"I should be going now," he announced abruptly, withdrawing his hands from his pockets as he stood up straight. "I only wanted to stop by here before I left to thank you for your hospitality this weekend."
So polite, Laine thought bleakly, as polite as one would be to a stranger. But she didn't feel like a stranger to him—Saturday evening wasn't an evening she would easily forget. To him, though, what had happened between them apparently meant little or nothing. Despite her extreme disappointment in the impersonal courtesy he was displaying, she concealed her reaction and gave him a polite smile.
Nick stepped away from her. "As I told your father this morning, the decision about the grant may take several weeks," he said quietly. "Thanks again for your hospitality. Good-bye, Laine."
Suddenly, Laine couldn't allow him to leave her in such a cool, unfeeling way. Although she had only known Nick Brannon for a weekend, that weekend somehow seemed a lifetime. He had touched something deep inside her, aroused emotions and sensations she had never before experienced; in that moment, she admitted to herself that her feelings for him were deep and intense and overpowering. Reaching out, she laid her hand on his forearm, sensual excitement coursing hotly through her veins as muscles went taut beneath her fingers. She met his questioning gaze directly while allowing herself the luxury of looking deeply into his discerning emerald eyes. When a strange light flared within them and Nick caught her small hand in both of his, she automatically moved a step toward him.
"I guess it doesn't really matter to you," she murmured softly, sparkles dancing over her skin as the ball of one thumb moved slowly over the back of her hand. "But it matters to me what you think of me. And so… well, what I mean is, Saturday night didn't happen because I was trying to please Father. It was only you I was thinking about. My father never crossed my mind."
"Perhaps not consciously, but I wonder just how badly you subconsciously want to please him," Nick responded solemnly. "That's something I think you must seriously ask yourself." He released her hand, only to cup her chin, tilting her face upward as he lowered his head. His lips caressed hers more with tenderness than passion. Then he released her and turned to walk away. "Good-bye, Laine. I'll be in touch soon."
Laine watched him go, an unhappiness more painful than it should have been becoming a constricting ache in her chest. She leaned back against the tree trunk and took a deep tremulous breath. Nick would not be in touch soon, she knew it. Not for a moment did she believe she would ever hear from him again. That kiss had felt too much like a final good-bye.
Wednesday afternoon, nine days later, Laine hurried home from the nursery school, trying to beat the coming rain. Thunder rumbled overhead, becoming increasingly louder and more ominous as the sky thickened with inky dark clouds. The weather rather matched Laine's mood. For the past few days she had felt irritated with herself for not being able to simply forget all about Nick Brannon. Although she was managing to think of him less often, sometimes his unbidden image would appear in her mind's eye, preoccupying her once again with thoughts of him. It really was silly. How could she have become so enamored with a man she had only known two days? Laine didn't understand it; she was the practical, sensible Winthrop daughter. It was Regina who became infatuated with men at the drop of a hat. But Regina also lost interest in them as quickly. Laine wasn't having as much luck losing interest in Nick. And she was chiding herself mentally about that as she walked home.
"Oh, blast," she muttered as fat raindrops began to plop down just as she reached the lane to her house. She shot homeward in a sprint, her straw shoulder purse bouncing against her left hipbone with every stride. With luck, she outraced the deluge and stood for several minutes on the porch watching gray sheets of rain pound the trees, grass, and street. Then, inhaling the pungent scent of rich earth the rain had stirred up, she went into the house to change clothes and begin preparing dinner.
Laine was in the kitchen when Thornton arrived home an hour later. She could hear him muttering to himself while he thrust his umbrella forcefully into the stand in the foyer. Wondering what had aggravated him now, she walked down the hall toward him, delicately arched brows lifted questioningly.
"Hello, Father. Something wrong?"
"Damned umbrella," he muttered crossly. "The catch is broken. Blasted thing keeps collapsing around my head."
