by Kay Hooper
“You're hung up on that book,” she said with forced lightness.
“Parallels, I suppose.” His voice was absent. One hand lifted to touch her cheek gently, then slid down to her throat, his thumb stroking her jawline. “Green eyes and a tiny waist. And the Hall's your Tara. But you're not in love with another man—are you?”
“No.” She knew he could feel the pulse pounding in her neck, knew that her quick, shallow breathing was obvious to him. But she could only stare up at him, fascinated by the sparkling droplets of water adorning smooth golden skin. Fascinated by his deep voice, by the warmth of his hand. And she caught her breath audibly when his free hand found her waist beneath the water.
“I always thought,” he mused softly, “that Rhett was misunderstood by everyone—not just Scarlett. He wanted her so badly, and waited so patiently for her to want him. And they came so close, those two. Do you think she got him back, by the way?”
Banner knew dimly that he was drawing more parallels, knew that he was telling her something. But her bemused mind just couldn't cope with cryptic ideas. Not then. So she answered his question. “Yes. She got him back.”
“But he left her,” Rory reminded softly. “He said he didn't give a damn what happened to her.”
“He was tired. He was exhausted.” Banner wasn't really listening to her own words; she just spoke instinctively. “But he loved her. He'd loved her for so long. He would have come back to her. He did come back to her.”
Rory bent his head until his breath was warm on her face, and smiled slowly. “Your sense of romance is definitely fine, milady.”
“Do—do you think he came back?” she murmured.
“I know he did.”
Banner's eyes remained open, staring into the darkened slate gray of his; they seemed to fill her vision, her mind, velvety pools she wanted to drown herself in. His lips teased hers, brushing in a satiny caress that tempted her, tortured her. His tongue probed the sensitive inner flesh of her parted lips, sending shivers through her body.
His body was taut against hers, his tension evident when his hand moved to the small of her back and pressed her hips to his. But he made no move to deepen the kiss. Instead, the tormenting, unsatisfying little caresses went on and on, sapping her strength and willpower. His fingers stroked her throat, the back of her neck, then tangled in her thick curls to hold her head firmly.
Jerkily, her hands lifted to his chest, fingertips exploring silky hair and firm flesh. She wanted so badly to touch him, wanted so badly to feel his strong arms locked around her body. Nothing else seemed to matter. Knowingly, willingly, she closed her eyes and abandoned a fight that had never begun.
Whether he sensed her feelings or simply lost patience himself, Rory abruptly deepened the kiss in fierce need. His mouth slanted across hers hotly, desperately, drawing from her more than she could afford to lose.
But Banner didn't care. Since the passionate embrace of that first night and during all the casual touches of the past week, hunger had built within her like floodwaters behind a dam. She was lost in the swirling rush of escaping passion, afloat only because he held her. Her arms slid around his neck, and the feeling of his arms locked around her body fed the hunger inside her.
The warm water lapped around them, caressing them, and the warm night air carried the heady scent of roses—the traditional flower of love. In a blue-lit haze, they were alone, and Banner wanted to stop time.
She could feel the feverish heat of his body and her own; they were pressed so tightly together she could even feel his heart thudding against her. The hardness of his body lent weakness to her own, and his taut tension was hers. When he lifted his head finally, she had no strength even to open her eyes, and her breath was suspended somewhere far away, out of reach.
“Look at me,” he whispered roughly.
She forced leaden eyelids to raise, gazing up at a handsome face that was tense and gray eyes that were dark and compelling. Aching from head to foot, she was conscious of nothing but her need for him.
“I want you,” he said huskily, his head lowering once again and lips feathering down her throat as Banner instinctively let her head fall back. “You know that.”
“Yes.” Mindless, she twined her fingers among the silky strands of his thick hair.
“And you want me.” It wasn't a question.
But she answered. “Yes,” she whispered.
