by Janet Dailey
Watching him, Bridget saw him laugh, the slashed lines deepening around his mouth, his eyes crinkling at the corners. She remembered the potency of his smile that could disarm the wariest of hearts, including her own. Ten years hadn't changed that, either.
"Ah, food!" Jim was standing beside her, sniffing hungrily at the platter of meat. Possessively he curved an arm around her waist. "You and I are going to be first in line to eat."
Bridget was about to make some idle response when Jonas swung a harsh, narrowed look at her. She discovered another thing about him that hadn't changed. His alert gaze never missed anything.
He still possessed that uncanny knack of always knowing where she was and who she was with even when he seemed not to be aware of her. It was disconcerting to learn that this invisible link hadn't weakened.
More than that, she knew Jonas still wanted her, but she wouldn't fall into that trap a second time. Deliberately she beamed an adoring and happy smile at Jim, knowing Jonas would see it and draw his own conclusions. She was sorry if Jim mistook her meaning, but more than ever before she needed him to stay close to her tonight, a shield to ward off Jonas.
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Chapter Three
JONAS DIDN'T MAKE any attempt to test the durability of her shield, not even approaching Bridget while she was in Jim's company. The setting of the sun brought out the mosquitoes and the party was forced to continue inside.
The close quarters of the living room-dining room combination made it impossible for Bridget to avoid Jonas indefinitely. When she saw him wandering toward the sofa where she and Jim were seated, she braced herself for the inevitable conversation. Unfortunately, Bob chose that moment to refill his beer glass, leaving a chair vacant beside the sofa.
"Mind if I sit down?" By the time the entire question was spoken, Jonas was already sitting in the empty chair.
"I don't," Bridget lied, striving for the light note, "but Bob might when he comes back. He was sitting there."
"I'll fight with him over it." Jonas smiled lazily, the glittering light in his eyes mocking her denial before sliding to Jim. His arm was draped over the back of the sofa near Bridget's shoulders.
"Have you met Jim Spencer?" An introduction seemed necessary. "He teaches at the college."
"And survives the summers doing road construction," Jim inserted before Bridget could say any more. He offered a hand to Jonas. "We met informally outside."
"Yes, I remember," Jonas nodded in apparent friendliness.
But Bridget saw the assessing gleam that measured his opponent, a suggestion of animal cunning in the look. Muscles flexed in his tanned forearm as Jonas briefly gripped Jim's hand. Then he leaned back, relaxing in the chair. Yet Bridget guessed that he was no more relaxed than she was, her nerves jumping, alert to every move he made or didn't make.
A stereo was playing in the far corner of the room. The couples had scattered into clusters in various parts of the room, milling around changing groups, laughing and talking, enjoying themselves as Bridget wished she could.
"Bob's parties haven't changed since we went to them together, have they, Bridget?" Jonas seemed to casually toss out the observation.
Bridget tensed. She hadn't mentioned anything to Jim about Jonas. Prior to the party, it hadn't seemed necessary, since she hadn't wanted to call attention to the fact that she had an old boyfriend present.
"You two used to know one another?" The possibility hadn't seemed to occur to Jim until that moment.
Her gaze ricocheted from his curious look and was encountered and caught by the cynically amused light in Jonas's eyes. The hard line of his mouth twitched slightly.
"Bridget and I knew each other very well," Jonas answered.
Her cheeks flamed at his dryly suggestive tone, the heat spreading through every inch of her body. Jim's arm slid down to her shoulders, firmly staking the claim he hadn't thought necessary a moment ago.
"That was a long time ago, Jonas," she breathed in resentment, flashing him an angry look.
"So you said before," he returned with a glint of skepticism that said time had no bearing on the matter.
Considering the havoc, he was raising with her senses, Bridget was afraid he was right and she didn't want him to be. His gaze flicked to the empty glass in her hand.
"Would you like me to refill that for you?" Jonas offered.
"Yes, please," Bridget answered. Her eagerness was to have him gone.
