Forever Spring

by Joan Hohl

  Karen hesitated, then sighed. “Yes.”

  “You have no family?” Paul probed gently, not sure exactly why he was bothering.

  “I have two sons,” she said brightly—too brightly. “They’re away at school. I.. .received lovely birthday cards from them.” Her smile was as bright as her tone, and as suspect. “Do you have children?” she asked swiftly, allowing him no time to question her further.

  “Yes, two also,” Paul answered. “I have a son and a daughter, both grown and married.” Memory softened his expression.

  “Grandchildren?” Karen guessed.

  Paul’s smile was gentle. “Yes, a six-week-old grandson from my son and daughter-in-law, and my daughter is currently a lady-in-waiting. The child is due at Christmas, on or about their first wedding anniversary.”

  “That’s nice,” she murmured, blinking as she glanced away. “I love babies.”

  Once again, Paul became alert to an odd tone in her voice. For a moment she looked so lost, so unhappy, that he had to squash the urge to go to her and draw her into his arms. “Your husband?” he asked very softly.

  “I’m divorced.” She turned to look at him as she stood up. The vulnerability was gone; an invisible curtain had been drawn, concealing her feelings. “If you’ve finished, I’ll show you to your room.” Her voice was steady, free of inflection.

  Paul had the strange sensation of having been shoved outside, into the deepening dusk and frigid wind. The sensation disturbed him more than a little. Why it should bother him was baffling. He had grown used to being in the cold and the dark with the opposite sex. His wife Carolyn had kept him there for years. Feeling a chill, Paul tossed down the last of his coffee and stood up. “Ready when you are,” he said in an even tone, plucking his jacket from the back of the chair.

  Following Karen up the wide staircase proved to be a test of endurance for Paul. She had a lovely, graceful stride, shoulders back without being stiff, spine straight without being rigid, and her hips had a gentle, unpracticed sway that profoundly affected every one of his senses. Sweetly erotic images flashed through his mind as he trailed her down the hall, his darkened gaze fixed on the movement of her hips. His mind smoky from the heat of his thoughts, Paul was only vaguely aware of the room she ushered him into. The inflec-tionless sound of her voice pierced the sensuous fog.

  “Of course, if this room doesn’t suit you, you may choose any of the other six guest rooms,” she was

  saying, moving to the long windows to pull the drapes open. “I thought this would be best since it has its own bathroom and looks out over the beach and the ocean.” She swept her arm toward the view as if offering him a gift.

  “This will be fine.” Paul glanced around the room without really seeing it as he dutifully walked to stand beside her at the window. Darkness cloaked the land, and low-hanging clouds obscured the moon and stars. Paul could see very little except for outlines and the curling white of cresting waves. But standing this close to her he could smell her distinct scent, and his body tightened in response to it. Relief shivered through him when she moved away.

  “Well, then,” Karen said briskly. “I’ll get bed linens and towels. It’ll only take a minute to make up the bed.” She was walking from the room before she’d finished speaking.

  Keeping his back squarely to the room, Paul stared into the night, his thoughts just as black. What was wrong with him? he wondered bleakly, clenching his fists as he heard her reenter the room. He was reacting to Karen like a teenager with a hormonal explosion. He wanted to grab her, touch her—everywhere. He wanted to kiss her, bite her, thrust his tongue into her sweet mouth! Oh, God, how he wanted! Paul was shuddering inside when the snapping sound of a sheet being shaken dispelled the erotic thoughts teasing his senses.

  “Is there something I can help you with?” Paul closed his eyes, despairing of the hoarse sound in his voice.

  “No, thank you, I’m just about finished.” Karen’s tone had an edge that tugged at his attention, an edge that held a hint of—what? Trepidation? Outright fear?

  Raising his eyelids fractionally, Paul turned slowly to face her. Moving swiftly, economically, her hands smoothed a candlewick bedspread over two plump pillows. On closer inspection, he thought he detected a slight tremor in her competent hands. Was Karen afraid of him? Paul mused, watching as she carried a stack of towels into the adjoining bathroom. Had she sensed his reaction to her, and was she now regretting renting him the room?

