by Donna Vitek
"I read it," he announced abruptly, his blue eyes impaling the soft green of hers for an instant. "In fact, I took it deliberately for that purpose. I thought I'd discover what Kit Delacorte is really like. You can tell a great deal about a person by the kind of books he or she reads."
"Can you really?" she responded tersely, trying to conceal the sudden vulnerability she felt. "I wasn't aware that reading habits were so revealing."
"They are. For example, I now know you're an incurable romantic," Jason said dryly, swinging the silver Jaguar off the road onto a winding asphalt drive. "You're much like the heroine in your Gothic romance—shy but feisty and seeking love. And I'm sure you seek a man like your heroine found—the dark, brooding, misunderstood hero who saves her from the clutches of his murderous cousin just in the nick of time. Then he admits he has loved her from afar during all their trying times and now wants to marry and protect her for the rest of their lives. That's the kind of man you want, isn't it, Kit? Someone strong to take care of you?"
Unable to look at him, Katherine swallowed convulsively, amazed and disconcerted by his perceptiveness. It was almost as if he could read her mind and since he was so like the man in her fantasies, at least in appearance, his insight was doubly disturbing. "Just because I read a few Gothic romances, you shouldn't assume I identify with the heroines," she said weakly. "I—I don't."
"Don't you?" he persisted gently, stopping the car beneath the stand of towering pines before his large cedar A-frame house. Turning in his seat, he observed her, then amazingly reached out to brush the back of his hand against her porcelain cheek. "Come on, Kit, you can't tell me you're not looking for a strong supportive hero-type to fall in love with."
"Well, what if I am?" she retorted defensively, too disturbed by his caress. "What's wrong with that?"
"Nothing," he answered softly, seriously. "But it's not very pleasant for me to know you don't include me in the hero-type category."
Detecting nearly genuine regret in his tone, Katherine surveyed his lean, sun-browned face. "It… it's nothing personal," she stammered. "You're just a gambler and I…"
"And you don't trust gamblers," he finished for her. "Do you, Kit?" When she shook her head, he suddenly smiled mischievously. "I have to remind you our heroine didn't trust our hero, either. Remember? It was only near the end that she realized how wrong she'd been about him. So don't you think you could possibly be wrong about me?"
Katherine had no answer to such a logical question as Jason got out of the car, then came around to open her door. She gazed up at him bewilderedly and though she didn't resist as he took her hand and helped her out, she muttered uneasily, "I should go home. Really, I…"
"What's wrong?" he interrupted, squeezing her hand lightly before releasing it. "I think you're afraid of me, Kit."
"I am not," she protested, squaring her shoulders. "I… have no reason to be afraid of you, do I?"
"None whatsoever," he answered, cupping her elbow in one large hand, guiding her toward his front door.
Committed now by her foolish show of bravado, Katherine went with him willingly. But as she glanced at Jason's chiseled profile, her common sense informed her that she'd be far wiser to take off running through the woods toward home, as if the devil himself were chasing at her heels.
Chapter Four
The interior of Jason's house possessed a rustic charm. Richly paneled walls and the high cathedral ceiling, crisscrossed by exposed cedarwood beams created a comfortable warmth in the great room. A Navajo rug, woven in the earthy hues of russet and brown covered the pegged wooden floor before the huge stone fireplace. The sofa was upholstered in a patchwork of blue, brown and russet and two sky blue easy chairs looked cool and comfortably inviting. There was a massive antique roll-top desk dominating one of the inside walls, on which were displayed several High Sierra landscapes painted by local artists.
As Jason started to guide Katherine across the hardwood floor toward the sofa, she dragged her feet, not that it did her any good. His hand cupping her elbow simply tightened beneath her arm, impelling her forward.
"Sit down," he commanded gently, his hard fingers grazing the sensitive inner flesh of her forearm as he relinquished his hold on her. "I'll go get the first aid kit and attend to that knee."
