Forever Spring

by Joan Hohl

  “Oh, yes.” She offered him her first genuine smile since answering the phone. “I also have my business there.”

  “Business?” Paul sat up straight. “What sort of business?”

  “I own a specialty shop... fine gifts, china, bric-a-brac and such. It’s called Garnishes.” She grimaced. “Of course, being way up here in Maine, I no longer manage it myself. Charles has been overseeing it for me.” At the thought and mention of her former husband’s name, Karen wet her suddenly dry lips. “I’ll need to make other arrangements.”

  “A modern, civilized divorce,” he muttered, harking back to the confidences she’d made in a wine-induced haze. “And yet another statement I wouldn’t touch with—”

  “All right!” Karen snapped, pushing her chair away from the table. “Shouldn’t we get on with what must be done?” As she was already crossing the kitchen floor to the sink, he had little choice.

  The full October harvest moon blessed the landscape with shimmering silvery light and danced in a glittering path on the cresting sea.

  Huddled inside her robe, cold even in the warmth of her bedroom, Karen stood at the window, staring into the brightness of the night and the darkness of her thoughts.

  A few feet behind her, her small bedside clock rhythmically ticked away the minutes of the night. The alarm on the clock was set for six. All was in readiness. Due entirely to Paul’s penchant for detail, the house was secure, made safe in the event Karen’s stay in Boston should turn out to be an extended one. Except for the windows she stared out of and the two in Paul’s room across the hall, all the windows in the house were covered by sturdy, locked shutters. The solid wood storm doors were in place at the front and back of the house. Her nearest neighbor had been contacted and informed that Karen would be away; the taciturn neighbor had said he’d check on the property every day. A large suitcase and a garment bag had been packed and were now in the corner by the door. She had talked to her sons’ guidance counselor; he had assured her he would break the news about their father gently to the boys and have them ready to leave when she arrived at the school. Her car had been checked out and the gas tank filled at the service station in the small town. Karen planned to leave the house by 6:30.

  Every contingency that could have been thought of had been thought of by Paul. The single thing left for Karen to do was to get some much-needed sleep, but for her, sleep was elusive. At 10:20 on a sparkling autumn night, Karen was wakeful with thoughts of her lover.

  What was he doing now, this very moment, as she stared into a sea reflecting the restlessness she was feeling. Was he asleep? Karen’s chest heaved in a deep sigh. Confused, torn by emotional conflict, she had deliberately distanced herself from him. Throughout that long, busy day, while tension had crackled between them, the atmosphere had been cool.

  But the distancing was of her own choosing; the coolness was what she preferred, wasn’t it? Despair sank like a weight in her stomach. Denying the sensation, Karen squared her shoulders and raised her chin. Yes, of course she preferred the cool distance. She’d had her moment of self-indulgence; it was ndw time to pay the price.

  The cost was high, in terms of self-esteem, in terms of mental anguish, in terms of self-respect. Karen bit her lip as her mind cried a protest.

  She was not a loose woman easily used!

  A soft, choking sob challenged the silence of the night. She wanted the distance between them, yes. But couldn’t he have fought against her decision, just a little? Had Paul had to accept it without the least resistance?

  The previous night’s storm had moved out to sea, leaving behind tranquillity. Outside, the night was calm. Inside Paul, a storm raged fiercely, creating havoc and disruption.

  He wanted to be fair. He was trying to be understanding. But he was fighting a losing battle within himself, because most of all he simply wanted. Denying that want, Paul paced the large, comfortable room, fingers raking through his silver-kissed dark hair at regular intervals.

  He hurt-in all the ways there were to hurt—in body, mind and emotions. And although he readily admitted that he had absolutely no right to interfere with Karen’s decisions, admitting that didn’t make the hurt easier to bear.

  Paul’s narrowed gaze sliced to the closed bedroom door; his mind’s eye sliced through it and the door directly across the wide hallway. Was Karen sleeping? His inner vision created images of her that drew a muffled curse from him.

