Warm Hearts

by Barbara Delinsky

  * * *

  She must have dozed off. By the time she awoke, the face of the sun had shifted from the skylight overhead to the sliding doors, lower and farther west. Blinking away her grogginess, she followed its rays to the tall figure propped casually in the chair by her bed.

  Deep in thought, he didn’t see her at first. His legs were sprawled before him, his elbows bent on the cushioned arms of the chair, his hands fisted inside each other and pressed to his lips. She wondered what thoughts held him in his distant world, then shuddered when she realized how very far that world was from her own. The faint movement was enough to bring him back.

  The slowest of smiles gentled his lips. “Hi, there.”

  “Hello.”

  Reaching to the stand beside him, he lifted two more pills and an ice-filled glass. Without a word, she swallowed the aspirin, washed it down with several gulps of what proved to be fresh lemonade, then drained the glass. When she leaned back, it was to rest against the pillows that he’d newly puffed.

  “Not bad … the lemonade, that is.” In truth, what she’d been thinking was how nice it was to have someone taking care of her for a change. A small luxury … a birthday gift. Her expression grew exquisitely soft. “When I was a child I loved Steiff pets—you know, those little stuffed animals—” she reached up and caught the upper part of her ear “—with the tiny tag right about here? They used to come with names attached to their ribbons.” She moved her hand to the hollow of her throat, then, almost timidly, raised her eyes to his. “Do you have a name?”

  For a heart-stopping moment, he held her gaze. She felt drawn to him, much as earlier she’d been drawn to the kitchen when she’d known she should have stayed in bed. He had power. It had touched her from the pages of Man’s Mode. It had touched her when he’d stood at the kitchen window with his back to her. It had touched her moments before when his eyes had been distant. A kind of dreamlike quality. A depth. A puzzlement.

  Slowly, with the corners of his eyes crinkling in a most effective way, he smiled. “Oliver Ames, at your service.”

  Oliver Ames. Her heart skipped a beat.

  2

  “Oliver Ames.” She said it aloud, testing it on her tongue. It flowed without any effort at all. Just right for a model—or a playboy. “Is that your … professional name?”

  His mouth twitched at one corner. “Yes.”

  “And your real name,” she asked more softly. “What’s that? Or … is it off limits?” There were rules governing this sort of thing; unfortunately, she wasn’t well versed in them.

  Oliver smiled openly, his lips mirroring the dance of humor in his eyes. Sitting forward now, he was fully attentive.… As rightly he should be, Leslie mused. Wasn’t he paid to be attentive? He was also paid to be attractive: bare chested, bare legged, large and vibrantly male—she found him disconcertingly so.

  “No,” he allowed lightly, “it’s not off limits. As long as you don’t spread it around.”

  “And who would I spread it to?” she snapped in response to the unsettling twist of her thoughts. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not too … comfortable with this situation. Not much of a chance of my running back to Manhattan shouting the name of the guy my brother bought for me.” She grimaced. “No woman wants to think she can’t find someone on her own.”

  For an instant, when his dark brows knit, she feared that she’d offended him. Yet when he spoke, his voice held only curiosity.

  “Can’t you?”

  “I’m not looking.”

  “And if you were? Surely there are men in New York who’d give their right arms for a Parish.”

  Leslie’s lips grew taut, her expression grim. “If a man needed a Parish badly enough to sacrifice his right arm, I’d say he’s sold himself short. And yes, there are many men like that around. Funny how money can screw up priorities.” Closing her eyes, she slid lower on the pillows.

  The creak of the rattan chair gave warning that Oliver Ames had moved. It wasn’t until the bed dipped by her side, though, that she felt alarm. Eyes flying open, she found him settled near her hip, his arms propped on either side of her, hemming her in.

  “You sound bitter,” he observed. His voice was deep and kind and not at all taunting, as it might as have been, given the fact that it was a Parish who had dreamed up the very scheme that had brought him to St. Barts. “You’ve been hurt?”

