Authors: Iris Johansen
“Well, then don’t forget it. I’m not sure I want you to dismiss it completely.” His lips pressed her temple. “I like the idea of your looking at me and remembering how much I want you. Perhaps tonight, as you’re lying in bed, you’ll think about what I’ve said and imagine what it would be like to have me there with you. No, don’t forget it. Just put it aside, and know my wanting you will never be a threat.” He was rocking her gently. “It can only bring pleasure, Beth.”
The snowflakes were falling around them in a lazy dreamlike tempo. She felt dreamlike, too, enfolded in darkness and strength and warmth. “I don’t want this, Jon,” she whispered. “You’re not the kind of man I want to have in my life. There’s too much violence in you. I can feel it all around me when I’m with you.”
“All around you, but never touching you. That’s why I’m here. So that you’ll never know anything but gentleness and tranquillity.”
Her answering laugh rang free and full of mirth. “I haven’t noticed any great degree of
tranquillity in the past two days of our ac quaintance.”
“Only because you’ve been fighting me at every turn. If you’d done what I told you to do, you wouldn’t have had to confront Bardot or—”
“I hate people who say ‘I told you so.’”
“I’ll try to restrain myself in the future.” His tone became grave, “In every way, Beth. I’m not as undisciplined as you might conclude. I won’t force an intimacy between us that you’re not ready for. I’m not about to rock the boat by scaring you away from me. I’ll take any thing you’ll give me. Sex, companionship.” He paused. “Love. Anything. The only thing I can’t tolerate is for our relationship to stand still. I’m not a patient man.”
“I suspected as much,” she said dryly. “Of the choices I’ve been given, I’ll opt for com panionship.”
“I was afraid you would.” His tone was faintly rueful. “Pity. The other alternatives I gave you would have been much more inter esting.”
“And riskier. I told you I wasn’t interested in taking chances. All I want is to be safe and keep Andrew safe.”
He slowly released her and stepped back. “Then, that’s what we’ll shoot for. Friends?”
“Friends,” she echoed softly.
“Now, I’d better get you inside and out of the cold.” His big hand ruffled her hair teasingly. “You look like you’re wearing a hood embroidered with snowflakes. You should have waited until I came in to have this discussion.”
“I’m not very patient myself, and you didn’t seem in any hurry to come back inside. You appeared absolutely fascinated by this winter wonderland.”
“It
is
a wonderland.” His hand beneath her elbow urged her toward the front door. As he opened it, an arrow of light illuminated his face. In that moment he didn’t look hard or violent at all. His dark eyes were shining with eagerness as he studied the exquisite delicacy of a snowflake caught for a moment out of time on the wool of his sleeve. “So beautiful. I’ve read the pattern of a snowflake never repeats itself.”
“I don’t think anyone has ever gone to the trouble to take an in-depth survey.” She gazed at him curiously. “You’re staring at that snow-flake as if you’ve never seen one before.”
“I haven’t. This is a first for me.”
Her eyes widened. “Your first snowstorm? How odd.”
The eagerness in his face was replaced by wariness. “Not so unusual. I grew up in desert country.”
She nodded slowly. “But if you were abroad for so many years I don’t see how you could have avoided running into snow somewhere. Where did you say you were stationed?”
“I didn’t say.” He shrugged. “I’ve batted around quite a bit, but principally in countries in the Southern Hemisphere.”
“No wonder you’ve kept that wonderful tan. Mark’s skin was that lovely bronze shade too. He grew up in a small town in New Mexico. Are you from New Mexico too?”
“We’re from the same general area.” Jon smiled as he closed the door. “You’d love my hometown, Beth. It’s a place where you’d never have to worry about the cold or ice.”
“It sounds wonderful.” She shivered a little as she shrugged out of Gunner’s jacket, opened the closet door, and reached for a hanger. “I visited Daytona, Florida, once and basked in the sun for two solid weeks. I loved every minute of it.”
“Yet you came back to the North.”
“I told you, my home is here. I believe in roots.” She glanced at him over her shoulder as she hung up the jacket. “I guess that sounds very provincial to a world traveler like you.”
