A Season for Love (8 page)

But her heart cried out that it was impossible to be untrue to a husband who had never been one with her. She vaguely wondered what her life might have been like had Jamie not senselessly lost his life to drugs. But that was all so long ago. It was in her extreme youth; it was the past. She could barely remember Jamie's face. When she tried to recall it, another appeared—that of Drake O'Hara. And she was back to self-incrimination. . . .

"Mrs. von Hurst?"

"Yes?" Ronnie glanced up as Henri stepped quietly into the salon where she continued to absently trim leaves from her flowers.

"You requested the name of your guest. He is Mister Drake O'Hara of Chicago, Illinois, owner and proprietor of the American International Galleries. Mr. von Hurst would like you to be aware that—Mrs. von Hurst! Are you quite all right, madam?"

Ronnie wasn't all right. The room was spinning around her, going completely black, and spinning around her again. Her heart had ceased to beat. She felt as if she had been drained of blood.

"Mrs. von Hurst!"

For once Henri dropped his cold dignity to rush to her side, appalled by the parchment-white color that had overtaken his usually healthy mistress. He caught her just as her slender body wavered and angled toward the floor.

Ronnie snapped back into physical control at Henri's touch, numb, but aware that she needed to be coherent. Blotting the panic out of her mind and wondering what cruel trick of fate could make such a thing happen, she forced herself to breathe and to find a voice to reply to Henri as she straightened from his saving hold.

"The sun, Henri, I think I stayed out to long. ... Could you please . . . would you get me a glass of water?"

"Certainly, Mrs. von Hurst," Henri exclaimed, loathe to release her until she was seated. "Certainly . . . immediately. ..." Watching her with concern, he hurried to carry out his errand.

Ronnie closed her eyes and kept breathing deeply, willing her heart to beat normally and her blood to pulse regularly through her veins. It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. There had to be another Drake O'Hara.

And yet she knew there wasn't.

She had been destined to meet the man she had chosen wildly as a companion in a clandestine affair long before she had ever seen his intensely probing, magnetic, dark-brown eyes. . . .

He's coming here!
she thought desperately, struck by another wave of panic.
Oh, God, oh no, oh no. . . .

Henri walked quickly back into the room with a glass of cool water. Ronnie accepted it with a grateful smile and drained it in a moment. Smiling up at the butler, she thanked him.

"Perhaps I should call the doctor," Henri said doubtfully.

"No! Heavens, no!" Ronnie exclaimed hastily. "I'm fine. Really fine, I promise you. It was just the heat. And Henri—I would prefer it if we not mention this little spell of mine to Mr. von Hurst. I fear it might needlessly upset him."

"As you wish, madam."

Henri was quick to agree with her. He knew that there were days when Pieter von Hurst totally ignored his wife, but he also knew that the temperamental artist would worry incessantly if he thought anything was wrong.

"Now"—Ronnie leaned back in her chair with a bright smile affixed to her face—"you were telling me about . . . er . . . this man. Drake O'Hara. Was there anything else Mr. von Hurst wanted me to know?"

She listened, registering facts without really hearing. O'Hara, a man who dabbled in sculpture himself, owned the most prestigious galleries in the Midwest. His shows were legendary; he could make or break an artist with a single critique.

It was shocking, really, that she hadn't known the name. But, she had been in Paris and then on a remote island for many years.

"Thank you, Henri," Ronnie told him placidly, hoping she could trust her legs to carry her. "I think I'll go up to my room and rest for a bit."

"Shall I have Gretel send you a luncheon tray?" Obviously Henri was still concerned.

Ronnie smiled wanly. "Yes, thank you, that would be nice. . . ."

She made it up the spiral staircase to her room, where she sat numbly at the foot of the bed.

In a matter of a few short hours she was going to have to stand in the doorway and greet a man as a total stranger who she already knew more thoroughly than any human being. . . .

They would be staying under the same roof for God only knew how long.

It was impossible! What was she going to do? How could she endure seeing him day after day?

And, dear God, what was going to happen when Drake saw her? His opinion of married women who carried on affairs had been blatant. He had loved her so fiercely, and now he scorned her with equal fervor. Would he deem it proper to tell Pieter?