Katherine's wide green eyes followed him as he strode through a swinging door at the far end of the room. Taking a deep shuddering breath, she started unweaving her mussed braid, planning to redo it neatly before he returned. But he came back too soon, carrying a metal basin half filled with warm soapy water and a white red-crossed box tucked under his arm. As he knelt down on the Navajo rug before Katherine, she tensed and her breathing quickened as she gazed down at his golden, sun-streaked hair as he bent his head. With sterile cotton soaked in the warm sudsy water, he removed the remaining traces of dirt ground into her roughened skin. When the sting of the soap made her flinch once, he glanced up at her, wincing commiserately.
"I'm trying not to hurt you," he said softly, in way of apology as he continued bathing her knee. "But that humus soil up in those woods is probably loaded with all kinds of unpleasant bacteria. So it's important to cleanse this scrape as thoroughly as possible."
"I know," she murmured, watching as he used a sterile gauze pad to blot dry her skin. Then her breath caught in her throat and she closed her eyes as his fingertips grazed over the sensitized reddened knee. She had never imagined a man's touch could be so gentle while at the same time evoking a shivery thrill of delight that coursed throughout her body. Her thickly-fringed eyes flickered open and she had to squeeze her hands tightly together in her lap to prevent herself from reaching out to touch his thick hair as he smoothed an antibacterial salve onto her knee, then lightly taped a gauze bandage over it. He was finished and she expected him to move away from her but he remained where he was, his narrowing gaze holding hers. She drew in a startled breath as he suddenly curved his hand around the trim ankle of her uninjured leg and when his rough fingertips began to blaze a fiery trail up over the shapely contour of her calf, she trembled violently. She should push his hand away; she knew she should, yet somehow she couldn't force herself to do it. His touch was creating rivers of molten fire in her veins and the unfamiliar sensation was so pleasurable that she felt a dizzying, frightening desire to go on experiencing it forever. Nearly hypnotized by the smoldering light in his dark blue eyes, she was possessed by the insane desire to reach out and tangle her fingers exploringly in the thickness of his hair.
"Kit," he murmured huskily, then cursed beneath his breath as a scurrying commotion behind the swinging door shattered the evocative moment. He rose to his feet as a leggy yellow dog catapulted herself across the room toward him, her entire body trembling as she softly yipped with the joy of seeing him.
"Sit, Georgia," he commanded firmly. To Katherine's amazement, the ecstatic yellow and cream Labrador sat to gaze up at him with soulful, adoring black eyes, her strong tail beating a tattoo on the hardwood floor.
"Oh, Jason, she's beautiful," Katherine said softly, holding out her fingers for the dog's approving sniff. "Is she yours?"
Nodding, he gave a comical grimace. "I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. When I was walking past a pet shop, I suddenly found myself being gazed at balefully by those soft black eyes. She just looked so sad, sitting there behind that window that I… Well, it's obvious she began manipulating me that very minute."
Deliberately avoiding looking up at him, Katherine scratched behind the grateful dog's ears, surprised once again by a new facet of Jason's personality. Gamblers, in general, including her father, weren't a sentimental lot and Katherine was intrigued by the fact that Jason was tenderhearted enough to be manipulated by a small furry animal, however pretty that animal might be. Yet, intrinsically honest as she was, especially with herself, she had to admit that Jason Roarke had intrigued her from the very first moment they had met. He was a fascinating enigma, too fascinating, she thought pensively, for
her peace of mind. She had no idea what to expect of him at any given time and her uncertainty about him made her exceedingly nervous. Even now, she sensed he was watching her intently, but she was afraid to look up, unwilling to try to interpret the usually unreadable message in his eyes. Instead, she chose to push her disturbing thoughts to the back of her mind and, attempting to keep conversation light and impersonal, she asked, "Why did you name her Georgia?"
"When I bought her, her coat reminded me of a Georgia peach."
"It still looks like that," Katherine noted, stroking the dog's short fuzzy fur. "It's so soft, like a puppy's."
"She is still a puppy," Jason informed her, smiling at her surprised expression. "She's only five months old, give or take a few days."
"Really?" Katherine examined the leggy dog whose shoulders already reached her knees. "Good heavens, how big will she be when she's full grown then?"
"Heaven only knows," Jason answered, shrugging resignedly. "I'm just hoping I won't need to build a stable to keep her in."
Katherine laughed, her green eyes sparkling up at him impishly. "Well, if she does grow to be horse-sized, she'll undoubtedly be listed in the Guinness Book of World Records and you'll be listed, too, as her proud owner. Won't that make you deliriously happy?"