“Why should it? It’s usually the people who have no roots who miss them the most.” His large hand closed over her smaller one, his fingers threading through her own. She felt a tiny
unexpected shock that robbed her of breath and caused her gaze to meet his. The atmosphere in the last few minutes had been so light, almost casual, she had forgotten the tremendous physical rapport they shared. But he had not forgotten. His eyes were narrowed on her face with understanding and a touch of satisfaction. “You’ll soon discover we have a good many other things in common.”
“Will I?” She couldn’t seem to tear her gaze away from his brilliant black eyes. The heat began to tingle and build within her and she forced herself to look away. “Well, I’m sure we have one thing in common. I’m absolutely starved. Shall we go and see if Gunner’s man aged to salvage dinner?”
The snow was falling more heavily now, Elizabeth noticed. It still hadn’t escalated into a major storm, but it was proceeding rapidly in that direction. Standing in front of the floor-length windows in her bedroom was almost like being outside in the storm’s midst. She pressed her palm to the glass. It was cold against her flesh. The contrast between the cold beneath her palm and the warmth of the room was pleasant, even faintly sensual.
She jerked her hand from the windowpane. Sensual. The adjective had popped into her
mind with a naturalness that bewildered and frightened her. She had never thought of her self as a sensual person. Her sex life with Mark had been quite satisfactory. He had been an understanding and skillful lover, and their lovemaking had been very gentle and sweet. It had been a pleasant part of their marriage, but certainly not a major part. If her sensuality was to be aroused by anyone, surely it should have been with Mark, the man she loved. Not by Jon Sandell.
Yet she was compelled to admit she had been thrown into a fever of arousal more than once tonight. One moment she would be talking and laughing with Gunner and Jon, and the next she would be watching the smooth, co-ordinated litheness of Jon’s movements as he crossed the room to stoke the logs in the fire place. She would look up from pouring a a cup of coffee and find her gaze clinging to the clean hard line of his lips. She would try to keep her gaze from his face and would focus on the lean strength of his hands, and wonder how those fingers would look against the paler flesh of her—
She closed her eyes. She didn’t want this. She didn’t want this aching between her thighs or the swelling sensitivity of her breasts. She didn’t want to look at him and know he wanted her.
At no time during the evening had he been anything but the perfect companion. He had not betrayed by word or glance anything deeper than avuncular amusement and affection. Yet every minute she had been as conscious of his hunger for her as she had been on the deck outside a few hours earlier. He wanted her to be aware. He had said it himself. He wanted her to lie in bed tonight and think of him.
Well, she wouldn’t do it. If she tried, she could block him out of her consciousness. She shrugged off the loose pink flannel robe and tossed it on the chair beside the window. She started to draw the yellow satin draperies closed, and then changed her mind. It would be soothing to watch the snow fall as she lay in bed. Better than counting sheep.
She slipped between the sheets and pulled the yellow coverlet up to her chin, her gaze fixed with lazy contentment on the falling snow beyond the window. She would go to sleep soon, and if she dreamed at all it would be of the child tucked beneath her heart. She would not permit Jon Sandell to invade her privacy.
The snow was a lovely lacy curtain sticking to the panes, each pattern totally unique. Who had said that? she wondered drowsily. Jon. She had a fleeting memory of his face as he
glanced down at the snowflake. Eagerness, wonder, excitement. Such a little thing to be come excited about.
Gunner Nilsen had betrayed the same joyous excitement as he blundered down the dangerous ski slope that afternoon. She would have to remember to ask Gunner tomorrow if he came from desert country too.
She nestled her cheek deeper into the soft ness of her pillow. The clean scent of starch and soap filled her nostrils, and the snow curtain was blurring before her eyes. The crackle of the burning logs in the fireplace was a soothing sound. She would
not
think about Jon Sandell. A few minutes more and she would be asleep, and the danger would be over.
The snow. There was something she should remember about the snow. Something that had been nibbling at her memory since she had seen Jon’s expression as he looked down at the snowflake. But she wasn’t going to think about Jon. Her lids refused to stay open any longer. She had won. Jon had lost.