  Avoiding his eyes, Karen walked into the room and directly to the door to the hallway, by her manner convincing Paul his speculations were correct.

  “I’ll leave you to get settled in,” she said, reminding him of a wary doe as she hesitated in the doorway. “Dinner will be ready at 7:30.” Turning abruptly, she strode from the room.

  “Thank you.” A grimace twisted Paul’s mouth as he realized he was speaking to thin air; Karen had fled. A sick despair sank heavily to the pit of his stomach. She was afraid of him, he thought, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. Dammit! The last thing he’d wanted was to frighten her. Sighing, Paul turned to stare into the unwelcoming darkness of a cold night.

  Karen was also staring into the night. Directly across the hall, in a room that was a twin to his, she stood at the window, her trembling fingers clutching the old-fashioned carved wood frame. Her breathing was ragged and uneven; her stomach felt queasy.

  What had come over her? The silent cry battered her mind. Her senses were jangling; her emotions were freaking out! And all because of a man who was almost twenty years her senior!

  But, oh, glory, what a man! Shutting her eyes tightly, Karen shivered deliciously in response to the image of him that consumed her mind. Aristocratic. Patrician. Handsome. Cultured. Endearingly preoccupied. The adjectives crashed into each other as they rushed forward. At fifty-whatever, Paul Vanzant was the most compelling man Karen had ever met.

  And he probably thinks you’re an absolute idiot! A sigh whispered through her lips as Karen accepted the mental rebuke. She was thirty-seven years old and the mother of two teenage sons. She had experienced the satisfaction of a successful career and—though briefly—the love of a dynamic man on the way up. She was well educated and well traveled. And she had conducted herself with all the aplomb of a wide-eyed, tongue-tied, backward young girl being presented at court.

  But Lord, the man was fantastic! Feeling as if she were melting inside, Karen tightened her grip on the windowframe and leaned forward to press her forehead against the cold pane. She longed to stroke the white wings highlighting his black hair at his temples— No! She longed to stroke the entire length of his tall, muscular body. Sensual awareness flared to life, and she quivered in response to the mere thought of touching Paul.

  Was she losing her mind? Or had she simply been too long alone? It had been five years since Karen had been with a man, five years since the separation and subsequent divorce that had shredded the fabric of her marriage and life. Embittered, she had embraced celibacy, not grown frustrated because of it. Karen hadn’t wanted anything to do with a man, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to share intimacy with one.

  Intimacy. Karen moaned softly as the word echoed inside her whirling mind. Male-female intimacy meant silken touches and deep, hungry kisses and an even deeper, all-consuming possession.

  Suddenly weak and shaking, Karen turned her head to press her flushed cheek to the cool window. With her mind’s eye she could see Paul, naked and beautiful, his dark eyes shadowed by passion, a sensuous smile on his sculpted masculine lips.

  “Yes, yes.”

  The jagged, breathless sound of her own voice startled Karen into awareness. Breathing deeply, she glanced around in confusion. What in the world was she doing? Her face grew hot and then cold at the answer. Her movements jerky and uncoordinated, she walked to the low double dresser and picked up her hairbrush. Drawing the brush through her wind-tossed curls, she frowned at the slumbrous glow in the brown eyes reflected in the mirror. Was th
is the same self-contained woman who had turned her back on her career and all her activities in the city to return to her childhood home? Karen wondered tiredly. Could the woman in the mirror possibly be the same person who had determinedly removed herself physically and mentally from the pleasures of the flesh?

  Karen shook her head and dropped the brush onto the dresser. This would not do. Paul was, for whatever reason, obviously in transit. He would stay a while, and then he would go. And unless she was very careful, he could take a part of her with him. Karen knew she could not let that happen.

  She was vulnerable to him. Why she was vulnerable to this particular man was unimportant—at least for the moment. She had to get herself firmly under control. Paul Vanzant was the stuff dreams were made of, she decided sadly. And dreams of that sort were for the young and innocent, not the wise and embittered.