  She shrugged, unwilling to elaborate. For she couldn’t think of the past when the man before her dominated the present. What was it about him, she asked herself, as she stared into eyes the texture of warm chocolate, that made her want to forget that he was what he was? What was it that made her want to reach up and brush the hair from his brow, trace the firm line of his lips, scale the gentle swell of his shoulder? What was it that stirred senses on which she’d long since given up? What was it that affected her so, that even now, as she lay in bed with a stuffy head and clenched fists, entranced her to the point of distraction?

  “Your name,” she whispered, then moistened her lips with her tongue. “Your real name. What is it?” Her expectant gaze fell to his lips and she waited, admiring the strong shape of them, until at last they moved to form the words.

  “Oliver Ames,” he mouthed, then gave a boyish grin.

  “You’re making fun of me,” she contended soberly. “It was an innocent question.”

  “And an innocent answer. My name is Oliver Ames. Personal. Professional. Oliver Ames.” He tipped his head to the side. “Perhaps you’re the one doing the mocking. Is there something wrong with Oliver Ames?”

  “Oh, no!” she breathed. “It’s fine. It’s more than fine. I like it. It’s just that … well … it flows so easily I thought you’d made it up.” She was babbling and she knew it. He seemed so close, his voice so deep and smooth that she felt rattled.

  “My parents made it up. You can thank them one day.”

  Embarrassed, Leslie wrinkled her nose. “Oh, I couldn’t do that.…” Her voice trailed off. A lover for hire … and his parents? Great! Then she grew curious. “Do your parents … do they know what you do for a living?”

  “Sure.”

  “And … they don’t mind?”

  “Why would they mind?”

  She shrugged and fumbled. It didn’t help that Oliver had moved his hands closer, that his thumbs had slyly found their way into her sleeves to ever so faintly caress the soft skin of her upper arms. “Oh, you know.… Modeling, and … this.…” She waved one arm half in hopes of dislodging his hand. The gesture only seemed to solidify his grasp. And Oliver Ames was more amused than ever.

  “Actually,” he offered wide-eyed, “they’re quite proud of me.”

  “Oh.”

  “Uh huh.” He grinned. “A parent’s love is all-abiding, wouldn’t you say?”

  She couldn’t say much. A breathy, “I guess so,” was all his closeness would permit. Her gaze fell briefly to his chest, but the sight of the light furring of hair there was all the more unsettling, so she forced her attention back to his eyes. Her insides burned; much as she wanted to blame the sensation on the aspirin she’d taken, she couldn’t.

  “You’ll catch my cold if you sit this close,” she warned as she tried to sink more deeply into the bed.

  “I don’t mind,” came the silky reply.

  “But … then where would you be?” she persisted, unable to free herself from his sensual spell, struggling against its hold by voicing frantic wisps of thought. “I mean, who wants a red-nosed model with glassy eyes? Who wants a lover with a stuffed nose and the sneezes? As it is there are already too many communicable diseases rampant in your trade—”

  “Ah, so that’s what frightens you—catching something from me?”

  “I’m not frightened.”

  “Then why are you trembling?”

  “Because … I’m sick.”

  To her chagrin he moved one hand to her forehead. “You feel cooler. You’re not even as pale. No, there must be something else
that’s given you the shakes.”

  “I don’t have the shakes!” she declared loudly, then clamped her mouth shut when even her voice belied her claim. It was sheer chemistry. She knew it, and it mortified her. Granted, he was a pro. But to be so totally susceptible to him appalled her. “And if I do, it’s your fault. You’re the one who’s making me nervous. Damn it, you should be some kind of arrogant, unsavory creep, with little bugs crawling around here and there.”

  “I’m not,” he stated, his voice calm. “And there aren’t any bugs.”

  “I know,” she replied miserably. It was obvious that the man was both clean and healthy. She didn’t have to ask; she just knew. Besides, she trusted Tony. Though his sense of humor was sadly misguided, he did love her. And he was protective. Hadn’t she kept her experience with Joe Durand from him partly out of fear of what he might do to Joe? No, Tony would never have invited anyone objectionable to spend the week alone in a villa with his little sister. Tony would have checked everything out. Strange. A male model checking out? A paid escort? In Tony’s book?

