A Season for Love (9 page)

Ronnie had probably never taken more care to dress in her life. But her clothes that night would be like a knight's shield of heavy armor, They would protect her from searing dark eyes that could thrust daggers into her soul.

Her hair, clean and fragrantly scented, was piled on her head in burnished waves of gleaming sable, Delicate diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes, catching and reflecting the deep midnight blue of her silk cocktail sheath. Loathe to play the coward, she had chosen the backless dress on purpose, knowing it displayed the shapely contours Pieter found so fascinating for his sculpture.

At five o'clock she was standing beside her husband in the elegant entry hall, her hand resting lightly on Pieter's velvet-clad arm, evidencing none of the turmoil that raged through her.

Pieter looked well that night. Despite his gauntness, he was a tall man and, with the shoulders of his tailored suit well padded, he enhanced the illusion of a delicate form of health—one that befitted a dedicated artist.

Ronnie's hand tightened in an involuntary shudder as Henri opened the doors. It was the first time in their married life that she had leaned upon Pieter. But her face remained impassive. Even as Drake O'Hara moved into the hallway, towering in the shadow of the encroaching dusk, she stood immobile, a polite smile of greeting frozen on her placid face.

"Drake!" Pieter moved forward to shake the enthusiastically outstretched hand of the younger, more robust man, and Ronnie blinked once as she realized the two men had met at some previous time.

"Pieter," Drake returned, a smile warming the sinister male darkness of his angular features. "You're looking good, damn good."

It was then that his eyes flickered with glittering anticipation to Ronnie, and then froze, locked, and turned to pits of the deepest dark hell.

Ronnie wasn't breathing. She waited, too numb to pray.

But though his telltale eyes burned her heart to quaking cinders, Drake's face registered no change, unless it was a wry lift to one corner of his mustache-covered lip.

She, after all, had been prepared. He hadn't.

"Forgive me, Pieter, for staring," Drake said, his cool smile deepening for Pieter's benefit. "Your wife"—he inclined his head to Ronnie—"has an uncanny beauty."

"Ah, yes." Pieter was pleased by Drake's statement, noticing nothing amiss. "Come here, my dear, and meet a longtime friend and comrade, Drake O'Hara. Drake, my wife, Veronica."

It took every ounce of willpower Ronnie had to raise her hand and have it engulfed by Drake's powerful, punishing one. "Mr. O'Hara," she managed coolly, "welcome to our home."

"Thank you," he replied, refusing to lift his burning gaze from hers. "Please, call me Drake. I believe the circumstances warrant a first-name basis."

Smiling wanly, Ronnie delicately withdrew her hand, tugging slightly. He released her with a casual finesse.

"Pieter." Ronnie turned to her husband. "Shall we adjourn to the salon for drinks?" Damn, she needed a drink. She was grateful that Drake had seen fit to hold his silence, and mercifully control his recognition, but still, if she was to endure the condemnation in his hell-fire eyes, she needed a drink. Probably several.

"Yes, by all means." Pieter was actually sounding jovial. He clapped his hand upon Drake's back, his bony fingers ludicrous against the imposing breadth. "Come, my friend, it's been years. We have a lot of catching up to do."

Ronnie sailed ahead of the two men, listening vaguely to their chatter about Chicago, the state of the arts, and the Von Hursts' home on the island. In the comfortably tasteful salon she hurried to the small but well-stocked rosewood bar and slipped behind it, feeling absurdly that she had found another shield. Any distance between herself and Drake was beneficial. She knew his eyes followed her relentlessly; she could sense them as if they were tangible fires, and she refused to look into them.

"Drake, what can I get you?" she inquired, busily setting up glasses. She dropped ice into only two of them, knowing that when her husband drank, it was neat Scotch. He still abhorred the American custom of cold liquor.

"A bourbon, please, with a splash of soda," Drake replied politely. He leaned his vibrant form against the bar, forcing her to an awareness of the leashed energy that composed him. His fingers closed over hers again as she pushed his glass toward him, tightening momentarily and drawing from her a shiver of apprehension. From the corner of her eye she could see that he had felt the shiver, and that it had given him grave satisfaction. His lips were twisted into a dry, hard grin.

Ronnie mentally squared her shoulders. She couldn't allow him to believe he could intimidate her. Moving serenely from the bar without glancing his way, she brought the crystal rock glass of straight Scotch to Pieter and, carrying her own highball of Seagram's and Seven, chose an encompassing provincial chair apart from the others. The men seated themselves after her and immediately fell back into comfortable, reacquainting conversation. Sipping on the drink she had made much stronger than usual, Ronnie let their words float around her head, learning that her husband and Drake had met years before: once in Pieter's Dutch homeland, and once in Chicago. The first American showing of Pieter's work had been at Drake's galleries, hence Drake's determination now to push Pieter to greater productivity.

"You've been hiding out on this island too long," Drake told Pieter. He seemed perfectly at ease, one long leg crossed over the other at an angle, his hand resting on one knee. Ronnie was sure she had been temporarily forgotten, but then he turned to her. "Of course, that's perfectly understandable. Had I your lovely wife, I might be tempted to spirit her away to an island myself."

It was a perfectly innocent compliment. Only Ronnie understood the undertones.
Keep her safely
away
from all others.

