in granite. As she rose to her feet, hands smoothing the matching cashmere skirt she was wearing, Jo sighed tiredly. What the hell was bugging Brett, anyway? If he was bored with her company, why had he insisted she accompany him? For one mad second Jo was tempted to confront him with the question, then, mercifully, the madness subsided. In all honesty, Jo admitted to herself that she was afraid of what his answer would be. For all her self-assurances of a few days earlier that she would accept whatever Brett offered of himself for however long he offered it, she was beginning to live in fear of him walking away from her.
Standing mutely before Brett in the narrow aisle, Jo closed her eyes at the brief touch of his hands as
he draped her coat over her shoulders. How had it happened so quickly? How could it be that within a period of four days she knew that losing Brett would be as painful to her as losing a vital part of herself? Her throat closing in panic at the mere thought of his rejection of her, Jo preceded Brett to the door on legs suddenly unsteady.
The mild early-evening air felt balmy after the biting cold of New York, yet Jo wished herself back along the coast of Ocean City. The snow she had hoped would continue for days had lasted less than an hour but the wind had been blowing steadily, nipping at exposed cheeks and noses right up until they had boarded the small, sleek private jet
On the ground, Jo could see little more than she’d viewed from the plane’s window. Other than the lights positioned on the roof of the low building she assumed was a hangar, the surrounding area was as black as the inside of a leather glove. As Brett, his hand at her elbow, escorted her over the uneven ground, Jo began to discern the outline of a long vehicle as their destination. As they approached the car Jo saw a man standing beside it. When they were within three feet of him, he swung the back door open.
“Evenin’, Mr. Brett,” the man greeted laconically.
“Hello, Josh,” Brett replied in the most civil tone Jo had heard from him in hours. “The mild weather feels good after the cold up north.” Brett grinned, handing Jo inside the roomy backseat of what she could now see was a black Cadillac limousine.
“Gunna rain,” Josh replied with the implied wisdom of a native.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Brett shrugged. “But it feels good just the same,” he tacked on, settling his long frame beside Jo on the plush seat as their bags were loaded into the trunk.
“Wouldn’t know, never been up north,” Josh grunted before closing the door smartly.
As the car rolled smoothly onto a blacktop secondary road, Brett sliced a glance at Jo. A glance Jo felt all the way down to her toes.
“Are you comfortable?”
What would he say if I said no? Jo wondered. Brett’s behavior in combination with her nervousness was making her irritable.
“Yes.” How could one not be comfortable ensconced in the back of a luxurious car? she thought waspishly. “Is it very far to the farm?”
“No. Not far,” Brett replied slowly, in an oddly intense tone: “Are you getting anxious?”
“Anxious?” Jo frowned. Why did he sound so uptight? He didn’t have to walk into a houseful of strangers.
Thank heavens Wolf would be there! “A little,” she admitted. “It will be wonderful to see Wolf again.”
‘Thanks.”
Astounded at the bitter note in Brett’s tone, Jo stared at his averted head for several minutes. What in the world? Why had he said ‘thanks’ and in that tone? Surely he hadn’t taken her eagerness to see Wolf again as an insult to him in his capacity as replacement employer? Brett had simply never struck her as the type of man who’d need employee adoration—loyalty, yes, adoration, no. Brett was too confident of himself to feel petty jealousy over his brother’s popularity. So then, why the bitter thanks? Shaking her head in utter confusion, Jo turned away to glance out the window. All she saw was total blackness. Actually feeling Brett withdraw into himself, Jo stared at the blackness, biting her lip to keep from demanding he tell the driver to turn around and take her back to the airfield.
By the time the car glided to a stop in front of the house, Jo’s nervousness had drowned in the flood of her rising anger. How dare Brett insist she come south with him only to ignore her? Damn him! She’d enjoy this unexpected, unwanted holiday if it killed her!
Stepping out of the car, Jo stifled a groan. The horse farm, Brett had called it. So, naturally, she’d been expecting a farmhouse! Or perhaps a ranch house, maybe. What Jo was looking at was an elegant structure that would have looked right at home dead center on any antebellum plantation. The house was illuminated by spotlights on the outside and a blaze of indoor lights from every window on the ground floor.
As they mounted the three wide steps to the front door, it was flung open by a small, wiry woman who looked to be in her late sixties. Hands on her hips, the woman waited until Jo and Brett had stepped over the threshold, then she lambasted Brett in the tone of a field marshal.
“It’s about time you got here.” Dark, still-young eyes snapped a quick encompassing glance over Brett. “Much later and you would have missed Christmas Eve altogether.” Now the dark eyes did their snapping dance over Jo. “And you must be Jo?”
“Yes, this is Jo Lawrence,” Brett answered for Jo, who was busy staring at his smiling face in consternation. How could he leap the distance between bitterness and light-heartedness so effortlessly? Jo wondered. The sound of her name shattered her bemusement. “Jo, this is Elania Calaveri, housekeeper to my mother and friend to us all.”
“How do you do?” Jo murmured, offering her hand.
