by Janet Dailey
"I—I'll do that," Bridget replied, momentarily nonplussed.
"I'd like to see Molly before I leave," he stated.
"She's fine," she assured him quickly, not wanting to invite him into the house.
A mocking light entered his eyes, his mouth quirked slightly. "Do you object if I see that for myself?"
He was a doctor, Bridget reminded herself, and she should treat him as such. She had to school herself to be indifferent to his presence. It wasn't as if she would be alone with him. Molly was in the house, albeit sleeping, but she was there.
"Of course not." Bridget started for the stable door. "She was sleeping when I left."
Jonas followed, switching off the light and making no comment to her last remark. Bridget hadn't expected that it would change his mind, although there had been the possibility it might have.
The sky was purpling into twilight as they walked to the house in silence. An evening star shimmered above the darkening green hills, the pale white of a crescent moon waiting also for night. But the air was still warm from the afternoon's sun. The Vermont dusk was peaceful and serene, but Bridget couldn't match its mood.
"Molly is in the living room lying on the sofa," Bridget said as she walked through the rear entrance of the house ahead of Jonas.
Her over-the-shoulder glance saw his nod of understanding. He said nothing, withdrawing behind what appeared to be a professional mask of aloofness. Bridget led the way through the kitchen into the living room where Molly lay still sleeping on the sofa. Jonas stood above her staring, but made no attempt to waken her.
"Has she complained of anything?" he asked.
"A slight headache. I gave her an aspirin about six hours ago," Bridget admitted.
"Any complaints other than that?" he persisted.
"Like what?" she frowned.
"Dizziness, sharp pains, difficulty focusing her eyes." Absently Jonas listed the possibilities, his attention absorbed in its study of Molly's sleeping face.
"Nothing like that." Bridget shook her head with certainty but felt faintly alarmed.
"Good," he nodded. "I didn't expect she would."
"Should I…waken her?"
"There's no need." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that implied weariness, and slid a disinterested sideways glance at Bridget. "You wouldn't happen to have any coffee made, would you?"
"I think there's still some from this afternoon, but it would probably be very strong by now," she answered, uncertain whether she should have admitted to having any hot.
"I don't mind. The stronger the better." His mouth curved fleetingly into a smile. "I'd like a cup, if it's no trouble."
"It isn't," Bridget stated with forced politeness.
He followed her into the kitchen, taking a chair at the dinette table while she poured coffee into a stoneware mug. "Cream or sugar?" she offered, carrying the cup to the table.
There was a negative shake of his head to both. "Will you join me?"
How could she refuse? The only other alternative would be to stand around waiting for him to drink it, and that would only add to the vague sense of unease she was fighting.
"I think I will," Bridget agreed with a stiff smile.
Filling a matching stoneware mug with black coffee, she took a chair opposite him at the table. She cupped her hands around the mug in an attempt to ward off the disturbing chill pervading her limbs.
Jonas sat motionless in his chair, an arm hooked over the back. He seemed withdrawn and distant, his attention absorbed in the black liquid in his mug.
"I owe you an apology, Bridget," he said.
The silence was broken with words that caught Bridget by surprise. She looked at him with startled eyes, but his gaze remained riveted to the coffee mug. A faint furrow of concentration drew his brows together.
"Why?" she asked with a trace of confusion.
"For my behavior today," he breathed in deeply. His mouth tightened in a grim line, but he didn't glance up.
"It's quite all right," Bridget dismissed the need to apologize. She didn't want the conversation between them to be on a personal level.
"No, it isn't," Jonas denied, flashing her a piercing look. "There was no need for me to be so rough with you."
"You explained your reasons before," she insisted coolly, becoming absorbed in the black surface of her own coffee.
"I explained why I asked you to do certain things, not why I was so sharp," he returned.
"It doesn't matter. I've forgotten all about it," Bridget lied and attempted a shrug of indifference.