His warm lips traced the swell of her breast as his fingers unerringly found the flimsy string ties of her bikini top. The tiny black triangles fell away and floated aimlessly to one side, unnoticed by either of them. Rory groaned softly. “God, you're so beautiful,” he muttered hoarsely. “So tiny and beautiful…”
His hands cupped achingly sensitive flesh, thumbs teasing erotically until her body cried out in a sweet, stinging agony, coming vibrantly alive beneath his touch. Warm lips touched and held, and heat exploded in the depths of her belly and spread like wildfire through every nerve of her body. She arched against him, her hips pressed into his in a primal seeking of possession, a moan shivering from deep in her throat.
Abruptly, Rory caught her in a fierce embrace. Her breasts were pressed against his chest, her face buried in the curve of his neck. He held her with a strength just this side of savagery, and there was a trace of that wildness in the reluctant words that seemed torn rawly from his throat.
“There's still… your Tara,” he said thickly.
Banner stiffened, sudden coldness washing her mind and body with sanity. Her Tara, her Tara, which he wanted…
She pulled away and turned her back to him, finding her floating bikini top with one blind, seeking hand. Fumbling to tie the strings at her neck, she choked out, “Why did you—why did you have to—”
“Remind us both?” His voice was rough, hoarse, but the hands that found the remaining two strings and tied them at her back were gentle.
“Yes.” Head bowed, she stared unseeingly at the blue- tinted water, unable to face him because she was afraid of what she'd see in his eyes.
He reached out, pulling her gently back against him, one arm around her waist and the other lying warmly, heavily, across her breasts. “Because I want you to trust me not to hurt you,” he said softly, fiercely.
Banner said nothing.
His cheek rested against her hair, and she felt his chest rise and fall against her back as he sighed. “I think we're both a little drunk tonight, milady. Drunk on moonlight and roses… and desire. The easiest thing to do would be to follow our instincts. But your Tara… I think that has to be resolved first—don't you?”
Banner closed her eyes, wishing desperately that he hadn't had to remind them both. She wanted to believe she'd feel no differently about him once the Hall was his, but she knew herself too well for that. A part of her realized and accepted that she would have cut off an arm for him; but losing the Hall would be cutting out her heart.
“Yes,” she said tonelessly. “Yes, that has to be resolved.”
His arms tightened. “I won't hurt you, Banner. You have to believe that.”
Not trusting her voice, she remained silent.
He sighed again. “Tell me what to do, milady. Should I walk away from the Hall and open up the field for another buyer?”
“No,” she whispered.
“And if I buy it?”
“I know you'll buy it.” She thought of the ghostly soldiers he'd seen, and wondered vaguely if she should tell him she had known, from that moment, he would buy the Hall and live here.
“If I do…” His voice was low and oddly hesitant. “You and Jake could stay here.”
“No.” She swallowed hard. “No, we couldn't do that.”
“Not even if you were my wife?” he asked very quietly.
Banner found that she wasn't breathing. Her heart was pounding violently, and for one single, dizzy moment, she closed her eyes and suspended reality. But she couldn't suspend it forever. In a voice she held even by main force, she said, “That—
that wouldn't happen.”
“I love you.”
Just that, simple and calm. She wanted to cry, but couldn't. And she realized with a peculiar certainty that it would never again be as easy for her to cry as it had been before this moment. Her throat was tight and dry, and she stared straight ahead, silent and blind.
“You'll never be sure, will you?” he mused in that same calm tone. “You'll always wonder if I love you because of the Hall or in spite of it. Or even if I really love you at all. You'll never be sure.”
Hearing the words, she knew how certain they both were of the truth of those words. She would always wonder. And neither of them would be able to bear that.
Their beginning was also their ending.
“It's late,” she said flatly. “And we have a long day ahead of us.”
Silently, he freed her from his gentle embrace. But his hand found hers as they moved through the water and up the steps. He released her hand only long enough for her to don the caftan and for him to shrug into his own terry robe, then his fingers twined with hers once again as they left the pool enclosure and headed back through the garden to the house.