"I'll get it for you." Jim reached for the glass she had started to hand to Jonas. His air was definitely proprietorial, stating that he took care of Bridget's needs, not Jonas.
Shrugging an acceptance of Jim's claim, Jonas didn't argue, and Bridget couldn't protest. Only when Jim was walking away did she notice the satisfied curve to his mouth that said Jonas had known what Jim's reaction would be. He had been left alone with her the way he had planned. Her shield had been disposed of and Bridget was vulnerable.
"Afraid?" Jonas challenged in a treacherously low voice.
"Of what?" Her hazel eyes were deliberately blank and innocent.
"Of being alone with me," he explained, even though the glint in his eyes said he knew it was unnecessary.
"Don't be silly, Jonas," she said, angered that he could sense her reaction.
His jaw tightened, a mask stealing over his face to make his expression unreadable. He lowered his gaze to the amber liquid in the glass in his hand.
"Why didn't you tell me your husband was dead, Bridget?" he demanded.
Unconsciously, she turned the plain gold band on her finger, a nervous, protective reaction to his sudden change of the subject.
"I assumed you knew," she answered truthfully. "It's common knowledge to everyone here that Brian is dead."
"I didn't know until Bob mentioned it." There was an impatient snap to his answer, followed by an equally sharp glance. "You don't seem too grief stricken."
"Brian has been dead a long time. You can't expect me to wear black the rest of my life," Bridget defended herself, bridling at his implied censure.
Again he let his gaze concentrate on the beer in his glass. "Did you love him?"
"That doesn't deserve an answer," she hissed in pain and anger nearly choking from the tightness in her throat, "not if you think I would let a man father my child without loving him."
Jonas glanced at her but seemed otherwise unaffected by her indignant outburst. If anything, he appeared dubious of its roots.
"I suppose you loved him as much as you claimed to love me?" Although it was spoken smoothly, there was a sarcastic bite to the question.
"No," Bridget retorted in kind. "I didn't demean myself twice."
"Where did you meet this Brian—" Jonas waited for her to fill in the blank.
"O'Shea, Brian O'Shea," she obliged and hesitated. There was no reason not to answer his question. Anyone in the room could tell him the story. "After you—left, mother thought I should get away for a while, so I went to stay with her sister in Pittsburgh. Brian was her husband's nephew."
"Ah, yes, mother," he jeered contemptuously. "I suppose she approved of Brian."
"Yes. He was a good man, gentle and understanding, two things I needed very desperately at the time." Without realizing it, Bridget had got to her feet, unable to continue the conversation.
Fluidly Jonas rose to stop her, his fingers, lightly circling her waist, his touch paralyzing her. "I know you were hurt when I left," he admitted roughly, "but it didn't leave any lasting scars."
Didn't it? Look at my heart, she wanted to cry. But Bridget kept silent, preferring to let him believe that she had got over him whether it was true or not.
"So what happened? How did—Brian die?" he growled the name savagely, almost in jealous hatred.
"In a car crash. Instantly." The words were clipped and to the point.
"And you went running home to mama," Jonas concluded in a faint sneer.
"Within a few months, yes." Her chin lifted to a proud angle,
but she didn't let her gaze rise to meet his. "It isn't easy to cope when you're young and alone and have a small child. And I was homesick for Vermont. I didn't like the city."
"This Jim fellow? What is he to you?" His fingers tightened punishingly around her wrist, threatening to cut off the circulation to enforce his demand.
"Does it matter?" Bridget protested, darting him an angry look.
"Dammit, yes!" An irritated frown creased his forehead as if he regretted admitting it. At the wary light in her eyes, he gave a little groan and swore beneath his breath. "For God's sake, let's dance."
"No."
But he was already propelling her to an empty space in the living room and turning her into his arms. Bridget couldn't object without creating a scene. Besides, she was certain if she protested too strongly Jonas would suspect how susceptible she still was to him.
The firm hand at the back of her waist forced her to dance close to him, the muscular hardness of his thighs brushing against hers. Bridget stared at the open collar of his shirt, fighting the dizzying sensation of being in his arms again.
Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder as she tried not to feel the warmth of his flesh burning through the white of his shirt. His hand began to roam slowly and familiarly over her lower back and spine, her bones melting into marshmallow sticks. When Jonas bent his head, she had to close her eyes as his breath stirred the hair along her neck.
"We'll start fresh, Bridget," he stated.
"No." She shook her head, trying to sound as determined as he did.
"Why not? You want to—I can feel it." There was no mistaking the confidence in his tone.
"No, I don't, Jonas," she resisted tightly. "If—If I've given you that impression, then it's only because I'm susceptible to memories, too, remembering the way it used to be."
"It doesn't have to be just memories. I still want you, Bridget," he admitted in demand.
"No," she breathed, "you only want a weekend fling with an old flame."
His mouth moved against her hair, sending tremors quaking through her limbs. "I want more than that."
"You…you can't come waltzing back into my life after ten years and expect to take up where you left off," Bridget protested.
"I will," Jonas replied decisively, his head bending lower as he searched for the sensitive area along the curve of her neck.
His self-assurance bordered on arrogance. It was the prod Bridget needed to remember more than her love. It reminded her of why he had left ten years ago. Her hands strained against his chest wedging a space between them.
"No, Jonas." Her voice was cold and positive. It, more than her resistance, stopped him. "Ten years ago you said goodbye to me. Now it's my turn. I don't care if I ever see you again. So when you leave for New York, don't bother to come back to Vermont because of me."
His rough features hardened in ruthless lines, an icy look in his eyes. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Bridget, but I'm not going back to New York."
"What?" She stiffened, uncertain what he had meant to imply.
"The reason I was late getting ready for tonight's party is because I'd spent the afternoon in town." Malicious amusement glittered coldly in his eyes at the apprehensive expression on her face. "I had to meet with the real-estate people to sign all the papers for my new home."
"Where?" Bridget drew back and he released her, letting her stand freely in front of him.
"I bought the old Hanson farm. We're neighbors now. Isn't that a pleasant surprise?" he mocked.
She wanted to scream, to pound at the solid wall of his chest, to scratch that complacent expression from his face. But she couldn't. At all costs, she didn't want him to know how destroying his announcement was.
"I'm glad," she lied bravely. "Mr. Hanson had been trying to sell that place for years. Now he'll be able to move into town with his sister. It's a beautiful piece of property, Jonas, I'm sure you'll like it. Congratulations."
He was angered by her calm response. Bridget could see it in the muscle leaping along his jaw. Abruptly he turned away to stride into the kitchen. The victory, temporarily, was Bridget's. She didn't feel like the victor. The sensation was more like that of a survivor.
No one appeared to have noticed that Jonas had left her standing in the middle of a song. Bridget joined the nearest group, letting the cover of their voices and laughter hide her shaky composure. Soon Jim was at her side, handing her the glass of beer he had left to get.
After nearly an hour, what Bridget thought was a decent interval, she suggested to Jim that they leave, pleading a headache. He agreed without hesitation, although his gaze swung to Jonas at the far side of the room, guessing the cause of her headache. Not once did he ask any awkward questions that she would have been reluctant to answer.
TWICE IN THE TWO WEEKS after the party, Bridget saw Jonas in town, always at a distance. Neither time did he enter the craft store to see her. She wasn't certain that he had given up, though, but she had never pretended she could understand him. A few times she had believed she did, until that moment ten years ago, almost eleven years now, when he had told her he was leaving, ignoring her declarations of love.
Her mother had been incensed when she learned Jonas was moving back to Vermont, positively livid when she discovered he had bought the Hanson farm that abutted their rear property line. Bridget hadn't told her, but the local grapevine worked rapidly in her place.
"Mark my words, Bridget, he's up to no good," Margaret Harrison had warned her daughter, having raced over to the chalet the minute she had heard. "And don't you go getting yourself involved with him again. I only hope you learned your lesson ten years ago and have realized what kind of a man he is."
