A Season for Love (28 page)

His strongly planed features grew grave. "Yes, it can. Not every minute can be ecstasy, or blind passion, but love can be—and ours will be—a shelter against outside storms. Love is trust, and peace and security in that trust. It's a wonderful thing, even in the worst of times."

Ronnie absorbed his words without speaking, her eyes downcast. When she opened them, she found Drake watching her with a brooding intensity.

"Why didn't you tell me that you'd never made love to Pieter?"

She caught her breath and watched him blankly for a second. "How did you know?"

"He told me."

Ronnie gasped with surprise. Her voice quavered. "When?"

"We had quite an interesting dinner that last night. Pieter told me a lot I already knew—about Jamie's death and your marriage in Paris. He also told me a lot you didn't. He told me that you knew from the very beginning that you were entering a platonic marriage." Drake paused for a minute. "He also told me how bad it was for you all those years, how he used and abused you, and how you withstood it all with unbreakable patience and endurance."

Ronnie's hand tightened convulsively on the one she held. Her lashes lowered and she held her voice steady. "It wasn't that bad, Drake. You see, I always knew the real Pieter von Hurst. I knew he would never really hurt me. I knew that no one else could understand what he went through as I did. I—" She stuttered momentarily. "I never told you that our marriage had always been platonic because one thing Pieter clung to was his pride."

Drake adjusted his weight over hers and gently took her chin in his hands. "Look at me, Ronnie," he commanded with tenderness. "I'm not angry or upset that you didn't tell me. I admire what you tried to do. All these wonderful quirks of that crazy proud personality of yours are what make me love you so very much."

Her heart was in her eyes as she met his, offering the depths of a soul that had remained innocent and pure through everything.

"Oh, Drake," she murmured with loving gratitude, placing kisses of tremulous emotion in the hollows of his collarbone. "And I love you so much for all that you are!" Her voice softened. "For all that you've done for Pieter."

Drake smiled at her. "I have to admit, it's been a lot easier to be Pieter's friend now that I know you two were never lovers. You can't imagine what it's like to sit at a dinner table with a man and try to carry on a normal conversation when you know you've made love to his wife."

Ronnie chuckled and sobered. "Drake—you know I'll always be concerned for him."

"Yes, Ronnie," he said gently. "I do know. And I'll always share that concern with you."

He shifted back to a sitting position abruptly, pulling her with him into his arms. "Enough of this deep conversation for the night!" he charged severely. "If one of us slips on a robe, I think we might find a bottle of champagne chilling outside the door to the suite." "Champagne?" Ronnie arched a brow with amusement. "Mr. O'Hara, you do know how to treat a fiancee!"

"Of course." Drake grinned, lifting her slightly to give her underside a light swat. "And since I thought of the champagne— French, of course—I think you should run out and get it."

Giggling, Ronnie jumped from the bed. "This time, O'Hara. But don't get any ideas that I'll always jump when you swat!"

Drake laced his hands behind his head and made himself comfortable on the pillow while Ronnie grabbed a robe. "Hurry!" he ordered imperiously, ignoring her comment. "By the way—I hope you had a lot of sleep last night, because I don't want you to count on much tonight."

"Promises, promises!" Ronnie said mockingly, sighing.

Drake threw a pillow at her but missed. He grinned fully, his face a devil's mask.

"I always keep my promises."

Chapter Ten

They were married as planned three days later.

Pieter von Hurst did attend the wedding. The papers, of course, got hold of the story, but the three involved found outside perplexity over the situation nothing more than amusing.

Drake and Ronnie then flew to Chicago, where she met his parents. They were a charming couple, accepting her immediately with open arms. Drake's mother, an incredibly tiny woman to have produced such a son, was an attractive and spirited lady, literally pooh-poohing any fears Ronnie might have had about her being concerned with Ronnie's notoriety.

The senior O'Hara was a Gaelic charmer, and Ronnie could easily see where Drake had inherited his size, coloring, and dangerously charismatic eyes. His speech enchanted Ronnie; he still carried the lilt of a brogue after almost forty years in the States.

Drake watched with tolerant amusement as his parents and Ronnie instantly endeared themselves to one another. He had expected nothing less, and he thanked God fervently for both his mother and father when he saw the happiness in his bride's eyes that night. "Oh, Drake," she told him wonderously, "not only do I have you, but a family, too! It's been so long. . . ."