  Of all the inopportune times for that bastard to— Paul cut the thought short, surprised by its vehemence. Even in his burning hell of wanting, Paul could not accuse Charles Mitchell of deliberately suffering a heart attack simply to interfere with his ex-wife’s love affair.

  Halting at the window, Paul stared bleakly into the night. Besides, he reasoned, exhaling a sigh, even without the call about her former husband, Karen probably would have discovered another reason to withdraw from him, even if she’d had to manufacture one. The call might have precipitated the withdrawal, but he felt positive that it would have come anyway before too long. Paul was even positive he knew why she would have withdrawn.

  To a man of Paul’s intelligence and experience, reading Karen’s character was not at all difficult. Although certainly not without its complexities, Karen’s personality was as clear as the cloudless fall sky spread out before him. She was genuinely a good, moral person. She very obviously believed in right and wrong and lived her life accordingly. She worked hard and stood firm on matters of principle, and since that damned call, her principles were giving her hell about sleeping with a man she barely knew. Paul accepted her decision—at least he was trying to.

  Heaven knew it wasn’t easy. But the fact that he’d found Karen after years of believing he’d lost the ability to cherish a woman like her made acceptance more difficult. What they had shared, the sheer beauty of that sharing, had left a mark, a greedy hunger in every cell in Paul’s body. And he believed Karen was special—how else could he explain her seemingly effortless power to arouse him, to awaken the sensuality in him? Oh, yes, Karen was definitely special to him. She was the kind of woman a man wanted by his side—in good times, in bad times, in his home, in his bed.

  Merely thinking the word “bed” tightened every muscle in Paul’s body. Karen. He needed her. But therein lay the cause of his dilemma. Because he had needed her too soon and had given in to that need too soon, he had shaken her, forced her to question herself as a person. He was now paying for his hasty actions and, he felt sure, would continue to pay.

  The piper has presented his bill.

  Paul grimaced as the thought crept into his mind. Instinctively he knew he would be facing a long, cold winter. He also knew that he would survive; he had already survived more than six years of endless winter. This autumn had been a reprieve, a tantalizing breath of spring, a zephyr of renewal on the barren plain of his frozen soul.

  Eyes shut, Paul endured a violent shiver. He didn’t want to go back to being dead in spirit. He had been captivated by the heady waltz of life. Opening his eyes, he turned to look at the closed bedroom door.

  The piper has presented his bill.

  As he took his first stride toward the door, a grim smile tilted the corners of Paul’s lips. He would pay the bill without complaint. But nothing—not heaven, not hell and not Karen Mitchell—would stop him that night. Paul’s jaw firmed as he pulled the door open.

  He would pay the bill—but he would have one last dance.

  Chapter Six

  i aul didn’t knock. Grasping the doorknob, he turned it and pushed the door open. He didn’t wait for an invitation to enter the room, either. His expression determined, he walked into the room.

  “Paul?” Karen’s startled whisper was nearly drowned by the sound of the door banging against the wall. Her body stiffened visibly; her eyes widened with apprehension and, Paul thought, hopefully, a tiny spark of suppressed excitement. “What—what do you want?”

  Talk about obvious questions! Paul might have laughed, and he was
tempted to smile, but he couldn’t manage either expression. Hell, he realized with a jolt of shock, he could barely breathe!

  The slant to his raised eyebrow was rakish; the slant on his lips was pure enticement. Paul had no way of knowing the toe-curling effect his appearance had on his quarry. Moving slowly, he crossed the room to where she stood, framed by the window at her back.

  He was barefoot, and the pads of his feet made soundless contact with the soft carpet. Stalking! The word flashed into his mind and shivered the length of his spine. He suddenly felt slightly light-headed, and his pace nearly faltered. Stalking. It was a heady thought, conjuring up images of strong, silent predators closing in on the desired prey.

  Paul savored the feeling, liking it, relishing the vision of himself as the hunter—he, Vanzant, the man who was more king of the carpeted boardroom than of the broad savannas. He tingled with all kinds of anticipatory thrills.

  “Paul?”

