A Season for Love (23 page)

Pieter did know Ronnie much better than she would have ever guessed.

Her first instinct was to run to the stables and to the bay mare. Startling the elderly groom, she slipped a bridle over Scheherazade's head herself and shunned the idea of a saddle, grasping the mare's mane to swing herself astride in a reckless but practiced leap.

Her second instinct was to race to the sea. She followed the trail through the lower foliage until she broke out on to the beach. There she gave Scheherazade free rein, and allowed the pounding of the surf and the horse's thundering hooves to drown out the throbbing in her head.

Finally Ronnie realized she was overtaxing the mare, and she reined in. Scheherazade slowed obediently and came to a halt.

Ronnie slid from the horse's back and walked numbly to the water's edge, heedless of the waves that saturated her loafers, washing over them like slender, receding tentacles. She sat and lay backward, throwing an arm over her eyes to shield them from the sun.

Not since Jamie's death, so many years before, had she been at such a loss. And not in the five years of their pseudomarriage had she ever felt closer to Pieter, Yet never in her life had she encountered the love she felt for Drake—an emotion that overwhelmed all else, including her own will.

It was such a fiasco. She knew damn well that Pieter would never force her off the island, and she also knew, no matter how noble his gestures, that he would need her to endure the trauma of once again searching for hope.

She felt the approach of Black Satan reverberating in the sand even before she heard the sound of his galloping hooves, and she winced. She was in no mental condition to do battle with Drake.

Twisting her head and covertly opening an eye beneath the shade of her arm, she watched with an almost detached admiration as the horse and rider came nearer. Black Satan, huge, powerful, and magnificent stallion, like a war horse of another era, thundered down the beach. His rider was equally powerful, equally magnificent. As if it had been staged, Drake was in black today: black jeans and a black silk shirt, with sleeves that rippled in the wind. Drake too had shunned the use of a saddle, and he seemed to sail down the beach, one with the stallion. A black knight.

So much for Cinderella tales, she told herself grimly. She would have laughed if she didn't fear the laughter would turn to hysteria. This was certainly no fair prince coming to wipe out the misery of the past with a single kiss of loving tenderness. It was Drake, his dark, brooding scowl a countenance as foreboding as his appearance. She could already see the dangerous gleam of anger glinting like black diamonds in his eyes.

He wasn't coming to give her a tender, loving kiss.

The stallion came to a rough halt about thirty feet from her. Drake was off the horse's back in an instant, his long strides carrying him swiftly to her. He gripped both her hands with thin-lipped determination and jerked her curtly to her feet, releasing her as she stood. Ronnie automatically rubbed sore wrists as she stared at him, inwardly strengthening herself as she noted the harsh irregularity of his breathing as he glared at her.

They stood like that for several seconds, just staring at one another, both unaware of the sea that foamed over their feet or the horses that wandered aimlessly in the background.

Drake finally spoke as he saw her chin begin to tilt. Even now, with her sable hair whipped by the wind and her jeans and tailored shirt spattered with water and wet sand, she was regal.

"I want to know," he grated harshly, his words enunciated crisply between the clench of his jaw, "what the hell is going on here."

Ronnie shrugged with cool eloquence. "Why are you asking me? You seem to be privy to more information than I. You also seem to be giving out more."

"I didn't tell Pieter a damn thing he didn't already know," Drake growled with low menace.

"But you did tell him something?"

"I had to."

Ronnie did laugh then, a short, bitter sound. "You once told me, Mr. O'Hara, that I did everything my husband instructed. How does it feel to find yourself in the same position?"

It was the wrong question. Ronnie gasped with alarm as Drake's hands came to her shoulders, gripping them with barely controlled intensity. His eyes were a dark, savage fire as they seared into hers, seeming to scorch her soul. "I'll tell you how I feel," he clipped. "Used. Used in some travesty between the two of you. You were terrified that your husband would discover your little indiscretion. Because of his health, so you tell me. Well, I don't wish to blatantly insult you, madam, but your husband seemed ridiculously happy to hear about your outside affairs. He seemed thrilled for a good excuse to get himself an easy divorce.

"Now, on the other hand"—his pressure on her shoulders increased as he pushed her back to sit in the sand and crouched before her, barely losing a beat in his dissertation—"I have you. You claim to love your husband, but you weave me into your little spell at the same time. I'm supposed to believe that you will do anything, sacrifice all, for the husband you so adore, while carrying on with me as if I were some sort of a stud service—and, oh, you forget to tell me the conditions!"

His words had finally gone past the boundary of endurance. She instinctively followed one of the oldest impulses of time and slapped him with every ounce of seething strength she could muster.

He appeared almost not to notice. He stopped for a single second, procured both her wrists with a not-too-gentle wrench, and continued speaking. "Now we have our bountiful little princess of charity faced with a divorce from a man she is benignly staying with because he is an invalid. A man she couldn't possibly have slept with for some time. A man who wants nothing more to do with her."

"Let me go!" Ronnie hissed.

"Uh-uhn, princess. You're going to hear this one out. Then you're going to do some talking."

Ronnie made one quick attempt to extract her wrists from his grip, and then realized the futility of the effort. She went motionless, closed her eyes, and ground her teeth together.

