Garden of the Moongate (8 page)

She felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. Her cheeks lost all color as she shook her head. "You mean you think… you think I… I want…"

"I know what you want," he said roughly, drawing her closer. "I've known all day what you want. The message is the same, though I must admit you had an imaginative approach. This is the first time a girl has tried to maim me all day, then offered to make it all up to me in the evening."

Allendre gasped softly, humiliation burning every inch of her skin. She pushed his hands away and hastily moved out of his reach. "I want you to know I have no intention of making up anything to you this evening or any other evening, because everything that happened today was purely accidental!"

"Come on, I'm not in the mood for games," he answered with some impatience.

"And I'm not playing them," she whispered furiously, glaring up at him. "You're really incredible, did you know that? How dare you assume I'm eager to jump into bed with you?"

"Because I know when I'm being chased," he answered calmly. "Why else would you have thrown yourself into my arms twice, then snuggled up to me to go to sleep on the plane? It was fairly obvious what you wanted, and since I'm quite willing to oblige…"

"You pompous, conceited, chauvinistic—"

"Watch what you call me, little Allie," he muttered, taking a threatening step toward her. "You've irritated me enough for one day without pulling this outraged-innocent routine on me tonight. But I suppose you're insulted because I was crass enough to put your unique method of picking up men into words. Well, sorry, but I like a little honesty in my relationships. If you don't, maybe we'd better just forget the whole thing."

Her palms itched to make contact with his tanned face, but she clenched them together in front of her instead. "Forgetting you will be a pleasure, Mr. Shannon," she announced tautly, despising herself for the tremor she heard in her voice. "I should have known I couldn't trust you to even
act
nice for very long. After all, all day long you've been an ill-tempered, ill-mannered, unpredictable son of a…" At the ominous flaring of light in his gray eyes her words halted somewhere in her throat, and she flounced away, marching through the moongate and back along the path without even a glance back over her shoulder. Impossible, obnoxious man! Egotistical! And rude! How dare he think she had been chasing after him all day! She wouldn't have him if he crawled to her and begged her forgiveness! If only she'd never seen him in the first place…

Forcing herself to at least appear composed, she inclined her head in greeting when she met Debra Hopkins on the path. But she clenched her fists at her sides when she heard Debra's simpering greeting to Ric.

"You're not still mad at me, are you, Patrick?" Deb cajoled, her voice nearly dripping saccharine sweetness. "If you are, maybe we could go to your cottage and make up again. Okay?"

"Sure, Deb, why not?" he answered. "In fact, that sounds like a capital idea."

"In fact, that sounds like a capital idea," Allendre mimicked furiously beneath her breath as she marched on, berating herself for falling for his charming ways even for a minute. He was utterly impossible, and she couldn't wait to forget she'd ever met him. But her shoulders drooped slightly. She suspected it wouldn't be so easy to forget how he had made her feel before she had realized exactly what he wanted from her.

By nine-thirty the next morning, Allendre was on the beach. Gentle waves broke in creamy cascades on the coral-tinted sand, dragging at her feet as she gingerly waded into the water. Though it was a bit chillier than she had expected, she forged ahead, taking a deep breath as she plunged in. A brisk scissor stroke soon warmed her thoroughly, and she stretched back to float on the incredibly placid surface. Her eyes closed, she drifted back toward shore on the gentle incoming waves, but before she reached the point where she could touch bottom, she flipped over and swam out again.

Despite her weariness yesterday, she had spent a very restless night, due without a doubt to her escapade with Ric in the garden. She was no longer sure whom she despised more—him for being such an egotist, or herself for being such a gullible fool. All she knew for certain was that she had an inordinate amount of nervous energy she needed badly to expend. So she swam until the muscles in both her arms and legs rebelled achingly.

Exhausted, yet appreciably less tense, she paddled back to shore finally and sank down on her beach towel to smooth sunscreen onto her shoulders, arms, and face. Her legs she left alone for a while, allowing them to soak up the sun while she searched for tiny unbroken seashells in the sand at the edge of her towel.

Hoping to catch a nap, she closed her eyes, but the moment she did, her mind conjured up the image of Ric Shannon's face, just as it had so often during the night. "Darn," she muttered, rising to her feet to walk along the beach. In the distance, a stone fort nearly four hundred years old stood sentinel on the sand, stark and cold gray in the glimmering sunlight. Two gray, ducklike coots winged awkwardly over a reef pond, piercing the air with their squawking cries. Allendre paused for a moment; curling her toes into the damp sand at the shoreline, she stared out pensively at a schooner on the horizon, its white sails stretched taut by the wind.

She really had to forget about yesterday evening, she resolved, adjusting a strap of her sleek Persian blue maillot swimsuit. Patrick Shannon certainly wasn't worth any loss of sleep. He was undoubtedly one of those men girls had chased after since his teens, so he had simply assumed that she was chasing him, too. Well, she intended to show him just how wrong he had been. For the remainder of her stay at Shannon House, she planned to treat him with the utmost indifference whenever she had the foul luck to see him at all. Deb could trot after him if she wanted to, inflating his male ego; Allendre herself could think of better things to do.