  Her voice was hoarse, reedy with emotion. Paul absorbed the sound of it into his expanding fantasy. She was his, if not forever, at least for this last night. All he had to do was stalk... and take. The realization dissolved the last lingering thread of hesitation and doubt. He had spent his life giving. He had surrendered his manhood giving. For this one night, he was finished with giving. He would take anything, everything he wanted. His stride firm, Paul advanced on the woman he could taste with every one of his clamoring senses.

  She knew what to expect. With heightened tension, Paul could see understanding flare deep in her eyes. Flecks of gold excitement sparked within the brown depths. She was fighting a battle with self-denial. Paul could actually see the inner war being waged. The visible proof of her struggle against herself increased his own tension to an unbearable heat. And he could see the instant need for surrender weakened her resistance.

  As he came to a stop inches from her, Paul threw back his head and laughed; the sound was not unlike the victory roar of the deadly jungle beast.

  Karen was his!

  His laughter thrilled and frightened her at one and the same time. There was something different about Paul this night; he was not the same man who had drawn her with such care and tenderness onto the floor of the dining alcove that morning. The man she now faced revealed not a trace of tenderness. Sheer male animal gleamed from his narrowed dark eyes, a feral male animal on the scent of his mate. His appearance terrified her with excitement.

  Wanting him, and afraid of the intensity of her own sudden wild, inexplicable needs, Karen stopped breathing and slid one foot back, edging away from him. The smile that curved his lips halted her shifting foot. Karen froze for an instant that was an eternity. Then, gasping, she spun away.

  Her movement came too late. Paul’s arm whipped out, and his fingers wrapped around her wrist. With the most negligent of tugs, he whirled her around. Her chest collided with his, igniting fires in places in her body that were already warm and willing. Before she could draw a full breath, he was swinging her up into his arms. With three long strides, Paul was by the side of the bed. He grunted, and the sound was one of deep pleasure. Then he lifted her up, high, and tossed her onto the bed.

  “Paul!” The cry exploded from Karen, a one-word protest that lacked conviction. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Paul paused in the sublimely casual act of removing his robe to glide a calculating glance at the enticing length of her body. She was clad in a sheer nightgown. One dark eyebrow peaked tauntingly.

  “I’m going to give you a memory to take with you to Boston.”

  Tension coiled over her shoulders to converge in a knot at the back of her neck. Applying conscious effort, Karen eased the white-knuckled grip she had on the steering wheel. The road undulated in front of her like an unwinding ribbon, moving her toward a reunion with her sons and uncertainty about their father. Behind her, the road of ribbon whipped back, and contained a long expensive car.

  Karen flicked a glance into the rearview mirror and felt the knot in her neck contract. The midnight-blue vehicle gleaming in the pure sunlight of a perfect In-dian-summer day trailed her small compact at a safe distance of three hundred feet. But before too long, the road behind her would be empty, regardless of how many vehicles replaced it on the highway. The first leg of her journey lay a little more than an hour away; Paul would be going in another direction after they parted company near the town where the small, exclusive prep school was located.

  The edges of the road blurred as a film of tears misted her eyes. Lifting one hand from the wheel, she brushed her fingertips impatiently over her eyelids. The midnight-blue car shot past her as her vision cleared. Startled, Karen sniffed and frowned as the right rear turn signal on the blue car began to pulse. Without conscious thought, she followed the larger vehicle off the road and into the parking lot of a small, rustic-looking restaurant.

  Paul stepped out of his car as she parked alongside his vehicle. “Time for a break,” he said, opening her door for her.

  Gathering the remnants of her emotional control, Karen nodded and suppressed a sigh. It was not time for a break; it was time for them to go their separate ways. They were within an hour of the school and her boys. And, she realized, taking note of their location, they were minutes from the interstate exchange. Paul would change direction at the interstate. She would go on to—Karen blinked rapidly, fighting a fresh surge of tears.

  She had spent the morning deliberately not thinking of the night before, and she couldn’t afford to think about it now. Raising her chin, Karen stared off into the distance and felt a sharp pang in the center of her chest. Farther north, in Maine, the terrain lay barren and ready for winter. But here, a little farther south in New Hampshire, autumn clung to the landscape with a fading glory. Even muted, the colors were beautiful and an affront to her senses. Karen wasn’t aware that she had come to a stop to stare resentfully at nature’s display until Paul voiced a quiet observation.