“So so,” Elania replied surprisingly. “My arthritis is acting up. It’s going to rain.”
Jo had to hold her breath to keep from laughing. Brett made no attempt at self-containment. Laughing aloud, he wrapped the small woman in his arms and hugged her tight. “Josh said the same thing, so I guess it must be true.”
“Of course it’s true,” Elania scolded. “Josh is no fool.” Disentangling herself from Brett’s embrace, she held out her hand. “I’ll take care of your coats and bags. The gang’s in the living room.” She frowned at Brett. “Your mother expected you before dark. Now get in there. Supper will be in an hour.”
Throughout Elania’s tirade, Jo had been glancing around the enormous hall, admiring the wide, curving staircase, aware of the murmur of voices issuing from behind two oversized doors to her left. Feeling somewhat as if she’d stepped back into history, Jo was barely aware of Brett slipping the coat from her shoulders to hand it to Elania.
“Do you like the house?” he asked softly, his gaze following hers as it touched a beautifully made parson’s bench along one wall.
“Like it?”Jo breathed in awe. “It’s absolutely beautiful.” Dragging her enthralled gaze from the rich patina of the parquet floor, she looked at him in amazement. “You grew up in this house?”
“Off and on,” Brett drawled. “When I wasn’t in the house in Miami, or the original family homestead in Lancaster, Pennsylvania.”
“Your family’s from Pennsylvania?” Jo exclaimed.
“Yes,” Brett frowned. “I assumed you knew that.”
“But... how would I have ...”
“Brett Renninger!” Elania interrupted impatiently. “Your mother is waiting. You can show Jo over the house after dinner.”
“Yes, of course.” As if he suddenly remembered he wasn’t speaking to her, Brett’s face closed up again. “Come along, Jo. Mother’s waiting.” An odd grimace fleetingly twisted his lips. “They are all waiting.”
Shepherding Jo across the wide ball, Brett slid the two intricately carved doors apart and motioned for Jo to precede him into the living room. As she stepped through the portal Jo did not actually see the generously proportioned room, or the many exquisite pieces of furniture that adorned it, or even the people who reposed on the delicately crafted, probably priceless, chairs and settees, although she was aware of all of them. From the moment of entrance, Jo’s gaze homed in on the man sitting in a wheelchair, his left leg encased in a hip-to-toe cast that stuck out straight as a board in front of him, his left arm nestled close to his chest inside a sling, and his right arm outstretched, palm up, to her. As Jo had noted months ago, there was very little facial resemblance between the man beckoning to her and the man standing behind her. As if drawn by a magnet, Jo unhesitatingly crossed the room to Wolf Renninger.
“Ah ...” Wolf’s masculinely attractive voice revealed satisfaction. “There you are.” When Jo placed her hand in his, Wolf’s fingers tightened in reassurance. “How are you, Jo?”
“I’m ... I’m fine, Wolf,” Jo finally managed to whisper around the thickness in her throat. Blinking her eyes against a
surge of hot moisture, she smiled tremulously at the man she loved almost as much as her father and easily as much as she would have an older brother. Wolf’s year-round golden tan had faded somewhat from confinement to the house, and he had lost weight but, in essence, he was the same ruggedly attractive man upon whose broad shoulder Jo had cried—not once but several times. This tough-tender man was the only living person Jo had ever confided in about her mixed-up emotional state. And now, the realization flashed through Jo’s mind, that state had progressed from unsettled to near chaos. Pushing all thoughts of herself aside, Jo studied him intently. “How are you?”
“As you see”—Wolf laughed, indicating his immobilized left side—”out of commission.” A grin lit his face, revealing even white teeth. “But only temporarily. We’ll talk later, Jo, but now—” His right hand covered a slim one resting on the arm of the chair. “You remember my wife, Micki?”
“Yes, of course.” Jo’s glance shifted to the woman sitting on Wolf’s right. Jo had met Micki on several occasions and each time her original opinion that Micki was the perfect mate for Wolf had been reinforced. After two months in the Florida sunshine, Micki was tan, and healthy looking, and more lovely than ever. Jo’s smile was soft and genuine. “You’re looking very well, Micki,” Jo complimented quietly. “The climate? Or your husband’s improvement?”
“A little of both, I’m sure.” Micki smiled serenely. “But more the latter than the former,” she hastened to add when Wolf’s dark brows drew together in a mock frown. “You’re looking as beautiful as ever yourself,” Micki returned Jo’s compliment. Before Jo could respond, Wolf made a motion with his hand for Jo to turn around.
“And now, my dear.” Wolf grinned. “Gird yourself to meet ...” He paused for dramatic effect. ‘The Boss.” Wolf’s eyes telegraphed the message that he was fully aware of her nervousness. His smiled confided that he was also fully aware that Jo would never betray her nervousness. Her composure intact, Jo turned to face the president of Renninger Corporation, actually amused with the realization of how very well Wolf knew her. “Mother,” Wolf said gently as Jo crossed the room to the fair, still-beautiful woman, “my assistant, JoAnne Lawrence.”