Pieter was pleased as always when reference was made to his wife's beauty. He chuckled quietly, and, at another time, Ronnie would have been equally pleased to see the happiness that was easing the terrible strain of his pinched features. "Ronnie and I find great pleasure in our island. We seldom leave it."

"Ah," Drake inferred with a teasing tone, "but you must sometimes!"

Ronnie unfurled from her chair and rose gracefully to her feet. "I believe I shall fix myself another drink," she said smoothly, ignoring Drake's comment. "How about you, gentlemen?"

Pieter declined, but Drake grinned at her cruelly. "Please."

As hostess she had no choice but to walk to him and retrieve his empty glass. And at that moment she hated him intensely. It was obvious that her wishful assessment had been correct; Drake admired Pieter and would say or do nothing to hurt him.

But he didn't intend to let her forget a thing. It was evident that he was barely concealing his disdain, evident that he believed whatever torture he inflicted upon her was more than warranted.

Taking Drake's glass as swiftly as was conceivably polite, Ronnie met his gaze for an instant of open hostility, determined not to wilt before his fire. She spun away from him and retreated once more to the bar, grateful for the mechanical tasks that kept her moving with the natural autonomy of a brilliantly programmed robot.

She was also grateful for the years that had bred self-restraint. If she had had to depend on instinct, she would have run screaming into the night, hands clenched tightly to her head to drown out the clamoring emotions that pierced through the numbness that had claimed her.

Her heart bled for Pieter. And she hated Drake. Hated him for judging without knowing . . . hated him with even more vehemence, because she knew that by all outward appearances he had come to the only possible conclusions. . . .

Yet she hated him mostly because of her own sense of bewilderment and shame. When he looked at her, when his hands grazed over hers, when she inhaled the too-familiar drugging scent that exuded from his coiled frame, she wanted him again. Sensitivities that had lain dormant all those years had been reawakened by this man who now despised her, but God help her, despite his scorn, despite her honest but different love for Pieter, she couldn't stop her tormented mind from bringing her back to those cherished hours of curling against his magnificent naked form. . . .

Ronnie didn't attempt to meet Drake's eyes as she returned his fresh drink and once more took her chair. The conversation turned to the quality of various marble, and she found herself speaking occasionally, her tone deadened, but all her inflections in the right place.

This time her drink was almost straight Seagram's. She welcomed the choking heat that burned down her throat, blazing much-needed bravado through her system.

After dinner, she was going to lock herself in her room and get rip-roaring drunk. The next day's hangover would be a small price to pay for that night's solace.

Henri made one of his proper entrances to announce that dinner was served. Pieter and Drake both sprang to their feet to escort her graciously into the formal dining room. Despite the warmth of the liquor, Drake's touch on her arm was as hot as a branding iron; his sardonic grin as he towered above her as cutting as an unsheathed foil.

It was impossible for her to do anything more than pick at the excellent meal of stuffed grouse that she had planned for the evening. The crystals of the multifaceted chandelier swam together above her head, fogging the brilliant colors of the flowers she had cut with such complacency earlier in the day.

"Certainly," she suddenly heard Drake saying dryly. "A gem above all others."

Ronnie's eyes rose from absent concentration on her plate to glance quickly from man to man. They had been discussing her openly, and she hadn't heard a word that was said.

"An amazing talent," Drake continued, raising his wineglass a hair as he steadily returned her inadvertent glance. "Uniquely stunning; the most charming chatelaine. I'm sure all of her . . . ah . . . talents, are equally pleasing."

There was no way to prevent the rush of crimson that stained her face in a wild flush of fury. How could he be so insinuative with Pieter at the same table?

Because Pieter was blissfully unaware. The comment meant nothing to him. Only Ronnie knew the degrading implication. . . .

"Ronnie excels at nothing so well as being my model," Pieter was saying cheerfully, oblivious to the color of his wife's face as he studiously cut his food. "But you'll see what I mean tomorrow."

"What?" The squeaked question was out before Ronnie realized she had voiced it.

Pieter finally looked up, frowning. "I told you, Ronnie, Drake is also a sculptor. I intend to draw him into our work." His brooding gaze left her to travel to Drake with a hint of pride. "This young man could probably have far surpassed me in genius if his interests weren't so diversified. His hands war with his mind—art and business. But he has come to push
me.
I intend to push in return and involve him in our project."

Ronnie placed her fork down and reached for her water glass, dismayed by the trembling that assailed her fingers. She couldn't possibly model with Drake in the room. Pieter was carving the curves of her back into pink marble. Sitting for her husband was clinical. Sitting, clothed only in drapery, while the two chiseled and discussed human anatomy, using her like the marble beneath their hands, would be enough to drive her over the brink.

She would be like a fish out of water, exposed, totally vulnerable to whatever verbal attack Drake chose to make.

And he knew it. He raised his glass higher to her as a single brow quirked high in cynical amusement. "I shall be looking forward to tomorrow."

Ronnie drained the entire glass of water, only to find that the effort still did nothing to dampen her desert-dry throat.

There could be no tomorrow. She was determined and adamant. But now was not the time to argue with Pieter. They did not argue, or even "discuss," in front of others, but this was one time she would make an unrelenting stand against the man she strove to please in all other ways.