"There really is only one deduction that can be made here," Drake went on, his tone still harsh and bitingly academic. "Mrs. von Hurst may enjoy an occasional excursion into the carnal delights of life, but she is very fond of being Mrs. von Hurst. Luxury is easy to become accustomed to, even though our magnanimous lady claims she also loves me—our third party in this little drama. Being the humble lover, I even tried to convince Mr. von Hurst that a divorce was a bit drastic—that his beautiful wife found me merely a diversion and was still deeply in love with him. But I failed, madam. Your husband is cheerfully determined to be rid of you. He will get a divorce."

"You are an idiot!" Ronnie hissed explosively. "A complete fool."

"Obviously," Drake drawled, "I'm involved in this. But be thankful you did involve yourself with an idiot. No matter what Pieter does," he added with a bitter note, "I will take care of you."

Ronnie laughed again. It was all so ridiculous. "Don't be absurd, Drake!" With his scorning attitude she'd die before he ever took care of her. "I repeat," she charged, her sapphire gaze challenging his dark one as she made a rash, foolish attempt to free herself, which only served to tighten his constricting hold, "you are an idiot. That entire scene in Pieter's room today was staged. I can guarantee you, my dear Mr. O'Hara, that I will never need you to take care of me. Pieter will not throw me off the island. Nor will he divorce me. He can't divorce me, because we're not really married."

Shock did for Ronnie what all her struggles could not. Drake's hands went cold and limp; his bronze face went paper-white beneath the tan. In contrast, his eyes became blacker than the night, his mustache and hair perfectly etched lines of ink against parchment. The reddening imprint of her hand became clear against the high, angular line of his cheekbone.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he rasped.

"Pieter and I are not really married," Ronnie repeated furiously. She was no longer in the least bit numb, but in the full heat of a long-withheld rage herself. She jumped to her feet, still careful to put a little distance between Drake and herself. "I told you, that entire scene was staged for your benefit. I suppose Pieter used the term
divorce
because he was afraid you would think less of me for living with him for all these years. It's a pity the poor man doesn't realize there is no way you could possibly think any less of me."

She had moved down the beach as she delivered her stunning retort, hoping to escape the touch that sent shivers down her spine even as it imprisoned her with demand.

But there was no escaping him today. He was on his feet with agile, lightning speed, and by her side to grasp an arm. "Don't walk away from me, Veronica—you're far from done."

"The hell I'm not!" she asserted. "You seem so great at judging everything. You take it from here!"

"Sit, Ronnie," he grated, "or shall I help you?"

She hesitated just a moment too long, which was foolish. She knew he never made idle threats. A slight movement of one of his powerful thighs swept her feet from beneath her and she was in his arms, being lowered back to a sandy seat. Just to be certain she didn't move again, Drake crooked an elbow over her waist and settled his head into his hand. His weight was held off her, but it was a very effective prison nonetheless. There was no way she could move the bar of his arm or push past the broad chest that hovered in front of her. "I'm listening," he reminded grimly as she stared at him, silently seething.

"All right, your honor," she grated mockingly. "But you're not going to understand—"

"I'm dying to understand," he interrupted dryly. "Try me."

Ronnie sighed and clenched her eyes shut for an instant. It was ridiculous, but in the midst of all this, her fingers itched to reach out and touch the crisp, smattering strands of black curls that rose above the two open buttons of his silk shirt. She was tempted to draw a tender line along that of the mustache that could quirk with his laughter, tease her flesh with exotic torment. . . .

Her eyes flew open. They met the relentless dark glare of his.

"Pieter and I were married in Paris as I told you," Ronnie said. "We came here right after—Pieter didn't want to be seen anymore. It was very rough on him at first, as you can imagine. He was impossible for a long time, but—contrary to what you believe—I did love him. Maybe not in a way you would condone, but I did and do love him. About a month ago he went into a period of brooding, and I finally learned it was about me. He got this thing in his head that he had ruined my life and he wanted to give me a divorce so that I could have a life of my own. He contacted his attorney, and consequently discovered that our marriage wasn't valid, because the notary who had performed the ceremony wasn't a notary at all." She smiled dryly. "He wanted a secret ceremony to avoid the press, and it was so secret, it wasn't even real."

"Go on," Drake prodded briskly as she fell to silence.

"That's about all there is to tell," Ronnie said blandly, focusing on the waves behind Drake rather than on his eyes. "I told Pieter from the beginning that I wouldn't leave him. Whether we were or weren't married was irrelevant. I consented to be his wife in Paris because I knew that he loved me, and he needed me very desperately. I don't think that that has changed. Pieter has simply decided that I want you, and he is determined to give you to me."

Drake became the still one. He was silent for so long that Ronnie forced her gaze from the sea back to him. She became aware of a chill as she watched his face, and she wasn't sure if it came from the damp sand and her soaked feet or not. He had regained his color, and he was in complete control now of his actions. The face she stared upon was hard and implacable, darkly grim, giving away nothing.

"You knew you weren't married at the time of the cruise," he finally said. His tone was no more readable than his face. Did he intend to forgive her on a legality? She couldn't allow such a falsehood.

"I knew about the marriage being invalid," she said bitterly, forcing herself to meet his demand squarely without tears forming in her eyes. "But"—her voice grew hard with the effort to be cold—"don't go absolving me of adultery or 'game playing,' as you call it. Whether that marriage in Paris was legal or not, I entered into it with wide-open eyes. I made all the vows. So you see, to me, I was married. I was Mrs. Pieter von Hurst."