"Not if I have to starve to keep her fed," he retorted wryly, tugging a strand of Katherine's hair that still cascaded like a russet curtain down around her bare arms.
His fingers lingered in the silken tress, exploring the soft texture with his fingertips. Then as he sought her bemused gaze with his darkening blue eyes, a sudden ardent glow flared in the gold-flecked depths.
Recognizing the danger signal immediately, Katherine started to draw away but at that moment, Georgia inadvertently rescued her. Wriggling between the two pairs of legs, she gazed up hopefully at Jason, her limpid black eyes begging for attention.
He sighed rather impatiently and reached for Katherine's hand, drawing her up to stand before him. "Let's walk down to the lake," he suggested, shaking his head at the overgrown puppy gamboling at his feet. "Maybe she'll chase a butterfly or something there."
Katherine knew she shouldn't have gone with him. Yet the firm pressure of his hard fingers entwined with hers induced in her a curious lethargy that forestalled all the sensible objections she knew she should make. Her legs felt oddly weak as she walked with him out the open sliding glass doors onto the lower deck where the floor of the balcony above provided a ceiling. The fragrance of the pines combined with the fresh lime scent of his aftershave and as they followed a pebbled path down to the shore, she felt almost as if she were lost in one of her fantasies. Though she knew Jason was nothing like the men she daydreamed about, he seemed to be. He seemed strong, commanding, yet capable of tenderness. But she knew that must be only the impression he gave. Beneath that attractive facade, he had to be shallow. He had to be, she told herself sternly. He was a gambler, wasn't he?
On the coarse beach, Jason and Katherine found a shady spot beneath a young hemlock tree. They sat down and as he stretched his long powerful legs out in front of him, she wrapped her arms around her drawn-up legs and rested her chin on her uninjured knee, realizing even as she did it, that she was assuming an obviously self-protecting posture. For several long minutes they said nothing to each other and sat silently watching Georgia avidly dig potholes in the sand. As the puppy accidentally sniffed some particles of dirt into her nostrils, then sneezed violently, Jason chuckled softly and shook his head.
Katherine smiled at him, feeling some of the tension was now eased. "What's she looking for?"
"Nothing in particular, probably," he answered, his gaze wandering over Katherine with disconcerting intensity. "I suppose she's just searching, hoping she'll find something of value. And it's really not that different from the searching we humans do, is it, Kit?"
"Oh, that's too philosophical a question for me," she responded, attempting to be flippant, but not altogether successful. She lifted her hand uneasily. "I mean, I think I'll leave questions like that to the behavioral scientists."
"Why? Don't you ever want to delve into human nature, if for no other reason than to find out more about who you are?"
She eyed him with blatant curiosity, consumed by the desire to understand him. Philosophy and psychology were two of the least likely subjects she had ever expected a gambler to discuss. Didn't they all live for the pleasures of the moment and say to hell with the deeper intrinsic meanings of existence? Until meeting Jason, she had assumed that was every gambler's code of living but now she was beginning to wonder if he could be the exception to the rule. Or, she reminded herself firmly, he could simply be trying to con her into believing he was less shallow than she assumed he must be. If he was conning her, however, he was a consummate actor. He seemed totally sincere, yet her acquired distrust of gamblers made her reluctant to allow herself to believe him.
Perhaps her expression conveyed that reluctance because Jason abruptly heaved a sigh and shook his head.
"Why don't you tell me why you have this intense aversion to gamblers, Kit?" he questioned bluntly. "I assume it has something to do with your relationship with your father. Right?"
"Right," she replied, too surprised again by his perceptiveness to even try to deny the truth. Resting her chin on her knee once again, she stared out unseeingly at the lake. "He left us. When I was three, he just walked out on Mother and me so he could be free to gamble and chase after women. So, I have no reason to have a high regard for men like him."
"All men aren't alike, Kit," Jason reminded her gently. "And even though you don't want to believe me, all gamblers aren't alike, either. Just because your father was irresponsible in his younger years, you can't automatically assume that I am, too."