"I'll buy you a new one when I'm in Brunswick Saturday," Laine said, fighting a smile. "If it rains again before then and the umbrella collapses, just try to pretend it's one of those pointed straw Oriental hats."
Thornton wasn't particularly amused by her suggestion. Silence was his response as he left her to go into the living room to get himself a drink. Laine followed, watching as he graciously poured her a small glass of white wine.
When Thornton brought the wine to her, he complained, "Brannon's certainly taking his sweet time making a decision about the grant. Heard nothing today."
"But he did tell you it would be several weeks, didn't he, Father?"
Thornton conceded that point with a nod, then eyed Laine speculatively. "However, I thought perhaps you would hear from him personally. Not about the grant, but if you did hear from him, you might be able to tell whether or not he's leaning toward awarding it. He hasn't been in touch with you, has he?"
Staring down at the wine she was swishing round and round in the glass, she shook her head. "I don't really expect to hear from him ever again."
"You wasted an opportunity, Laine," her father said flatly. "Brannon seemed very interested in you in the beginning, and judging by what I saw, the feeling was mutual. So what happened to change that?"
"I have no idea, Father. Now, excuse me while I check the roast I have in the oven," Laine replied, quickly leaving the room, refusing to allow him to make her feel incapable of holding a man's interest.
After a dinner enlivened little by conversation, Laine tidied the kitchen, then retired to her room. Outside, the rain still fell, though more gently now. The storm clouds had dissipated, but Laine felt almost as restless as the sky had earlier been. She stood at her window gazing out at the raindrops glistening on the glossy leaves of a magnolia tree and wishing that she hadn't met Nick at the beginning of the summer term. During the rest of the year, she was far busier and would have had less time to think about him. Tapping the tip of one forefinger against her lips, she heaved a sigh. Perhaps her father was right; perhaps she hadn't tried hard enough to be sufficiently scintillating with Nick.
"Oh, what rot," she muttered, as she swung away from the window. If she hadn't been scintillating enough for Nick, then so be it. And if her father was disappointed in her lack of appeal to the opposite sex, that was just too bad. Settling herself in the stuffed chair beside her bed, she picked up the family saga she'd been reading and proceeded to put both men right out of her mind. Very soon she became so engrossed with the fiction that she was only marginally aware of the doorbell ringing downstairs and the sound of her father's voice when he answered it.
It must have been fifteen or twenty minutes later when Thornton knocked on Laine's bedroom door, then came in. Reluctantly, she tore herself away from her book to look up.
"You'll want to come downstairs, Laine," her father announced. "We have a guest."
"Oh, yes, I guess I did hear the doorbell. Who's here?"
Thornton gave her a smug smile. "It's Nick."
A rush of excitement made her pulse race but she simply stared at her father. "Nick?" she at last repeated. "Nick Brannon?"
"Of course, Nick Brannon." Thornton surveyed her critically. "He wants to see you."
As Laine moved to the vanity to pick up her hairbrush, she tried valiantly to stem a rising excitement but without much success. She willed her hands to stop a slight trembling while she brushed her hair until it was shimmering like a golden soft cloud framing her face. There was too rosy a glow in her cheeks and too bright a sparkle in her eyes, she decided, surveying her reflection. She looked too excited, which was the opposite of how she w
anted to appear—serene, calm, sophisticated enough not to be disconcerted by Nick's unexpected visit.
Rising from the vanity seat, Laine turned to Thornton and compulsively asked, "Has he decided about the grant? Is that why he's here?"
"No, no, it's not the grant," her father replied, his expression intent as he stepped toward her. "Laine, Nick's going to ask you to spend a week or so at his house on St. Simons. You'd be wise to accept his invitation. I hope you realize that."
"A week or so at his house?" she repeated disbelievingly. "With… with him?"
"Yes, a vacation," Thornton answered shortly. "And as I said, you'd be wise to accept."
Laine couldn't think of anything less wise. Even to contemplate spending a week alone with Nick was foolhardy. And she was amazed that her father couldn't recognize that. She shook her head, her expression perplexed. "You can't be serious? You couldn't really want me to accept his invitation?"