“I'll do my best to convince you, you know,” he said conversationally as they neared the veranda. “Rhett might have been worn out by his chase, but I've got more staying power. If it takes me years, I'll teach you to trust my love for you, milady.”
Banner knew that her fingers were clinging to his, just as she was clinging to the last instant of this moonlit night when impossibilities had seemed almost within reach. She wanted to tell him that. But an ending was no place for such things.
Just outside the French doors, Rory stopped and turned her to face him, his hands firm on her shoulders. “You think it's over, don't you? You think I'll buy this place, and that you'll leave it— and me—behind. But you're wrong, Banner. We've both got rebel blood; we both know how to fight.”
He bent his head suddenly, capturing her lips, kissing her hungrily and possessively. His hands slid down to her hips and drew her against him, making her all too aware that his calm voice had belied a desire that had not ebbed in the least. And that throbbing desire rekindled the hot ache in her own body.
She kissed him back helplessly, unable to deny how his touch affected her. There was still moonlight spilling over them, and she was still clinging to precious moments.
Rory framed her face in gentle hands as he raised his head, his breathing rough and quick. “Fair warning, milady,” he said tautly. “The last gentlemanly warning you'll get from me. From this point on, I don't intend to fight fair… because I'm fighting for my life.”
“You have one weapon I can't fight,” she admitted unsteadily, honest because she didn't know how not to be.
“And I'll use that weapon,” he promised. His lips toyed with hers for a brief, tantalizing moment. “This weapon. And any other I can find. But I won't hold the Hall out as a lure. We both know you'll come to me only because of me, and not for what I can give you. And you will come to me, Banner.”
The soft vow held a conviction that stole what little breath she had left, but Banner tried to resist his certainty. “No. You were right. I'd never be sure. I'd always wonder.”
“You'll come to me.”
She found that her hands were holding his wrists, but she was unable even to try to push his hands away from her. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Don't do this to me,” she pleaded huskily. “It'll make it so much worse when—when I have to leave.”
“Leave the Hall? Or leave me?”
“Both,” she whispered.
“Do you love me, Banner?”
“You're not—”
“Fighting fair? I warned you.” His voice was fierce. “Do you love me?”
“No.”
He tilted her face up and covered her lips with his, his tongue probing, possessing. His hands slid downward, exploring her thinly-clad, awakened body with insistent demand. “Do you love me?” he muttered against her lips.
“No—”
Demand shifted insidiously and became supplication, entreaty. His very body wooed hers, his lips pleaded with an aching hunger. Gentle hands caressed with tender care, sensitive and adoring. He held her as if she were a fragile, precious thing.
And Banner's shaky defenses collapsed.
“Do you love me?” he asked, pleading, his voice raw.
“Yes,” she cried brokenly. “Damn you—yes!”
He went very still, his lips only a breath away from hers, his face too shadowy for her to read. “Say it,” he whispered.
“I love you #x201D; She felt that she was bleeding
inside, something vital torn from her by a will greater than her own. She almost hated him then, because he had forced her to see what would have been less painful if ignored. It would always be there now, a part of the beginning that had been so promising and of the ending there would be no avoiding. She almost hated him. “I love you.”
Rory held her close, no demand and no plea in his embrace now, but rather an odd, soothing protectiveness, as if he knew what he had done to her. “I needed to hear that,” he said, and breathed softly into her hair.
“It doesn't change anything,” she managed unsteadily, the unfulfilled need aching in her.
“Doesn't it?”
“Nothing's changed.”
“I love you, Banner.”
She wished she could cry. She wished she could hate him. “Rory—”
“I love you.”
Defeated, she whispered, “And I love you.”
Rory drew back far enough to gaze down at her. After a moment, he kissed her very gently. His eyes were glowing silver, reflecting moonlight—or something else. “You'd better go up to bed, milady. We have a long day ahead of us.”
“You—?”