  “Well…?” Oliver asked softly, his face no more than a hand’s width from hers.

  “Well what?” she managed to whisper.

  “The verdict. I can see those little wheels going round and round in your head. Will you let me kiss you … or am I going to have to be forceful about it?”

  “Forceful? Truly?” she asked softly.

  His forearms came to rest flush on the sheet, bringing his abdomen into contact with hers. Leslie caught her breath, aware of his warmth and of the precious nothings she wore beneath her shirt. Meanwhile, hidden high up her sleeves, his fingers cupped her shoulders and gently massaged their tautness. Her response, an instinctive coil of heat that sizzled its way to her toes and back, made moot the point. He would never use force. He wouldn’t have to. He was good, she mused in dismay. Too good.

  “Don’t…” she heard herself say, then looked as puzzled as he.

  “Don’t what? Don’t touch you? Don’t kiss you? Don’t take care of you?”

  She wanted … she didn’t. “Just don’t.…”

  “But I have to,” he whispered.

  Her voice was no louder, though tinged with regret. “Because you were hired?” The word stuck in her throat like a large piece of overcooked liver. She swallowed hard to dislodge it, managing to produce only a tiny moan. He’d been hired to love her … and it hurt.

  When he slid his fingers to the back of her neck and pressed feathery circles in her skin, she closed her eyes and turned her face away. “What is it?” he murmured. She simply shook her head and squeezed her eyes tighter. “Come on, Les,” he coaxed. “Tell me.” His thumb slid across her cheek to stroke the taut line of her jaw.

  “This is … humiliating.…”

  “Why?”

  “Because Tony … arranged for you,” she said, feeling ugly and sick and sexless.

  “And if I said that that had no bearing on this moment…?”

  “I’d wonder whether it, too, wasn’t part of the act.” Very cautiously she opened her eyes to find Oliver studying her intently. Then, easing up, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

  “So distrustful … and at such a young age.”

  “I feel about twelve. And, yes, I’m distrustful. I … I guess I just want more out of life than the buying and selling of favors.”

  He thought for a minute. “What if you thought of this as a fix-up? Haven’t you ever had a blind date?”

  “Oh, yes.” Her lips twisted. “Charming invention, the blind date.”

  “It has been known to work.”

  “Not in my book.”

  “And why not?”

  “Because a blind date is never really blind. I mean, the person who agrees to a blind date usually does so at the convincing of a salesman in the guise of a matchmaker.” When Oliver frowned she grew insistent. “Really.” She stared at the ceiling and spoke in a mocking tone. “He’s in his late thirties, is tall, dark and handsome, is a stockbroker, drives a Porsche and has a horse farm in upstate New York.”

  Oliver nodded. “Sounds interesting.”

  “Sounds vile! Who gives a damn if he’s tall, dark and handsome, and has enough money to put DuPont to shame? I certainly don’t! And I dislike the thought that I’ve in turn been marketed, based on similarly meaningless data.”

  “Ah … the Parish curse.”

  “Among other things,” she mused, then took a breath and, emboldened by indignation, faced her tormentor. “So, Oliver Ames, if you want to kiss me, do so knowing that I earn my own living as a preschool teacher, that I drive a four-year-old VW Rabbit, that I hate parties, love picnics and abide by intrusions into my privacy only with great reluctance.” Energy waning, she lowered her voice. “Also know that I’m very conservative. I don’t sleep around.”

  He pressed his lips together, stifling a grin. “Then I don’t have to fear catching something from you?”

  “Yes. A cold.”

  “Which I’ll risk.…”

  Certain her diatribe would have discouraged him, Leslie was taken by surprise. She tried to tell herself who he was, what he was, but the fact of his presence muddled her brain. He was so near, so vibrant. When his head lowered, she closed her eyes. Her breath came faster; she heard its rasping. Surely that would put him off … but no. His lips touched her left eye first, whispering a kiss on its lid once, then a second time before inching away. The bridge of her nose received similar treatment, then her right eye and its adjoining temple.