"Then how can you live the way you do?" she exclaimed softly, searching his lean brown face rather desperately. "How can you move from one high stakes game to another, risking more money in one night than many people earn in a whole year? What's the point in it? What kind of contribution are you making?"
"What kind of contribution would you like to make, Kit?" he countered, slickly evading her question. "What is it you want to do with your life?"
Put on the defensive again, she shrugged. "I don't know exactly, yet. Help people make their lives better somehow, I guess. I'm not sure precisely how. I've considered becoming a physical therapist or a teacher of handicapped children."
"Admirable ambitions," he said without a trace of mockery. "I'm sure you'd excel in either occupation. And I think either occupation would be good for you, too. You need to free that warm, loving nature you try so hard to hide beneath a cool, reserved exterior."
She had no answer for that and uncomfortable with the entire discussion, she hastily changed the subject. "You know the other day on the beach, when you introduced yourself, I thought I'd heard your name before," she babbled. "Later, I remembered that I had. Did you realize there's also a novelist named Jason Roarke? He couldn't possibly be your father, could he?"
"No, he isn't my father," Jason said, his steady gaze holding hers. "But I have heard of him, though I must admit I've never bought one of his books. Have you?"
"Oh, yes, and you should, too," Katherine declared enthusiastically. "He's an excellent storyteller and his characters are so real. His writing style is simple and very direct. You don't get confused and have to flip back through the pages you've already read to see if there was something you missed. And though he writes about all kinds of people, he makes you realize they're all basically the same, that they all want love and a sense of self-worth. Oh, he's really an enjoyable writer. I could let you borrow one of his novels if you'd like to read it."
"Maybe I will," Jason said, a hint of a smile tugging at his firm lips. "And maybe you should consider a career as a critic. It would be refreshing to read a complimentary review occasionally. All critics seem to find a perverse joy in picking every writer's work to pieces. I'm sure Mr. Roarke would appreciate you."
&
nbsp; "Some critics do seem to delight in being nasty, don't they?" Katherine agreed with a grin. "But I guess no one would read them if they heaped praise on every book they reviewed."
"And bad reviews often increase sales," Jason added. "At least, that's what I've heard."
Feeling infinitely more relaxed now, Katherine stretched her own legs out in front of her and rested back on her elbows. Just as she started to ask Jason what kind of books he did read, Georgia, tired of her fruitless excavations, and catching a small stick in her mouth, loped across the sand toward them. She skidded to a halt before Jason, her entire back section wagging as her mournful black eyes implored him to play with her.
"Conned again," Jason drawled, rising to his feet with a sheepish smile. Then he strode along the beach near the water's edge and at his command, Georgia relinquished the stick to him.
To Katherine's surprise, Jason pitched the stick far out into the lake. Then Georgia bounded in after it without hesitation and paddled away from the shore, only her sleek yellow head visible above the blue surface. She returned the stick to Jason automatically, then waited impatiently for him to throw it again. The exercise was repeated several times but soon Katherine lost interest in the dog's performance. She was too enthralled by the way the muscles in Jason's shoulders rippled with each powerful toss of the stick. Almost against her will, Katherine allowed her gaze to wander down the long length of his muscular legs. Then when his exertions beneath the hot sun caused him to shed his knit shirt, she stared at his broad bronzed back and her eyes widened as a sudden intense desire to touch his smooth skin rose in her. She looked away hastily, appalled by the unusual erotic meandering of her imagination. Scooping up a handful of sand, she let it trickle slowly between her fingers and chided herself for not holding a tighter rein on her emotions.
Lost in thought, she was only half aware that Jason was walking back toward her. After Georgia shook her entire body to rid her coat of excess water, she loped along beside him. Then, still full of energy, she suddenly bounded forward, too much a puppy yet to control her exuberance. With the speed of a gazelle, she bore down on Katherine and threw herself against her, slamming her backward in a misguided effort to be friendly. It was an invitation to play but unexpected and Katherine hit the ground with such force that her breath was knocked from her. Nothing hurt; she simply couldn't catch her breath for a moment. Stunned, she closed her eyes as Georgia whimpered plaintively and nuzzled her cheek, instinctively aware of her mistake. But she scurried away, her ears down, her proud tail tucked between her legs, the moment Jason issued a strident command.