  “The blaze must have been fantastic a short time ago.”

  His low-pitched voice jolted through her, leaving a hollow sensation in the pit of her being. He was referring to the colors of the panoramic landscape, but Karen applied his comment to the scene they had acted out the night before. And the blaze had indeed been fantastic. Glancing up at him, she suddenly felt as empty and barren as the Maine coast.

  “I’m hungry.” Her voice was rough, but Karen didn’t care. She hurt. Dragging her gaze from his somber face and avoiding the insult of the surrounding color, she rammed her hands into the side pockets of her soft wool slacks and strode toward the entrance of the restaurant. She told herself that she didn’t care whether or not Paul followed her. She almost believed it, but then she was becoming adept at lying to herself.

  “Karen?”

  Paul was at her heels—like a well-trained pet, Karen thought, fighting the insidious spread of pain. But she knew this man was no pet, no sleek, well-schooled tabby. Not Paul. No, hidden behind this man’s facade of elegance and sophistication a tiger crouched, ready to spring and devour when aroused. Karen’s soul bore the scars of his teeth and claws.

  Her silent analogy induced a shiver deep inside her that threatened to release scrupulously buried memories. Terrified she’d drown should the flow escape, Karen yanked open the door and entered the restaurant. The smile she offered the hostess was much too bright and hurt like fury.

  “Two?” The hostess was middle-aged and had a pleasant face; her smile was practiced yet attractive.

  “Yes, please.”

  “At a window,” Paul inserted in an authoritative tone. “We want to enjoy what’s left of the foliage.”

  The smile he offered the hostess transformed the older woman’s from plastic to the genuine article.

  Watching the woman bloom beneath the warmth of Paul’s exceptional good looks and charm, Karen experienced a thrill of vindication; she wasn't the only woman to feel an immediate attraction to him. Small consolation perhaps, but when one was desperate, one clung to even tiny sh
reds of pride.

  The table was placed directly before a wide, undraped window that afforded a spectacular view of the gently rolling countryside. Red, orange, rust and splashes of green dazzled the eyes of any and all beholders. Karen lowered her gaze to the linen-covered tabletop.

  “We must talk.”

  Karen’s fingers clenched on the small luncheon menu the hostess had placed in front of her. Paul had said exactly the same words to her that morning as they’d stood drinking a cup of coffee at the kitchen counter. He had repeated the words as they’d stood at the rear of her car after loading her luggage into the small trunk. Now, as she had earlier, Karen shook her head.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Absently moving her left hand, she stroked one finger the length of the tines of her fork. “You’re going home. I’m going to Boston. End of story.”

  “No, dammit! That’s not the—Karen!” His tone, which had been sharp with annoyance, softened with concern at her involuntary gasp. Karen had pierced the tip of her finger with the tine.

  Karen dismissed his concern with a shrug as she stared dispassionately at a tiny drop of blood. “It’s nothing.” Her right hand was groping for a napkin when Paul grasped her left hand and drew the injured finger to his lips. The touch of his lips against her skin was excruciating; the flick of his tongue against the tiny puncture was devastating and threatened to undo Karen’s precious store of composure.

  “Paul, please don’t,” she protested in a strangled tone, tugging her hand back. His hold on her tightened.

  “God, Karen, don’t look at me like that.” His breath misted her flesh, and the agonized sound of his voice misted her thoughts.

  “Like—like what?” Karen could barely speak for the thickness in her throat.

  “Like...” Paul lowered his eyes as he turned her hand, exposing her palm to his lips. “Like you’ve been dealt a killing blow.” He reverently touched his mouth to her palm.

  Karen felt his kiss like a stiletto thrust to her heart. She tugged reflexively against his grip. Paul began to raise his eyes at her action. His eyes flickered and widened as his gaze noted a crescent-shaped bruise on the inside of her wrist. His curse was all the more shocking for the very softness of it.