"That's precisely what I want."
"But, Father! I…"
"Laine, can't you cooperate and try to be grateful that Brannon's inviting you and cordial enough to accept his invitation?"
Laine's shoulders stiffened. "Father, I've never spent a vacation with a man. I think you'd have been horrified if I'd ever even considered it. But now you're pressing me to spend a week with Nick. Surely you can understand how dangerous that would be?"
Thornton tossed one hand in a dismissive gesture. "Dangerous? I don't see a thing dangerous about it. You've always been able to handle other young men. Why shouldn't you be able to handle Brannon?"
"Because he's not like other men I've known! He's… well, different."
"Don't talk nonsense. I don't see anything different about him."
Laine raised her eyes heavenward, realizing that perhaps only women could recognize Nick's dangerously magnetic personality. With a small hesitant movement of her hands, she attempted to explain the situation delicately. "Father, take my word for it, Nick is different. He's… aggressive. And I don't mean fresh or pushy. Maybe assertive's a better word for it. Or persuasive. Whatever. He's just not a man I'd risk spending a week with. He's too… attractive."
"That's the first time I've ever heard a woman complain about a man being too attractive." Thornton laughed.
"You're avoiding the truth," she countered, sharply. "Your concern about this grant is clouding your thinking, and I'm going to disappoint you. I'm not spending a week with Nick."
"Don't be difficult," her father said, his voice taking on a harder edge. "I think you should reconsider this."
"No, Father," she reiterated firmly, opening her door to step into the hallway. She glanced back. "I won't accept Nick's invitation, no matter what you say, and I'm going down right now to tell him that."
When Laine entered the living room, Nick was standing, removing the long-sleeved tan jacket that had shielded him from the rain. Though she managed to smile confidently at him, her gaze was riveted on the muscles of his shoulders rippling beneath the cotton fabric of his cream polo shirt. A shivery thrill shot through her as, for the first time, she recognized the emotional implications of his invitation. If he indeed did ask her to spend a week with him, he wouldn't be expecting to share with her seven platonic days and nights. And the sheer knowledge that he desired her was exhilarating, especially since she had fully recognized during the past nine days the extent of her own attraction to him.
What would seven or more days and nights alone with him be like, she was wondering rather breathlessly as she joined him by the sofa, then sat down. Striving desperately to appear casual and composed, she spoke first. "I read in today's paper that your client in Savannah was acquitted. Congratulations."
With a brief nod of acknowledgment, Nick sat down beside her, not too close yet still close enough to be disconcerting. He wasted no time indulging in idle chitchat. "Because I knew your father thought I was here with a decision about the grant, I told him I'd come to invite you to spend a week or so at my house on St. Simons. Did he mention that?"
Laine nodded, then temptation made her hesitate an instant before she said, "It's very kind of you to think of asking me but I… I'm sorry. I can't accept. The school…"
"Even assistant directors are allowed vacations, aren't they?" Nick interrupted smoothly, the slight tensing of his jaw indicating he didn't mean to take no as an answer. "Your father mentioned it's been quite a while since you had one."
"Well, yes, that's true. But still…" She began in a firm tone. "I don't think I should give Marge only three days notice before taking off an entire week."
"Your father didn't seem to think that would be a problem," Nick informed her flatly, as if he were quite unimpressed with her excuse. "Actually, when I suggested you take two weeks, he said he was certain Marge would agree to that."
"Did he?" Laine's tone cooled perceptibly. Pretending to examine her fingernails with great care, she mentally cursed her father's interference. Because of what he had told Nick, the only reasonable excuse she'd had for declining this invitation had been snatched right out from under her. Now she didn't really know what to say. She was an abysmal liar, so she impulsively met those dark green eyes surveying her so speculatively and told the truth. "Father's probably right. Marge really wouldn't mind if I took even two weeks off. But I quite frankly think it would be unwise for me to accept your invitation."
