A Season for Love (3 page)

Ronnie inhaled a sharp breath, meeting Drake's dark gaze, perpetuating no pretense at the intensity of the purely physical pleasure she was experiencing. That which had been hidden away so long it had almost been forgotten, rose to the surface with a crippling poignancy. Just to be beside this man was excitement enough to send waves of heat washing through her—a heat that felt so damn good. She was, after all, a mature woman, so long denied. And even though the reason for her denial was a part of her heart, she couldn't fight this intrinsic beauty that had been granted her.

"Thank you," she said, taking the drink he offered her, once more aware of the beauty of the power of masculine hands. "To the cruise," she offered, tipping her glass to his.

"To the cruise," he repeated solemnly, his black eyes smoldering into pits of raven coal. A saint would be shaking on a pedestal with her so near. "And to you, Ronnie."

"Thank you," she murmured again, and he thought he perceived a soft blush. "Drake..." she said, in afterthought, seeming to twirl his name on her tongue as if she savored it. Averting her eyes for a moment, she took a sip of her drink. "Where are you from, Drake?" she queried.

He could have sworn she was somewhat anxious, which was peculiar, because conversation didn't really seem to interest her.

"The Midwest," he replied, sure that his answer pleased her. 'Chicago. How about you?"

She smiled again, and this time the curl of her lips lit a true warmth into her eyes. "That's obvious, isn't it?" Her chuckle was as low and melodious as her voice.

"Yes, it is," he answered, his grin deepening to disclose a cleft in his chin she'd yet to discover. "But from where in the South?"

"Oh, ah—Georgia."

She was lying, but why? At this point he had no desire to challenge her. Sitting together, talking, was taking away the initial edge. She had tensed when she lied—a dead giveaway. But other than that, she had begun to truly relax in his presence, as if she had made a decision to trust him completely Despite her cool sophistication, that trust drew out all his male instincts. Somewhere on a level beneath conscious thought, it was registering with him that she was all he had ever wanted in a woman. Assured yet reserved, aloof yet incredibly warm. He had the feeling that he had touched upon the tip of an iceberg—and that a wealth awaited him beneath the surface. That wealth would be a host of wonders—intelligence, loyalty, and wit to match her rare beauty and poise.

When she spoke, the mystical blue of her eyes was enchantment; when she laughed, it became a shimmering pool of the deepest enticement.

And yet she held that reserve, so he agreeably tread slowly. She shied from personal conversation; they discussed the world and society at large. Time, space, land. He wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman, but he had never wanted more to woo a woman, to cajole and to please, to care for and to protect.

That evening it was dinner. Just dinner. When he left her at the door to her cabin, he barely brushed her lips.

His rewards were great—breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and delightful times in between, the next day. She hesitated each time she gave him a yes, as if she struggled inwardly. But he asked nothing of her. He was willing to wait for her, for whatever time she needed. He was planning on a long-range assault, and the stakes he slowly realized he was seeking were infinitely high.

Another night passed with his softly brushing her lips at her cabin door; a night that ended a day in which they had both veered from personal queries.

Talk and questions that delved could come later. They simply savored one another's company.

On Sunday afternoon they sat together by the pool again, uniquely comfortable in a companionable since.

Ronnie's eyes were only half open as she regarded the water, dazzling as it rippled beneath the sun. She was being foolish, and she knew it. But she hadn't been able to refuse Drake, because she didn't want to. She closed her eyes tightly for a minute, against pain, against remorse, against guilt. It might be wrong to want to feel, to cherish this being alive and young and vibrant near this extraordinary man, but in the end, what difference did it make? She would never see him again; who could she hurt but herself?

And how much worse could she possibly hurt?

For years now she had learned to tolerate pain, withdrawing from it into an inner shell. She had learned to be strong; she had learned to turn her cheek. She had done it, because underneath it all she knew she was desperately needed . . . and despite all, still loved. And though her love had changed as the love given to her had, it was still there, along with the memories she could not betray.

This wasn't betrayal, her heart suddenly raged with a surge of rebellion that brought tears to her eyes. She deserved this little happiness she had found. Everyone needed something... or else they cracked. And she couldn't crack. No matter what, she couldn't crack. . . .

She was the wall that was leaned upon.

Except now, with Drake. It still made her slightly nervous to have his undivided masculine attention after having been denied such attention for so long. He held her arm, he took her hand, he guided. It was wonderful. It would be so easy to become accustomed to having his strength ... to his taking any weight from her own shoulders. . . .

"What's wrong?" he suddenly asked, his perceptive dark gaze upon her with instant concern.

She blinked, marveling at how quickly he could read her slightest change of mood. She couldn't allow him to read her so well.

"The sun," she told him with a quick smile. "I left my glasses below."

He insisted they go and get them. She laughed and said she would go herself, but he was determined to accompany her, and he was a very difficult man to dissuade. Impossible, actually, to dissuade.

He followed her into her cabin, and she made a hasty show of searching for her sunglasses.

But suddenly she froze as she delved through a dresser. She could feel his eyes; she could feel his heat. He made no movement, he didn't touch her, but the very air of the cabin seemed charged with an electrical current that was naturally sensual, irrefutably real.