"Well, I haven't," Jonas refused to let the subject be dropped. "You were naturally concerned about your daughter. You behaved as any mother would have in the circumstances and with considerably less panic than most. I was hard and insensitive to what you were going through."
"It doesn't matter," she repeated.
"Yes, it does," he said roughly. "I shouldn't have let personal emotions interfere and I was angry—angry with you for running from me, the way you have been ever since I came back."
"I wasn't running from you," Bridget corrected smoothly despite the tension coursing through her. "Molly was. I was simply trying to catch her."
"There was no need for her to run from me." There was a fine thread of impatience in his tone. "I wasn't interested in her."
"Molly is aware of that. She senses that you dislike her and responds in the only way she's capable of—by disliking you in return." She met his look, her breath shallowing out at his grim visage.
"It makes it difficult for us, doesn't it?" Jonas murmured.
Immediately Bridget broke away from his compelling gaze. "There is no 'us', Jonas." Trying to conceal that his remark had disturbed her, she picked up the mug, her hand blessedly steady. "Tell me, are you planning to open an office here in Randolph?"
The grooves around his mouth deepened in cynical mockery at her introduction of a different subject. His gaze focused on her lips as she lifted the cup to her mouth. She tried to sip the coffee with an air of nonchalance, denying that his look had any effect on her, and nearly scalded her tongue on the hot liquid.
"I'll be opening a practice, yes," he answered finally, not giving any indication that he had noticed her near mishap. "I've leased a building. The medical equipment and furniture will be installed next week. I've hired a gem called Schultzy to be my nurse, so I'll be opening the office soon."
"Then you are definitely staying," Bridget observed with a sinking sensation.
"Yes, I am definitely staying," Jonas stated with a mocking inflection as if he guessed her unspoken hope. "I made up my mind about that after I saw you in March and Bob told me later that your husband had died."
"You shouldn't have let that influence you," she replied curly.
"Probably not," he conceded.
"What about your practice in New York? All your Madison Avenue, patients?" Unwittingly Bridget had let bitter sarcasm coat her words.
"I worked in a clinic, Bridget," he said, his jaw flexing as if he was exercising control over his anger. "I didn't have a lot of wealthy patients. On the contrary, most of them couldn't afford to be sick. You insist on believing my only interest is money."
Bridget avoided that subject even though she had interjected it by implication. It would ultimately lead to a discussion of the past and arguments and bitterness and all the old hurt. It was difficult enough to endure Jonas's presence without all the old emotions resurfacing.
"Medicine can be costly, as I've learned raising Molly;" she smiled, shifting the topic. "I suppose the clinic was sorry to see you leave. Had you worked there long?"
"Since qualifying. I imagine the clinic staff was sorry to see me go, some of them anyway, but they understood that I wanted to have my own practice and get away from the city. They hired a newly qualified doctor in my place."
There was a glitter of impatience in his gray green eyes as if he found the polite conversation a waste of time. His hand, large and well shaped, wr
apped itself around the side of his coffee mug.
Bridget searched for a noncommittal response. "There isn't any place quite like Vermont." An inane comment under the circumstances with the air crackling around her, charged with emotional undercurrents she tried desperately to ignore.
"Vermont, hell!" Jonas muttered. "I came back because of you." His hand snaked out to engulf hers before she could pull it out of his reach. "I had to come back to see if we still had a chance together."
The enveloping warmth of his grip burned, flames licking all the way up her arm. It took all of her self-control and resolve not to be swayed by his nearness.
"You're a doctor, Jonas. You save lives," Bridget answered evenly. "But not even you can breathe life into something that died ten years ago." Gently but firmly she drew her hand free of his hold. Rising, she smiled politely. "Would you like some more coffee?" Inside her an earthquake was taking place.
An angry scowl hardened his rugged features, a brooding fire in his eyes as he stared at her silently. Then he pushed his mug toward her.
"Please." The acceptance of her request was issued tautly. "I let it get cold."