Forcing herself to think of nothing at all, she strolled back, enjoying the caress of a breeze upon her skin. There were few other people on the beach, and those who were there were quiet. Allendre stretched out on her stomach on her towel, closed her eyes again, and drifted to sleep listening to the gentle lapping of the waves against the sand.

When she awoke later, the hot midday sun was beaming down on her, making her thankful that she had remembered the sunscreen. She hardly wished to look like a lobster for the next several days. Feeling absolutely starved, she gathered up her belongings and padded barefoot through the sand toward the gray stone pavilion where she knew she could find a cool drink and a shady place in which to enjoy it. Stopping for a moment, she brushed the sand from her feet and from between her toes before slipping into leather sandals. She slipped her short terry-cloth jacket into her beach bag as she wandered over to the counter where towels were to be returned. No one was there. Another bad mark for the hotel. With a disgruntled sigh, she leaned against the counter, hungry, and eager for a shower to wash away the residue of salt from her skin.

Five minutes later, she was joined by Myrtle and her friend, both of whom were flushed from sitting in the sun.

"Why, you're the young lady who fetched the bellmen for us yesterday, aren't you?" the friend asked, pushing a tight curl of white hair back from her temple. "It was so nice of you to take care of that for us."

"I was happy to do it," Allendre told her. "I just hope you didn't get too tired sitting under that tree waiting."

"At least it was cool there," Myrtle commented, then frowned when she noticed no one was behind the counter. "Well, Abby, I wonder if we're supposed to stand here and hold our towels all day long."

"Frankly, I was considering just leaving the towel and going on," Allendre admitted. "I don't want to wait around here much longer. I'm already famished, and I have to wash my hair before I have lunch."

"I just don't understand it," Abby said bewilderedly. "Why do we have to give them a card to get a towel, then get the card back when the towel's returned? Jacob and I came to Shannon House many times, and we never had to go to such trouble just for towels." Shaking her head, she added in a disbelieving whisper, "You don't suppose they're afraid we're going to steal their towels, do you?"

"Of course that's what they're afraid of," Myrtle said with a sniff. "Why, it said right on the card that the towels had to be returned by the end of each day or they'd charge you for it on your bill."

"Many hotels do that, though," Allendre said in all fairness. "I suppose guests do tend to wander away with small items."

"Not Shannon House guests!" Abby declared proudly. "And the management never seemed to worry about such things before. The guests here were trusted. I'm really a little disappointed that things have changed so much here."

"It's still a nice place though, Abby," Myrtle consoled. "And the scenery is just lovely. Now, if only the man would come back to take our towels and return our silly little cards to us…"

"I don't suppose we should be in any rush," Abby said, peering beyond the counter. "The beach bus isn't here to carry us back to the hotel, and I don't really think either of us should try to make it up all those stairs."

"No, of course you shouldn't," Allendre agreed, wishing Ric knew about this lack of service. But he didn't, so she tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Why don't we do this? I'll leave my towel with you, and if the man comes back, you can give it to him and get my card. There's only a room number on it, and my number's four twenty-two. While you ladies are waiting here I'll walk up and ask them to send the beach bus down to pick you up. How's that?"

Abby protested. "But we hate for you to have to walk all that way."

"Frankly, I think I have to," Allendre admitted with an endearing grimace. "I have to get something to eat before my stomach caves in from hunger. Oh, and by the way, my name is Allendre Corey."

"Allendre. What a pretty name," Myrtle said. "Well, I'm Myrtle Wainwright and this is Abigail Chandler, and we appreciate you always coming to our rescue."

"I'm usually rescuing myself in the process, too," Allendre countered, putting on her beach jacket, then picking up her straw bag. "And this time's no different. I simply must have some food. So I'll hurry along now and get them to send the bus for you." With a wave of her hand, she started to walk away, then hesitated and turned back. "I was wondering… well, as you've probably noticed, I'm here alone and… would you two mind if I joined you for dinner tonight? I feel so odd, sitting at a table by myself."

"We'd be delighted to have you join us," Myrtle said sincerely, and Abby nodded in agreement. "Our reservation is for seven-fifteen. Why don't you come by our room? It's three fourteen, isn't it, Abby?"

"I believe that's right," the smaller of the two women agreed.

"Then I'll see you at seven-fifteen," Allendre said with a grateful smile as she started off again. "And thanks for letting me join you."

"She's a very nice young lady, isn't she?" Abby said softly to her friend. But as Allendre left the shade of the pavilion she heard the compliment, and her lips twisted into a rueful little smile. Ric Shannon certainly didn't think she was a nice young lady or a
nice
anything, for that matter. Yet why should she care what he thought of her, she asked herself rather impatiently, since she wasn't likely to nominate him for the Sweetheart of the Year award, either?