God, how she wanted him, needed him.

It was wrong--It was a dream, yet she so desperately needed that dream.

She straightened, dropping all pretense. Their eyes met. And then, with no further thought, she shortened the space between them and flew into his arms.

They engulfed her, with love, with need, with security, with tenderness.

"Oh, Ronnie," he groaned hoarsely from his chest, "what do you want?"

"I want you to make love to me," she told him honestly, tilting her chin up at him with pride.

She was blatantly honest, beautifully honest, and as her gaze remained amazingly steady there was a tremulous hint of yearning in her tone. A sweet, sweet poignancy.

"Lady," he murmured, his whisper brushing over the top of her hair, "you have got me."

With standing impudence and warmth, her arms clung tighter, relishing in the feel of taut bronze muscles. They constricted and rippled at her touch, drawing a barely perceptible groan from him. Abashed at her brazen impetuousness, Ronnie slipped away for a moment, shaking her wet head in an effort to cover the crimson coloring that was sneaking up her cheeks. What must he think? That she was starved?

She was.

But though her honesty didn't bother her—she could never have played the scene with hypocritical coyness—the urgency that was building within her did. They had the rest of the day, the night. That was it—the dream would be over. It shouldn't matter what he thought of her, but it did.

"Ronnie."

His voice rang with a gentle command, and as she turned back to him, she saw that there was a tenderness in his coal-dark eyes. "You're wonderful," he told her gravely, his look emphasizing his sincerity. "Like a beautiful breath of fresh air. Please don't be ashamed. Not with me. I love it that you want me . . . that you come to me."

He extended his arms to her, and she rushed back to them, choking a sob as she buried her head into the crisp black hair of his chest, finding that sense of comfort in his powerful hold that she craved emotionally as her body craved his physically.

No, she would deny herself nothing today. She would take until she was satiated; she would give for all that she was worth. And then keep giving.

She tilted her head back with all this in the iridescence of her eyes. She brought her fingers to lock into the rich thickness of his black hair, touching it with devouring reverence. His eyes began to smolder once more as they bored into hers, still carrying that infinite tenderness. His lips touched upon hers softly, the touch of his mustache tickling delightfully. These things she savored sweetly for a cherishable moment, her own mouth pliant, her lips moistly parted. Then a brushfire began, a longing, a yearning, a needing, of such intensity that it stole her breath away. It took her from the confines of the cabin to a haven where sight, sound, and reality were all lost in abandon to one overwhelming sensation—him.

Drake too had obliterated all conscious thought that didn't have to do with the splendor in his arms. He had meant to be nothing but completely gentle, but the thirst of her response to his first soft touch inflamed his blood to boiling in heedless seconds. Her body molded to his as he kissed her, his tongue probing, plundering, and then ravishing. Never had he come across a woman of a more beautiful, natural sensuality. The satin of her skin was alive and warm, vibrant against him. Her breasts were pressed to his chest firmly, only the scanty bikini top separating the flesh that demanded to touch flesh. He fumbled for the tie as they locked together in that first devastating kiss. Slipping the offensive material away, he allowed it to fall haphazardly to the floor. A groan rumbled from deep within his throat as he felt her hardened nipples now press into his chest with exotic demand. His hands had to experience the pleasure. Fingers that had developed an extra sensitivity crept between the melded bodies to fondle and caress, circling, grazing, finding a firm fullness that swelled beneath his mastery.

He broke the kiss because he had to see her. He had to stare into the beautiful blue eyes that were dilated with passion, had to watch the rapid rise and fall of those perfect proud breasts, had to view with insatiable hunger the exoticism of still hardening, rose-tipped nipples beneath the play of his callused, foraging thumbs.

Funny that he had ever thought of her as marble. Marble was cool, cold to the touch. There was nothing cold about her. She was alive with titillating warmth, vibrant, vital, beautiful, breathing flesh and blood. . . .

"Exquisite," he gasped aloud, bringing forth from her a radiating sigh of sweet gratitude that was the most potent intoxication he could imagine. He lifted her into his arms, aware that his desire was raging out of control, but also aware that she needed that savage demand from him. And there was nothing that could ignite a man more than the sure knowledge that
he was
wanted as badly as he wanted. . . .

Although his body decried him, he had to pause as he slipped the bikini briefs from her undulating hips. Again, he had to see her. Against the starched white of the sheets, she was a golden goddess. Her waist, as he had known, was minuscule, her hips flared in a perfect curve, her breasts magnificent mounds of divinity. Her legs were uncanny, long, slender, majestically shapely.... His assessment was a slow, self-induced torture, but he couldn't tear his eyes away, not even with the anticipation of touching her again, of taking her as his own completely.

"Drake!" She called his name imploringly, arms outstretched, to break his hypnotic state. And she watched him with awe as he cast aside his own swim trunks to lower himself beside her.

She touched him without hesitancy, free of inhibition, weaving a spell upon him that would never be broken. He had never known a woman to offer so much, to elicit, to respond with such sweetly delicious abandon and unwavering passion. Their hands simultaneously explored what their eyes had discovered, and warmth was soon the blue-gold fire of a blazing inferno.