Yet, had she won? She could see him so clearly even as she wavered on the edge of sleep. Jon standing at the window with his back to her watching the snow gather on the paddles of the mill wheel. His hands jammed in the pockets of the hunter-green wool robe
she had bought for him, and on his face the same expression of wonder that had been there tonight. No, that was wrong. She had never bought a robe for Jon. It was Mark who had stood at the window of her bedroom over thirteen months ago gazing out at the first snow of the season. The memory that had eluded her was suddenly there before her. She had come up behind Mark and slipped her arm in his, murmuring something about the ice on the roads. He hadn’t answered or made any comment but had continued to stare out the window for a long, long time with wonder and delight. Not Jon, but Mark….
“You don’t like this house do you?”
Elizabeth looked from the modernistic painting over the fireplace to Jon sitting next to her on the couch. “Why do you say that? It’s a very luxurious house. I’ve been very comfortable here this week.”
“You were examining that painting as if it were a particularly repulsive cockroach.”
She shrugged. “I don’t like abstracts. I sup pose it has something to do with my Yankee mentality. I have to have everything forthright and honest, no half-truths or subliminal per ceptions.” She studied the craggy boldness of
his face. “I think you’re a man who appreciates total honesty.”
He glanced back at the painting and a faint smile curved his lips. “I thought I was at one time. Lately, I’ve found there are a hell of a lot of things that aren’t what they seem to be at first glance.” His gaze shifted back to the painting. “But it’s not only the painting that bothers you. You aren’t at ease here.”
She should have known he’d sense the slight discomfort she was experiencing. He had appeared to be conscious of even her tiniest shift of mood during the past week. She felt his gaze on her with constant alertness as if it were vi tally important that he observe and memorize everything she thought and did. She supposed it should have made her uncomfortable, but somehow it hadn’t. Instead, she felt protected and treasured. How odd that a sense of perfect security could exist side by side with the in tense sexual awareness between them.
Only a brilliant and extremely confident man could invoke and balance those two elements successfully. But then Jon
was
brilliant, and no one could doubt his self-confidence. She had also found he had a rapier wit and a passion for learning that was truly amazing. The intensity he possessed as one of his prime characteristics, became as irrepressible as the tide when channeled on any project or
thought. The excellent library he had mentioned on the day they arrived was in constant use. A casual word to Jon could spark a search for knowledge that would last for hours or even days. His enthusiasm was utterly contagious, and she and Gunner found themselves constantly swept up and carried away by it. Though she had found out more than she ever wanted to know about stained glass, she thought ruefully. And all because she had re marked that the prismed sunlight pouring through the kitchen window reminded her of a Tiffany panel.
If Jon’s driving intensity hadn’t been tempered by a droll sense of humor, he would have been impossible to tolerate. Just when she was frustrated and ready to tell him where he could shove his precious research, he said something that made her laugh. The next minute she would find herself reaching for another encyclopedia or reference book and telling herself she was really doing this for herself, not the maddening man sitting at the desk across the library. After all, she had always wanted to know how stained glass was crafted.
It had been a week of learning for her in more ways than one. The long walks in the snow, the card games in the evening, these periods of peace and contentment in front of the fire after Gunner had gone to bed. They had
all taught her facets of Jon Sandell she wouldn’t have dreamed existed.
Jon’s lips lifted in a lazy smile. “You’re looking at me as if I’ve just been placed in the same category as the abstract.”
“Was I?” Her brown eyes twinkled as she leaned back. “Well, you can’t say you’re either open or forthright. You’ve very definitely avoided revealing anything about your mysterious past.” She held up her hand to stop him as he opened his mouth to speak. “Don’t tell me. I know. I have to wait until after the baby is born. It doesn’t bother me any longer. I’m getting accustomed to men of mystery trekking through my life. I certainly don’t lie awake nights wondering if you’re hired mercenaries or—”
“Really? What do you lie awake and wonder about?” he asked softly.
How your hands would feel on my naked breasts. How your tongue would feel on … The answer sprang full-blown into being. But she didn’t wonder about those forbidden things. She very carefully kept herself from doing so. Her chest tightened and her tongue moistened her lower lip. “I don’t wonder about anything. I go right to sleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.”