  Drawing a deep breath, Karen squared her shoulders and smiled at her reflected image. “He’s in his fifties,” she said in a soft but bracing tone. “He has grown children, and he’s a grandfather. Children and grandchildren presuppose a mother and grandmother. Where is she?” A spasm of pain flicked across Karen’s face. “He’s on the move, you fool!” she chided her image. “His wife is more than likely at home, playing the doting grandma.” She shut her eyes against the sting of tears and closed her mind to the bittersweet yearning to fill the emptiness of her body and arms with a tiny new life. Denying the image of a child with Paul’s aristocratic features in miniature, she opened her eyes again, wide. “He’s too old for a serious new commitment. He’s too old to be running around while his wife sits waiting at home. And he’s too old for you.”

  Feeling like the idiot she’d accused herself of being, Karen spun away from the dresser, unwilling to face the sad-eyed woman reflected in the mirror above it. She had work to do. There was laundry in the dryer to be folded, and a wet load waiting to be transferred to it from the washer. She had to scrub potatoes for baking and clean and chop vegetables for a salad. She had to make a batch of biscuits. She didn’t have time to indulge in fantasies about a man she had met less than two hours before and knew absolutely nothing about. She had to get her house and head together.

  Acting on the thought, Karen rushed from her bedroom and down the wide staircase. She flicked on the radio in the kitchen on her way through to the laundry room. Throughout the following hours, coherent thought was held at bay by the blaring racket and agonizing screams commonly referred to as “heavy metal.”

  Karen had a blasting headache, but her chores—and the potatoes—were done. She had showered and dressed in a silky overblouse and a flattering, if practical, denim skirt. Her hair was brushed into soft gleaming waves; a minimum of makeup enhanced her clear, naturally pale face. The table was set in the small dining alcove and the scallops were simmering in an aromatic sauterne butter sauce under the broiler. The noise issuing from the radio ceased abruptly. Spinning around, Karen glared at the tall, too-attractive cause of her feverish activity.

  “Why did you do that?” she demanded aggressively, quickly gliding a glance over the appeal of his body, which was clad in casual but obviously expensive pants and a white sweater.

  “Why?” Paul repeated in disbelief. “To prevent both deafness and madness,” he answered in a scathing tone. “I was beginning to think I’d walked into bedlam.”

  “The music keeps me company,” she retorted.

  “It’ll turn your brain to mush,” he snapped. “I thought you were an intelligent, sensible woman. You can’t possibly enjoy that... that..

  “Noise?” Karen supplied the applicable word, sighing inwardly at her erratic behavior. “No, actually I hate it.”

  “But then why play it?” Paul slowly crossed the room to her.

  Karen held her ground but withdrew inwardly. “Because I was dissatisfied with my own thoughts,” she admitted. “And the noise blanked them out.” Compassion softened his tight features. “You were thinking about your children?” he asked softly.

  Feeling not an ounce of shame, Karen clutched at the excuse. “Yes, I was missing my children.” There was a grain of truth to her assertion, she assured herself, meeting his compassionate gaze boldly. For had her boys been in the house that afternoon, she probably wouldn’t have been sitting on the beach and so would not have met him and thus would not have found herself wildly attracted to him in the first place. The rationale was unpalatable to Karen, but it was the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment.

  Chapter Two

  "YOU DO A MEAN SCALLOP SCAMPI.”

  “Thank you.” Karen glanced up at Paul, an uncertain smile hovering at the corners of her lips. The compliment, coming so unexpectedly after his neartotal silence during the meal, both pleased and confused her. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “I did,” he said, pausing a moment before continuing, “I enjoyed it very much, even though I realize I wasn’t very good company throughout the consumption of it.”

  Karen lifted her shoulders in a half shrug. “Conversation is not a guest requirement.”

  Paul smiled. “Perhaps it should be.”

  “Perhaps.” Karen frowned and shrugged again. “But if a guest is preoccupied...”

  “This particular guest is preoccupied by speculation about his hostess.”

  “Me!” she exclaimed, experiencing an odd thrill of excitement.

  “Yes, you.” Refilling his coffee cup from the carafe she’d placed on the table, Paul leaned back in his chair and gazed at her intently.

