by Peggy Webb
"What the hell . . ."
The loud voice was male, and very angry. And it was coming from the other side of a huge boulder not very far from her retreat.
"Get out of my way, you big oaf . . ."
Her hands shook as she slid the blouse on. She had almost been caught undressed.
"A thousand pardons, kind sir. Can you tell me the way to the nearest pub?"
She would know that voice anywhere. It was Sid, speaking loud enough to wake the dead. She bit her lip as she tried to fasten her blouse. The buttons kept sliding out of her nervous fingers.
"Pub? Are you an idiot? This is the African bush. . . . Let me pass."
"What's a drink without a drinking buddy?" Sid's laughter was boisterous.
"Who are you, you fool?"
"A drinking fool in a fool's paradise. Come, my good man. Let's find the pub together."
"If you don't get your big hands off me, I'm going to knock you into tomorrow."
As Rose Anne fumbled with her buttons, Sid began to sing, "Tomorrow," Little Orphan Annie's theme song, in a loud, drunken voice. The other man swore.
Rose Anne tucked her blouse into her skirt, then slid her feet into her shoes. Sid continued to sing, loudly and off key.
She had never heard a more beautiful sound.
"Fool. Let go."
"Sing, my good man. Sing! Don't you know the chorus? Here ... I'll teach you."
The second chorus sounded worse than the first. Rose Anne didn't know how a man with such a magnificent voice could manage to sound like a wounded rhinoceros.
Fully dressed now, she grabbed her hat and dashed toward the sound. When she saw them she had to clutch her sides to keep from laughing out loud.
Sid waltzed in drunken circles, singing at the top of his voice, dragging the poor, hapless reporter with him. The man was at least six inches shorter than Sid and probably fifty pounds lighter. From time to time his feet left the ground as Sid swung him up by the armpits.
"Put me down, you fool."
Sid turned around and came face-to-face with Rose Anne.
"Glad to oblige," he said.
He dropped the reporter, who landed solidly on his rump. Cursing, the man picked up his camera.
"I came to interview the lady."
"Rose Anne?" Sid turned to her, and she shook her head. "The lady says no." Though he made no move toward the reporter, his voice made it perfectly clear that he was more than ready to defend Rose Anne's right to privacy.
The reporter wavered, then decided not to cross him. With a muttered oath he crawled into his Jeep and drove away.
Rose Anne stared at Sid. The drunken sailor had long since vanished, and in his place was a panther with knowing black eyes and a hungry look. She shivered. The air hummed with the currents that zinged between them. His gaze never left hers.
"Did you see me?" she asked.
"I saw. But I was leaving . . . until the reporter came along."
"Why were you here?"
"For the peace and quiet . . . and for you."
"I don't know whether I should thank you or accuse you."
"Do both if you like." He smiled, and she almost forgave him.
There was a sound in the distance, and they both looked up to see a Jeep coming.
"Charlie. Coming to take me back." Beside her, Sid was as still as a carving. "Would you like a ride?"
"To paradise and back."
His voice was magnificent, his presence overwhelming. She silently prayed that Charlie would hurry.
"This ride goes only to the camp."
"Would it bother you if I rode along?" He leaned close.
She felt as if he had touched her. Her skin caught fire.
Although she said nothing, Sid saw the answer in her eyes. "I need the exercise, fair one. I'll walk back."
Fortunately, Charlie arrived in the nick of time before she burst into flame. She climbed into the Jeep and sat stiffly in her seat as they roared off toward camp.
Somewhere behind her Sid was watching. She could feel his gaze on her neck.
Don't look back, she told herself. But when they had gone a short distance, she couldn't resist. She turned her head and saw him, tall and rugged, with the setting sun at his back. Her breath caught in her throat.
"Did you say something. Rose Anne?" Charlie asked.