"Don't worry, mother," Bridget had replied patiently. "It isn't a lesson I'm likely to forget."
Despite Bridget's assurance, Margaret Harrison seemed to believe it was her duty to remind her daughter of her warning every time they met. She was constantly cross-examined as to whether she had seen or talked to Jonas nearly everyday of the past two weeks. Margaret was invariably skeptical of Bridget's answers, which did not improve Bridget's already strained disposition.
Bridget was dreading another such interrogation as her parents' large white house came into view around the road's curve. Her own small chalet was hidden briefly by the thick leaves of the trees. Slowing the car, she saw Molly in the garden with her grandfather and honked the horn, relieved that she wouldn't have to go to the house to get Molly.
Glancing up, Molly waved and began sprinting to meet her, tawny chestnut hair tied in pigtails flying behind her. Instead of turning into the driveway of the big house, Bridget turned the car into her own. A breathless Molly reached her as she stepped out of the car.
"You're late," Molly panted. "What happened? I suppose someone came in the shop five minutes before you were going to close."
"I stopped for groceries." Bridget took one of the bags from the backseat. "You can help me carry them in."
"Just what I always wanted to do," Molly grimaced, but obligingly gathered the bag in her arms.
"What did you do today?" Balancing a second sack, Bridget reached for a third.
"Drove grandma up a tree," Molly grinned impishly.
"Oh, Molly!" Bridget couldn't help smiling as she shook her head ruefully. "I suppose you spent the whole day asking her 'What's to do?'"
"Not exactly." Then Molly sighed. "Grandma has just been in a bad mood lately. What's wrong, mom? Why is she so upset?"
Pushing the car door shut with her hip, Bridget tried to avoid the true reason. "Everyone has bad days now and then."
"But she keeps talking about 'that' man lately, saying things like 'why did that man have to come back?' and bugging grandpa if there isn't some way they can make 'that' man go away." Molly frowned, glancing to her mother for an explanation as they climbed the few steps to the chalet's porch.
"Open the door for me, will you?" Bridget requested, stalling for more time while she tried to think of a reply
.
Molly shifted the bag of groceries to one arm and opened the sliding doors. "Today I heard her say to grandpa that she knew 'that' man was going to hurt you again. Who is he, mom? Do you know him?"
"I—" The sentence was never finished. 'That' man was standing in the living-room archway to the kitchen. Anticipating such a meeting for the past two weeks, Bridget recovered quickly from the shock of seeing him to demand stiffly, "What are you doing here, Jonas?"
"I decided it was time to visit my neighbors," he replied calmly. "The door was open, so I walked in." His gaze drifted lazily around him. "This is a nice place you have. I took the liberty of looking around—I hope you don't object."
"It's a little late to object now, isn't it?" she bristled faintly.
"Neighbor?" Molly studied him curiously, not recognizing Jonas as the stranger she had seen briefly several months ago. "Are you the one that bought Mr. Hanson's farm?"
"The same," Jonas inclined his head in mocking acknowledgement, but his gaze flickered coldly to the pigtailed girl standing beside Bridget.
"Put the groceries in the kitchen, Molly. There's one more bag in the car. Would you get it for me?" It was an order, not a suggestion, issued to protect her daughter from the hostility she sensed in Jonas.
"Sure, mom." Molly walked to the kitchen, smiling at Jonas as she went by him, but he didn't return it.
"You'll have to excuse me, Jonas, but I can't stop to have a neighborly chat with you now. I bought some perishables that have to be put away," Bridget explained with false pleasantness and followed her daughter.
"I don't mind waiting until you're through." He deliberately ignored her hint that she wanted him to leave. "Go ahead, I'm in no rush."
Aware of his alert gaze watching her unload the grocery bags through his mask of lazy indifference, Bridget waited until Molly was out of the house before, demanding. "Why did you come, Jonas?"
"I wanted to see you," he returned evenly.
"I thought I'd made it plain that I wasn't interested in seeing you." She tried to keep her voice level and aloof as she set the canned goods from the bags onto the counter.