He chuckled and enveloped her in his arms tenderly. She was so terribly strong, yet so sweetly vulnerable. "You definitely have a family," he replied ruefully. "They've adopted you already. In act, I think they prefer their new daughter to their son!"

They weren't able to see much of Chicago, as Drake had spent

too much time away from work and had to put some time in at the main gallery. Ronnie didn't care. She assured Drake that the city wasn't going to go away, and spent her days between her in-laws' house and her own new home.

Drake's house was like the man—tasteful, fastidious, yet very warm and masculine. It was a split-level modern house done in brick and wood that complemented both the manicured lawn and rock garden and the untouched woodland that stretched behind it. A terrace of three-sided glass looked upon the rock garden, and Ronnie found herself continually drawn to the spot, trying to convince herself that the magical place was really her new home.

"Like it?" Drake asked, slipping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her head.

"Love it," Ronnie replied, slipping her hands over the pair that held her.

She ran her eyes over the room. Drake's love for art was apparent everywhere: exquisite sculptures adorned the tables, paintings decked the walls with clever display. A strong mac-rame swing extended from a brass fitting in the corner of the room like an intricately woven birdcage. Earth tone throw pillows were nestled into the seat, and Ronnie blissfully imagine hours of curling into its circumference with a good book, swinging lightly, looking up now and then to view the garden through the spotless glass.

"Change anything you want," Drake directed with a smile. "Hell—find a new house if you want! I am fond of this place, though. We have five acres, and we're still only a thirty-minute drive from the heart of the city."

"I love the house," Ronnie assured him, "and I don't want to change a thing. Except maybe the—"

"The what?"

"The bedroom." Ronnie grimaced ruefully. "Not that I don't like it"—she thought of the room with its high platform bed, polished oak bookshelves and dressers, and rich chocolate drapes and bedspread—"it's just a little too male!" She smiled slowly at

his confusion. "I want anyone who walks into that room to know that you do share it with a wife!"

Drake laughed, but while he was gone that afternoon a package arrived for her. It was a huge luxurious white alpaca spread. Drake hadn't signed his name, just the word
fantasy.

Ronnie laughed delightedly and quickly changed the spread It made a wonderful change, coupled with the feminine articles she now had resting on her dresser, it made the room very intimate, very much that of a couple. White drapes, she decided would be the finishing touch. But they could come later. . . .

When Drake returned home, his fantasy was fulfilled. She waited for him, swathed in the sheerest of black negligees stretched languorously 011 the fur, her hair a startling contrast of thick sable waves. Her eyes were those he had always imagined, captivating, seductive, heavy with a passion uniquely for him. . . . She was his marble beauty, half kitten, half tigress.

Later, when their bodies had cooled and they clung together beneath the fur for warmth, Drake tugged lightly at a strand of silky hair tangled in his fingers. His eyes were deeply brooding as Ronnie stared into them.

"Do you miss Von Hurst?" he asked softly.

"No," she answered with honesty, meeting his gaze before issuing light kisses on each corner of his mustache. "I went days without ever seeing Pieter when I lived on the island, and ..."

"And what?" Drake persisted, willing his mind off the lips that were stirring "his senses again.

She flushed lightly and buried her head in the black curls on his chest. "When I'm in your arms," she muffled softly to him, "I don't miss anything. I don't even remember that there is an outside world. . . ."

He stroked her hair, the contours of her back, and marveled at the wonderful combination of modesty and passion that was his wife. He had asked the question because they were returning to the island tomorrow. She had told the truth, and yet he still worried slightly. She had been away from the man she had cared for only a week, and she knew she would see him again. Her loyalty was deep, not easily broken. Would seeing him again tear her apart all over? There would be a finality to the break up of the barren island off Charleston's coast. . . .

He thought no more. Like her, he forgot there was an outside world when they came together in one another's arms.

The next days were grueling. Though Von Hurst appeared fit, and pleased to see them in an admirably friendly fashion, he could take little part in the work ahead. Hired labor took care of the transfer of animals and furniture, but as artists, neither Drake nor Pieter would trust the packing of the marble pieces to anyone else. Ronnie learned in those days that her new husband had a streak of perfectionism that was amazing. At least, she thought with dry tolerance as she repacked a box for the third time, he had the will and strength to ask no more than he gave.