"Hurry, that's all. Just hurry."
o0o
Sid took his time getting back to camp. He was restless, uncertain. His expedition to Africa had taken an unexpected turn. Here in the wilds, separated from polite society, he was stalking Rose Anne, wooing her, as surely as he had wooed her In Paris.
What would happen if he won her . . . right on the heels of his betrayal? Until she forgave him, there could be nothing between them, nothing except the passion that always sprung up like thunderstorms in May.
More than that, what would happen when they got back to the real world? He was just a homely aviator with a knack for poetry. She was a woman with the world at her feet. It would never work.
He would stay one more day, and after that, if there was no breakthrough, if she had not forgiven him, he would leave.
Sid made a sparse supper, then ate it with his back to Rose Anne's camp. No need to pour salt in his wounds.
After supper he took a paperback novel from his belongings and tried to read. But the book made no sense. It was just words printed on paper.
He left his campsite and walked. Still, the terror and the wonder of his love clawed at his soul. Finally he could no longer contain it.
Later, at camp, he picked up his guitar and began to play.
o0o
Rose Anne was bedded down for the night when she heard the music. She squeezed her eyes and clenched her fists.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't."
But the music played on. Out of the night it reached for her, wrapped itself around her heart, and squeezed.
She lay in bed, fighting her feelings, but they were not to be denied. An urgency overtook Rose Anne, and she slid from her cot, moaning softly. She dressed quickly.
The night was deep and still, and it swallowed her up instantly.
Her hands trembled when she entered his camp. He was sitting cross-legged beside a dying fire, his head bent over his guitar, his fingers caressing the strings. He was seducing her, making love to her in the dark.
She didn't know whether she made a sound or whether he felt her presence. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore except the way he looked at her.
"Your music is too beautiful to keep to yourself," she said softly.
"I'll never share my music with anybody . . . except you." He stood up and pulled a camp chair near the embers of his campfire. "Won't you sit down?"
Vividly aware of his eyes upon her, Rose Anne sat down. Sid moved apart, strumming his guitar softly. As always, the music intoxicated her. Folding her hands in her lap, she fought to maintain control.
"I don't want you to misunderstand why I'm here," she said.
He set his guitar aside. "I never presume anything with a beautiful woman."
"Please . . . don't stop playing. The music is soothing after a hard day's work."
"I'm sorry about what happened today." He lifted his guitar and began to strum once more. With her sitting beside him, music poured from him, overflowing his heart and translating into deeply passionate melody.
"I never thanked you."
"No thanks necessary."
“You saved me from an embarrassing situation."
Remembering how she had looked on the rock with her breasts bared to the afternoon sun, he had a hard time clamping down his desire.
"I had my own reputation to protect," he joked, hoping to offset the steam heat rising from both of them. "How would it look if a high-ranking officer of the U.S. Navy couldn't protect a damsel in distress?"
She smiled. "That makes twice you've rescued me."
"Third time will be the charm."
“
I don't want you to misunderstand, Sid. I'm thanking you for today, not forgiving you for what happened in Paris."
The guitar slid to the ground as he came to her. Kneeling in front of her chair, he took her hand.
"Rose Anne, there are some things in his life a man will always be proud of and other things he will always regret. What happened in Paris will haunt me forever. In one misguided moment I agreed to help a friend without considering the consequences."
With him kneeling beside her, she felt overwhelmed. His hand felt strong surrounding hers . . . and somehow right. She should never have come to his camp. Wrapped in the deep blanket of night with his music echoing through her mind and his overpowering nearness doing strange and wonderful things to her body, there was no way she could resist him.
"Is that what I am?" she whispered. "A consequence?"
"You are more, ever so much more." His hot hands caressed hers, pressing erotic patterns into her palms. "You are the glow that lights the shadows, the beacon that burns through my soul. Your name is a crystal bell hung in my heart, ringing, ringing as I tremble."
"I won't be seduced by your poetry." With the lie fresh on her lips, she was being seduced, drowning in him, going deeper and deeper until soon she would be completely under.