A laugh of hysteria was rising in her throat. Pieter, in his present mood, might be pleased to discover she had taken a lover

For once Henri dropped his cold dignity to rush to her side, appalled by the parchment-white color that had overtaken his usually healthy mistress. He caught her just as her slender body wavered and angled toward the floor.

Ronnie snapped back into physical control at Henri's touch, numb, but aware that she needed to be coherent. Blotting the panic out of her mind and wondering what cruel trick of fate could make such a thing happen, she forced herself to breathe and to find a voice to reply to Henri as she straightened from his saving hold.

"The sun, Henri, I think 1 stayed out to long. ... Could you please . . . would you get me a glass of water?"

"Certainly, Mrs. von Hurst," Henri exclaimed, loathe to release her until she was seated. "Certainly . . . immediately...." Watching her with concern, he hurried to carry out his errand.

Ronnie closed her eyes and kept breathing deeply, willing her heart to beat normally and her blood to pulse regularly through her veins. It wasn't possible. It simply wasn't possible. There had to be another Drake O'Hara.

And yet she knew there wasn't.

She had been destined to meet the man she had chosen wildly as a companion in a clandestine affair long before she had ever seen his intensely probing, magnetic, dark-brown eyes. . . .

He's coming here!
she thought desperately, struck by another wave of panic.
Oh, God, oh no, oh no. .. .

Henri walked quickly back into the room with a glass of cool water. Ronnie accepted it with a grateful smile and drained it in a moment. Smiling up at the butler, she thanked him.

"Perhaps I should call the doctor," Henri said doubtfully.

"No! Heavens, no!" Ronnie exclaimed hastily. "I'm fine. Really fine, I promise you. It was just the heat. And Henri—I would prefer it if we not mention this little spell of mine to Mr. von Hurst. I fear it might needlessly upset him."

"As you wish, madam."

Henri was quick to agree with her. He knew that there were days when Pieter von Hurst totally ignored his wife, but he also knew that the temperamental artist would worry incessantly if he thought anything was wrong.

"Now"—Ronnie leaned back in her chair with a bright smile affixed to her face—"you were telling me about . . . er . . . this man. Drake O'Hara. Was there anything else Mr. von Hurst wanted me to know?"

She listened, registering facts without really hearing. O'Hara, a man who dabbled in sculpture himself, owned the most prestigious galleries in the Midwest. His shows were legendary; he could make or break an artist with a single critique.

It was shocking, really, that she hadn't known the name. But, she had been in Paris and then on a remote island for many years.

"Thank you, Henri," Ronnie told him placidly, hoping she could trust her legs to carry her. "I think I'll go up to my room and rest for a bit."

"Shall I have Gretel send you a luncheon tray?" Obviously Henri was still concerned.

Ronnie smiled wanly. "Yes, thank you, that would be nice. . . ."

She made it up the spiral staircase to her room, where she sat numbly at the foot of the bed.

In a matter of a few short hours she was going to have to stand in the doorway and greet a man as a total stranger who she already knew more thoroughly than any human being. . . .

They would be staying under the same roof for God only knew how long.

It was impossible! What was she going to do? How could she endure seeing him day after day?

And, dear God, what was going to happen when Drake saw her? His opinion of married women who carried on affairs had been blatant. He had loved her so fiercely, and now he scorned her with equal fervor. Would he deem it proper to tell Pieter?

A laugh of hysteria was rising in her throat. Pieter, in his present mood, might be pleased to discover she had taken a lover ... but certainly not amused to find that he had invited his wife's impetuous lover into his own home.

All she could do was pray that Drake showed no sign of recognition until she could talk to him alone and convince him that upsetting Pieter could be dangerous to his condition. Supposedly the great gallery owner was visiting Pieter because he admired and respected the great artist. Surely he would do nothing to harm such an illustrious idol.

Ronnie's slender fingers wound into tense fists, her nails tearing into her own flesh. She pounded against the mattress with venom and despair, striking the thick padding until she wore herself out.

It was impossible! she kept railing in whispered curses to whatever deity lurked above. Incredible, impossible.

But it was happening.

And somehow she was going to have to not only live through it but carry the entire thing off without the hint of a hitch. She couldn't afford the luxury of more tears or hysteria.

She had to prepare herself to walk down the staircase with all the effortless poise of the irreproachably elegant Mrs. Pieter von Hurst.

Chapter Three