A slight knowing smile tugged at the corners of Nick's mouth. "Unwise? What an odd choice of words. You sound more like you're afraid to accept my invitation. Are you afraid, Laine?"
"Of course not," she lied, then responded to his too deep perceptiveness defensively. "I'm sure you know many young women who'd do almost anything to spend two weeks on St. Simons with you. Why are you asking me? If I accept, won't you suspect I'm only doing so to please my father?"
"You assured me the need to please your father had nothing to do with our relationship," Nick countered, still smiling slightly. "Shouldn't I believe those assurances?"
"You didn't seem to believe them last week."
Broad shoulders lifted in a shrug. "That was last week. This is now."
"So you believe me?"
"Shouldn't I?"
"Heavens, why must you answer so many questions with questions?"
"Why must you?"
Laine laughed and tossed her hands up in surrender. "All right, I'm defeated. I can't expect to win a debate with an attorney, so don't answer my question, then."
"Oh, but I think I did answer just by coming here," Nick said softly, moving closer to catch her chin gently between thumb and forefinger. "But you haven't answered me."
Earnest regret set her delicate features. "I can't go to St. Simons, Nick."
His free hand gripped her waist, the tips of long fingers stroking into the incurving small of her back. He lowered his head until his lips were tantalizingly close to hers. His warm breath caressed her skin as he whispered coaxingly, "But you'd like to say yes, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," she confessed candidly, hoping he couldn't tell her heart was beating so rapidly that the pulses in her temples were pounding. "Yes, I think I would like to accept, but it would be a mistake to go and I know it. There are so many women in your life that…"
"You've been reading exaggerated reports in Atlanta's society columns," he chided, deliberately brushing her lips with his. "Every young woman I take to dinner is not a conquest, Laine. Actually, my work keeps me too busy for torrid entanglements. That fact alone should convince you I'm hardly a womanizer. Now you can accept my invitation."
Somehow, she was powerless to draw away from him, though an innate sense of caution was setting off danger signals in her head. She couldn't drag her gaze from the glittering intensity of his. She felt in that moment more vulnerable than she'd ever felt in her life, and crazily enough, the feeling wasn't all that unpleasant. It took considerable will power to let common sense prevail. She shook her head. "I can't say yes. I guess I'm more old-fashioned than you imagine. A casual two-week fling
with a man is just not for me."
Nick released her chin to run his fingers through feathery soft hair. "There are no strings attached to this invitation, Laine. You won't be required to sign an affadavit agreeing we'll share ? bed."
Blushes are always ill-timed, and hers was no exception. She could only hope that the heat she felt rising in her cheeks was only tinting them the palest pink. "I didn't expect to have to sign an affadavit," she said at last, admirably managing to keep her voice steady. "But I thought you must assume we…"
"Lawyers never assume anything," he corrected, tangling his fingers in her silken hair and pulling her head back slightly to trail a strand of burning kisses along the side of her neck. His hard mouth probed the hollow at the base of her throat as he murmured, "I'm asking you to St. Simons because you told me you like the island and because I think we should get to know each other better."
Laine's resolve was weakening. Though his caresses were belying the seemingly innocent words, her common sense was becoming quickly overpowered by emotions far stronger than reason. By now she was wanting him to really kiss her more than she had ever wanted anything. Perhaps he sensed that, because a mere fraction of a second later he lifted his head to cover her mouth with his, tenderly at first, then with an ever-increasing pressure that enticed her soft lips to part eagerly beneath the firmness of his. He was an aggressor capable of expertly eliciting her cooperation. When he drew her to him, she slipped slender arms around him, unresisting even as he lowered her back into the corner of the sofa. Beneath the evocative weight of his upper body, her softly cushioned breast yielded to hard muscularly contoured chest, and when the palms of his hands cupped the straining sides, brushing slowly back and forth, she instinctively arched against him.
Passion's Price Page 7