“I think I'll sit out here for a while.” He opened the door for her, touching her cheek in a final tender gesture. “Good night.”
Silently, Banner went into the house.
Rory closed the door behind her, then turned and crossed the veranda to one of the comfortable chairs. He sat down and gazed for a moment at his shaking hands. Then, grimly, he told himself aloud, “Much more of this and you'll be a gibbering idiot.”
He sighed heavily, wishing that he could get drunk. It would, he decided, be a dandy time to get drunk. He hadn't been prepared for his own loss of patience, hadn't been prepared to tell Banner how he felt about her. Somehow, it had just happened. He didn't regret its happening, but he was worried that he might have played his hand wrongly.
Had he driven her away by pushing?
Restless, his body punishing him for his forbearance, he shifted in his chair. His gaze tracked absently across the veranda, then sharpened as he made out a shadowy form among the darkness of climbing ivy near the corner. He started to call out a demanding query, but then a cord of memory twanged in his mind.
Though indistinct, the form was definitely that of a man dressed in the clothing of another century, and moonlight gleamed hazily off blond hair.
Rory was oddly unsurprised, once the first instinctive shock wore off, to see Banner's “guardian” there. He studied what he could see of the watching presence, wryly noting the broad shoulders that were held stiffly with obvious anger.
“Busybody,” he accused.
Only chilly silence greeted this.
“All right,” he said quietly. “I know it was cruel. I know I pushed her hard and forced her to see something she wasn't ready to see. But I meant what I said. I won't hurt her.”
Utter stillness was a condemnation.
Rory sighed. Then, very softly, speaking to himself as much as to the shadowy watcher, he murmured, “I love her. I know what I did to her by forcing those words out of her. I know it wasn't the right time, either. But she's my lady… and I had to make her see that. I have to keep showing her that, proving it to her. Nothing else matters. She has to believe in my love… because she's going to be mad as hel
l when she finds out…”
His voice trailing into silence, Rory shook his head bemusedly and stared at the empty corner of the veranda.
Well. He'd imagined it, of course.
SIX
BANNER HAD WONDERED what behavior Rory would revert to after the unexpected night of passion. Would he become the cool, businesslike man? The troubled man so aware of his unenviable place in the loss of her home? Or would he return to the bantering, companionable man in whose presence she'd spent a busy week?
The answer turned out to be all of them—and none of them.
He appeared at the breakfast table the next morning with a cheerful smile for both her and Jake, no signs of his late night marring the handsome face and bright eyes. He greeted her grandfather with his accustomed courtesy, then came to her, tipped her chin up firmly and kissed her quite thoroughly.
Jake contemplated his glass of orange juice with a detached gaze.
“ ‘Morning, milady,” Rory said huskily against her lips.
Banner found herself unable to say anything at all, and only regained her breath when he'd slid into his own chair. Avoiding any glance at her grandfather or Rory, she stared down at her plate and wondered rather wildly if this was what it felt like to be behind battlements that were being stormed by a very determined general. If this particular general's first gesture was anything to go by, she knew what his strategy was.
Hovering somewhere between amusement, excitement, horror, and despair, she realized that Rory intended to make it quite obvious to anyone who cared to observe them together that he was in love with her. In fact, he was well on his way to convincing all and sundry that they were lovers.
It was a strategy she couldn't fight, because a too-large part of her wanted desperately to steal every touch and kiss she possibly could.
And there was the party to get through.
By midafternoon the pool was filled with guests, the garden was being admired by more guests, and the tantalizing scent of roasting food mingled between the hot, still air and hungry people.
Since Banner was both innately and by habit a good hostess, and since she enjoyed parties, the afternoon was a very pleasant one for her. Her only difficulty was the continued campaign of her very determined general. He remained almost constantly at her side, holding her hand or keeping a possessive arm around her waist. He rapidly developed the habit of kissing a shoulder left bare by her strapless sundress, clearly unembarrassed by the amused, speculative glances of the guests. And he called her “milady.”