  What astonished her most was the reassurance she felt from his touch. It was light and gentle, imbuing her with an unexpected sense of contentment. From her temple it fell to her cheekbone, dotting that sculpted line with a string of feather kisses before moving on to savor the delicate curve of her ear. The warmth of his breath made her tingle. Unknowingly she tipped her head to the side to ease his access.

  “Nice?” he whispered against the high point of her jaw.

  “Mmmmmmm.”

  “Relaxing?”

  “Very.”

  “I’m glad,” he murmured against her skin as he nibbled his way along her jaw, giving special attention to the delicacy of her chin before raising his head.

  In a daze of pleasure, Leslie opened her eyes to find Oliver’s, warm and alive, trained on her lips. His touch was a tangible thing, in the name of seduction doing something destructive to relaxation.

  “I shouldn’t let you…” she whispered meekly.

  “But you can’t help yourself … any more than I can,” he answered, moments before he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

  She stiffened at first, struck by the utter intimacy of the act. Only a kiss … yet it probed her entire being. Though his lips were gentle, they slid over hers with expertise—lightly at first, sampling, tasting, then with greater conviction as he sought her essence.

  “Relax, Les,” he whispered. “It’s all right.” His hands emerged from her sleeves to caress her shoulders from without.

  “No … don’t.…” It felt too good. She didn’t trust herself.

  Again he raised his head, and she met his gaze. His eyes were more smoky this time; she badly wanted to believe that she’d excited him.

  “Kiss me,” he said in a shaky breath, his eyes on her lips, then sliding upward. “Kiss me, and then decide.” When she shook her head, he took a different tack, dropping his gaze to his hands, which glided up her shoulder to her neck, then inched downward from the hollow of her throat, downward over her chest, downward to separate over the straining fullness of her breasts.

  Unable to push him away, unable to invite his advances, Leslie bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her eyes begged that he free her from the prison of his spell, yet her breasts swelled toward his touch in primal betrayal. His fingers circled her, working systematically inward, coming at last to the turgid peaks that spoke so eloquently of her arousal.

  In self-defense she grasped his wrists an
d put a halt to the torture by pressing his hands hard against her. “Oliver, please don’t.”

  “Will you kiss me?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “You might like it.”

  “That’s what worries me!”

  Silence hung in the air, made heavy by the honesty of her argument. Frowning, Oliver studied her as though she was a creature like no other he’d ever known. In turn, she pleaded silently. She was sick … and aroused. It was a disturbing duo.

  “You have the eyes of a fawn,” he said at last. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

  The spell was broken. With a shy smile of relief, she shook her head. “No.”

  “Well, you do.” He sat straighter. “The eyes of a fawn. I could never hurt a fawn. So free and alive, so soft and vulnerable.”

  “You must be a poet. Funny, I thought you were supposed to be a sculptor.”

  “All illusion,” he breathed magnanimously as he pushed himself off the bed. Only then did Leslie see what she wanted to. Very subtly and from the corner of her eye she saw sign of his arousal. Illusion? Not that. It was a heady thought on which to roll over and go to sleep.

  * * *

  She slept through the late afternoon and early evening, awakening only to eat the light omelet Oliver had fixed, to take the aspirin he supplied, to drink the juice he’d chilled. She felt lazy and pampered and stuffy enough neither to object to the attention nor to raise the issue of his leaving the villa again. There would be time aplenty to discuss the latter when she felt better. For the time being, having a caretaker was rather nice.

  Not used to sleeping at such length, she awakened periodically throughout the night. Each time, Oliver was in his chair by her bed, either sitting quietly, reading, or, at last, dozing. Though she might have enjoyed the luxury of watching him sleep, her slightest movement roused him every time.

  “How do you feel?” he asked softly, leaning forward to touch the back of his hand to her brow.

  “Okay.”

  “Any better?”

  “I think so.”