  “But what about me?” Karen shook her head impatiently. “I mean, what were you speculating about?”

  “The fact that you’re living alone in this large house, for one thing,” Paul answered, indicating the entire building with a flick of his hand.

  Karen followed his hand motion with her eyes. “I was born in this house,” she murmured.

  “Which explains absolutely nothing.”

  “I wasn’t aware of owing—” she began, her voice strained.

  Paul interrupted her. “Of course you don’t owe me a thing, especially explanations, but that doesn’t preclude my curiosity about you.” He shrugged and smiled; the smile got to her.

  “Okay, I’ll indulge your curiosity.” Karen inclined her head in thanks as he filled her coffee cup. Cradling the warmed china in her palms, she sat back and smiled. “Fire away.”

  Paul’s lips curved with wry amusement and a hint of suggestiveness. “On any subject?”

  “I won’t guarantee an answer,” Karen drawled, “but you can give it your best shot.”

  His laughter was slow in starting but rapidly grew into an attractive rumble that filled the small dining alcove, and Karen, with warmth. The room absorbed the sound, and so did Karen. A delicious tremor shivered through her as he raised his cup in a salute.

  “Now I’m intimidated.” Paul sounded anything but intimidated. He chuckled at the look she gave him. “I don’t know if this is my best shot, but to begin, why are you all alone in this large leftover from another era?”

  That one was easy, and Karen responded immediately. “Actually, I’ve only been alone for a few weeks. I employ three people, two women and one man, during the season.” She smiled dryly. “In fact, the house is, or was, in effect closed until spring.”

  “But the proprietor of that store said—”

  Karen cut in to ask gently, “Exactly what did Calvin say?”

  Paul frowned in concentration. “He said, well, just maybe you’d be willing to rent me a room for a night or two.” Paul mimicked Calvin’s Yankee twang.

  Karen laughed in appreciation of his effort. “Precisely. Calvin knows full well that I close the place at the end of September, and he admitted as much.” “You spoke to him?”

  Karen nodded. “While I was finishing dinner. I did tell you he’d persist until he reached me.”

  “Yes, you did,” Paul confirmed, beginning to frown. “So, what’s your verdict?” His dark eyebrows peaked. “Are you plann
ing to toss me out on my, er... ear the minute I step away from this table, or have you decided to let me stay the night?”

  “You may stay—” she paused to grin “—as long as you like. It appears that you made quite a good impression on Calvin.”

  “Indeed?” Paul managed not to laugh.

  “Oh, yes, indeed.” Karen didn’t manage it; she laughed softly. “And, as Calvin is generally an excellent judge of character, I’ll accept his recommendation.”

  “I knew there was something I liked about that dour-faced, hard-nosed Yankee,” Paul commented drolly.

  Swallowing her laughter at his deadly accurate description of Calvin, Karen pushed back her chair and stood up. “Question period over?” she murmured hopefully, beginning to gather the dishes together.

  “Over!” Paul exclaimed, rising quickly to help clear the table. “I’ve only asked one question.”

  “Well, then,” she sighed loudly, “can we put it on hold until after cleaning up? I detest clutter.” She frowned at the littered table.

  “Certainly.” Paul nodded. “I’ll even assist.” His gaze trailed hers to the table, and his mouth curved into a grimace. “I can’t abide clutter, either.”

  Oddly, knowing they shared one small trait made Karen feel closer to Paul. And, though she told herself she was being silly, the feeling eased the reluctance she was experiencing about being questioned further by him.

  Two pairs of competent hands dealt swiftly with the dinner debris, freeing them of the chore within minutes. With the dishwasher swishing in the background, Paul opened the bottle of white wine Karen produced, while she retrieved two stemmed glasses from the lovingly cared-for hundred-year-old hutch in the formal dining room. Carrying the bottle casually by its long neck, Paul strolled into the spacious living room; Karen followed after giving the kitchen one last critical appraisal.

  Ensconced in a wide-armed, deeply cushioned easy chair, Paul offered Karen a wry smile as she settled into the corner of the matching sofa. As he poured out the wine, he put her own thoughts into words.