"I speak truth, not poetry. The song I played tonight was for you. All the songs I've played since you came through the garden gate have been for you."
"Shhh. Don't." She leaned forward and pressed her hand on his lips. "I don't believe you. I won't believe you."
"Then believe this." He cupped her face, drawing her down to him.
She tried to resist when his lips touched hers, but resistance was physical anguish. In her limited experience, kissing had been nothing more than a meeting of flesh. It had been pleasant and vaguely stimulating, rather like a visit home for the holidays. Not something you'd want to miss, but certainly not something to get all stirred up about.
With Sid, the earth moved. The sweet urgency of the kiss became a hungry demand. Sid groaned, lifting her from the chair so that she stood pressed full-length against him. Sensation exploded in her. She wrapped her arms around him to keep from falling.
His tongue pressed against her mouth, hot and insistent. Rose Anne blossomed for him, flowered open like a rosebud welcoming the first rains of spring.
"I want ... I need," she murmured against his lips, not understanding what she wanted or needed, merely knowing that if she didn't have it, she would die.
With their lips joined and all heaven's choruses singing through them, Sid lifted her off her feet and carried her into the darkness.
Rose Anne was aware of nothing except the passion that overwhelmed her, the passion and the glory of being in his arms. The past faded into nothingness and reality spun away. There was just the two of them . . . and the beauty that consumed them.
Neither of them could have told how they got to his tent. All they knew was that Rose Anne was spread upon his sleeping bag and he was leaning over her. The fire burning them was so hot, they could do nothing except try to quench it.
She lifted her arms, and he came to her, his face pressed into her hair and his body fitted tightly against her hollows and curves. He kissed her temples, her throat, and she shattered into a million bright pieces. The music of the night that had held her rapt in Paris sang through her, stealing her senses and her will.
She was flying without wings. She was in a clear and bright place where nothing existed, nothing mattered except to touch and be touched.
"Sid!" She called his name, wild with wanting.
His lips were hot on her skin, seeking, searching, sending her into a wanton frenzy. She wrapped her arms tightly around him, absorbing his weight, her body writhing with the need that clawed at her.
He answered her cry, met her need. His lean, hard hips took up a rhythm as old as time as he pushed aside her blouse. She was braless, and her breasts were offered up to him like nectar to the gods.
"One sweet sip or I die," Sid whispered, taking what she offered, savoring it with his tongue, his lips.
His mouth was hot and wet on her, and she tangled her hands in his hair, dragging him closer. She could feel the strength and the power of him, the fierce passion.
Moving from one breast to the other, he murmured words so poetic, so erotic, she lost all sense of time and place. Even the clothes that separated them couldn't contain the fire. He rocked in the cradle of her hips, perfectly fitted to her body, perfectly attuned to her movements.
She dug her hands into his back, feeling the solid muscle and the fine sheen of sweat that dampened his shirt.
"Rose Anne . . . Rose Anne." He murmured her name as he pushed up her skirt. His hand was large and warm, and she was damp, waiting for him, wanting him.
"Rose Anne," he whispered, his voice filled with adoration and desire.
She was so hot, so hot, and he was there, his fingers sliding inside her. She cried out again and again, drowning in the waves of sweet sensation that swamped her.
"I want you. Rose Anne," he whispered, his eyes fierce as he gazed into her face. "I've wanted you from the moment you came through the courtyard gate In the House of the Angel."
Suddenly it all came back to her—the secrets, the lies, the betrayal. She flung one arm over her forehead, groaning.
"Rose Anne?" He bent down to her, concern etched on his face. "Rose Anne?" he whispered when she didn't respond, his breath warm on her cheek.
She remembered it all. Pain crushed her heart, even while her body still cried out for his touch. Her breasts throbbed and ached. Her loins were on fire. She wanted to be covered by him, consumed by him.
"I . . . hate . . . you," she whispered, gasping for breath, trying desperately to control the rage and the desire that warred in her.