Picking up his mug, Bridget walked to the counter where the coffee pot was plugged in. Heat was rising from his, cup, but she poured out the contents and added more from the pot.
"It isn't dead for me, Bridget." With cat-soft footsteps, Jonas had approached her from behind. "Is what you once felt for me really dead?" he demanded huskily.
His fingers brushed the chestnut hair away from her neck, their touch against her skin paralyzing her. His hard mouth restamped its brand on the curve of her neck, nibbling at the sensitive cord.
The floor seemed to roll beneath her feet, but it was only the violent trembling of her knees. She swayed for a second against the solid wall of his muscular chest, feeling the promised strength of his arms.
The sensual weakness was momentary. Straightening, she turned, wedging a space between them, and forced the hot mug into his hands. Jonas had no alternative but to take it.
"Your coffee," she declared shakily and took a hasty step away from him.
Her heart was beating so fast it frightened her. Her fingers nervously raked a path through the chestnut hair above her ear. She was being torn apart by the physical and mental conflict going on within. Jonas was still standing by the counter, not moving, watching her intently, gauging her reaction.
"Bridget," his voice was low and insistent.
She had to divert him. "I, er—" she had to breathe in deeply to steady her shaking voice "—I haven't thanked you for what you did today for Molly. Naturally I'll pay for your services. After all, you are a doctor and—"
"Dammit, Bridget! Do you think I want your money?" Jonas hurled angrily, shoving the mug back on the counter.
"I'm the mother of one of your patients. As such I expect to pay for your services," she defended her statement.
His anger was replaced by hardness. "Name my own price, is that it?" he challenged. "Very well." His agreement was as sudden and unexpected as the hand that captured her wrist. "The price is you, and the terms of payment are now."
"No!" Her startled gasp was wasted as he pulled her smoothly into his arms, winding them around her like an iron band.
Bridget strained against his hold, pushing to break free. Mocking complacency curved his mouth as he watched her vain efforts. She was caught fast in the iron jaws of temptation, his muscular thighs burning their imprint on her own. His virile features were unconscionably close.
"Maybe if I'd saved your daughter's life today, you'd be more grateful and more willing to express the fullness of your gratitude," he taunted.
"Let me go!" She was angry—angry and frightened because part of her didn't want him to let her go.
Determinedly she kept her face averted from his. The strong odor of horse liniment was clinging to his jacket. Bridget couldn't avoid inhaling it as his arms made a smaller circle to draw her closer.
The warmth of his breath caressed her skin an instant before his mouth brushed against her temple. Jonas made no attempt to capture her lips, content to explore the winged arch of her brow and her curling eyelashes.
Taking his time, he remapped the familiar territory of her nose and cheek and the lobe of her ear. By the time he was ready to seek her lips, Bridget was trembling with the need to feel the languid passion of his kiss.
Her defenses had crumbled under the slow and steady assault. His mouth closed over hers, tasting the sweetness of her lips. As before his kiss made no demands of her, but when she responded to deepen the kiss, Jonas answered hungrily. The molding pressure of his hands arched her closer to him, crushing her breasts against the hard, metal snaps of his jacket.
The flames of love leaped and spiraled inside her, seeming to join with his to blaze brighter and stronger until she was blinded to all but the primitive desires that drove both of them. His hands slid beneath her blouse to burn over her spine and she felt the growing frustration of not being close enough to him.
When his fingers began tugging impatiently at the buttons of her blouse, she knew a momentary gladness, that one of the obstacles would be, removed. With a flash of soberness, she also realized where that abandonment would lead. She knew she couldn't do it. She couldn't let Jonas hurt her again and ultimately she would suffer if she gave in to her physical desires, because then she would love him as fully and completely as she had done ten years ago.
Hadn't she learned anything? Hadn't she learned that he couldn't be trusted? He took what he wanted, used it and when something better came along, he walked away. No, no, she wouldn't fall under his spell again, not again.