"No, you don't." His voice and his hands were gentle as he rearranged her clothes. "You only want to hate me."
"I hate what you did to me in Paris." Tears rolled down her cheeks. "I hate what you're doing to me now."
He cupped her face and tenderly brushed the tears away.
"Don't . . . please. Let the past go, Rose Anne."
"I can't." She gulped for air.
"You came to me, Rose Anne. Doesn't that tell you something? Doesn't that mean that your heart has forgiven me, even while your mind tries to hold on to the anger?"
"All it means is that I'm vulnerable. You've seduced me with your music . . . just the way you did in Paris."
"Forgive me, please. I never meant to hurt you, then or now. I would travel to the ends of the earth wearing sackcloth and ashes if I thought that would win your forgiveness."
"How can I possibly believe anything you say? Am I to believe what you said in Paris or what you're saying in Africa?" Anger began to replace her tears, but she didn't know whom she was more angry with, Sid or herself. She pushed his hands away and sat up. "How am I supposed to tell the truth from lies? How can I know whether this is real or whether it's all part of another elaborate arrangement with your friends?"
"This is real, Rose Anne. Believe me."
There was a hungry look in his eyes as he watched her, and she realized exactly what a state she was in. Her hair was disheveled, her buttons were undone, and her face was flushed with anger and passion.
She was at a distinct disadvantage, and it was partly her own doing. Her track record with men was appalling. It was almost as if she had been born with a sign on her back that said "Take advantage of me."
"You're just like the others," she said, "saying whatever is expedient."
She moved apart from him on the sleeping bag and furiously worked at smoothing her clothing.
He studied her with eyes so black, they seemed to have absorbed all the darkness of the night. Even the touch of his eyes set her aflame.
"What others?" he asked.
"Damn you, Sid Granger," she whispered. "Damn you to hell."
"Rose Anne, tell me. What others?"
Her heart slammed a
gainst her ribs. The tent tilted, then righted. She thought she was going to suffocate.
"How did they hurt you?" he asked, persistent.
"You want me to name names so you can get together with them over a couple of beers and gloat?"
"No. I want you to tell me how they hurt you so I can understand your pain."
"I gave them my trust and they betrayed me. Riker Garvin did it the hard way, with another woman in my bed. Mike Gordon was a little more subtle. All he did was find out the size of my bank account to see if it would be adequate to cover all his debts."
"All men are not like that. Rose Anne. I'm not like that."
"Go tell it to someone who will believe it."
Sid stood up, a powerhouse of a man who made the tent seem small.
"I'd give the world to undo the last two weeks. But I can't. Rose Anne. I can't take it all back. All I can tell you is that I set out to help a friend . . . that was all. I didn't foresee hurting you." He knelt beside her, his face close, his eyes fierce. "You're the last person in the world I want to hurt."
"I'm an easy target. The Face is always good for a bet among navy buddies or a ticket to easy street. Everybody knows that the rich and the famous have no heart." She stood up, toe to toe with him, determined to look straight into his face if it killed her.
And it just might. In spite of her rage, she still wanted him. She was going to have to join a convent in order to escape from him . . . and from herself.
"Rose Anne, let me—"
"No." She held up her hand, cutting him off. "I don't want you to do anything except get out of my life. The sooner, the better."
She stormed away, then, at the tent opening, spoke over her shoulder.
"Whatever the bet was this time, tell them you lost, Eagle."
His gaze held her for a small eternity, and both of them died a little inside. "We both lost, Rose Anne."
Chapter Eight
Rose Anne awoke before dawn, filled with a strange sense of loss. Exhaustion weighed down her body, and tension pounded through her head. It had been an almost sleepless night.
She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but something nagged at her mind. Slowly she threw back the covers and went outside. The camp was still buttoned up against the night. The Jeeps stood silent; the tent flaps remained closed. No sound marred the predawn stillness.