"No!" Her surrender had been so complete that Jonas hadn't expected resistance at this late stage.
Bridget twisted out of his embrace, taking three quaking steps before his hands closed around her waist to draw her back. The tormenting need to know his possession was agony. She closed her eyes in an attempt to shut it out, her shoulder blades rigid against his chest.
"You keep saying no while every other part of you says yes," Jonas muttered hoarsely, his mouth moving against her hair.
His hands were spread flat over her churning stomach. Bridget tried to tug them away, without success. His seductive mouth was trailing over the curve of her neck to her shoulder, raising more havoc with her senses.
"The answer is no," she insisted with a choked sob, "I'm not going to let you get to me again. Now let me go!"
Somehow she managed to find the leverage to pry her way free of his arms. This time Jonas didn't pursue her to force her hack but stood staring at her. He was breathing heavily, the frustration of anger and desire blazing in his eyes.
Bridget took a wary step backward in retreat, brushing the loose tangle of chestnut hair from her cheek. A fine mist glistened in her eyes from the torment of pain and love. There was a primitive savagery in the hard contours of his features, muscles working convulsively to control it.
"You always did enjoy tearing me inside out," Jonas declared in an ominously low voice. "Do you still do that, Bridget? Do you still lead a man on, drive him out of his mind until he doesn't have a sane thought left before you put him out of his misery?"
"Me?" she breathed in hurt protest. "You were the one who did the seducing!"
"You're still trying to protect your righteous and pure image, aren't you, my love?" he jeered, the endearment a sarcastic taunt. "It's slightly tarnished, though, isn't it?"
"Thanks to you! God, how I hate you, Jonas!" Bridget trembled violently.
"Does it make you feel better to blame me?" An eyebrow was lifted arrogantly.
"Yes, it does," she declared. "You took advantage of my youth and inexperience ten years ago. You took what you wanted and got paid for it. Is it any wonder that I detest you?"
"And you were unwilling, weren't you? I forced myself on you, didn't I?" The low angry accusations were issued in rapid-fire succession. "I'm curious, Bridget. How many men have held you in th
eir arms and kissed you and made love to you? How many men have you known since me?"
She stiffened at the assault. "I don't known—I didn't keep count," she retorted coldly. "How many women have you had, Jonas?"
"Why are you avoiding the question?"
"Why are you avoiding mine?" Bridget countered bitterly. "It's always that way, isn't it? You have no right to condemn me for what I have or haven't done in these last ten years. I know one thing—my standards and morals are a lot higher than yours."
"Really?" Jonas taunted savagely. "I'll bet you were a model wife to your late husband. Virtuous as hell! Loyalty, fidelity—you don't even know the meaning of those words. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that your husband didn't even father that eight-year-old girl in the other room!"
A million venomous words swelled her tongue. Not one could find its way out. The palm of her hand struck his lean cheek with a vicious slap, the hard contact shooting needle-sharp pains all the way up her arm.
"Get out!" She hissed.
His gaze narrowed into menacing steel points. The livid outline of her hand marked his cheek; fists were clenched at his side. For a long moment, Jonas stared at the hatred in Bridget's expression, then his long strides were carrying him to the rear door. She closed her eyes as it slammed behind him, the violent action rattling the windows in their frames.
In some way, the slamming door released her own pentup hostility, but the aftereffect was not pleasant. She felt weak and sick to her stomach. A pain more agonizing than she had ever known was strangling her heart. Love-hate, love-hate—she wished she hadn't heard those words in her life.
"Mom?" Molly's drowsy but alarmed voice called out to her.
"I'm—in the kitchen," she answered brittlely, her fingers clutching the counter for support, the knuckles turning white.
"What was that noise?"
Bridget glanced to the door, silent, unable to explain that its closing had awakened Molly. "What noise?" She pretended an ignorance of the cause.
"That loud bang like something exploding."
"Maybe it was the program. How do you feel?"
