Nan Ryan (19 page)

“That’s no problem,” she grinned and bent down in front of him, took off the silver slippers, raised them up and dangled them in front of his face. “There, it’s taken care of.”

Dawson smiled at last, took the slippers from her and slipped his hand over hers. “Let’s go,” he said and led her down the long, winding stone steps to the beach. They reached the warm sand and stood for a moment looking up at the villa high above them.

“The sand feels good to my feet,” she giggled. “You should take your shoes off, Dawson,” and she raised her skirts daintily and started down the beach. Dawson shook his head, laughing, and followed. Catching up to her, he put his arm around her small waist and slowed his pace to accommodate her small steps. She rested her head in the crook of his arm and her lovely blond head came barely to his shoulder. She looked up at him, smiling, the moonlight making a halo of her hair. And she asked him countless questions, rarely giving him time to answer. They walked for at least two hundred yards, the villa completely out of sight behind them.

Dawson stopped, dropped her shoes to the sand, and brought his other arm around her, saying, “You talk too much, Amy Wentworth,” but he was chuckling. He held her close in front of him and together they stood looking out at the dark Mediterranean. Her small, delicate body felt good against his and the blond hair blowing softly just under his chin filled his senses with its sweet fragrance. His arms tightened around her waist and her tiny hands came up to his.

“I’ve got sand between my toes,” she laughed and leaned her head back against his chest.

“I’ll fix that,” he said against her hair and slowly removed his arms from around her. He unbuttoned his black evening jacket, spread it out on the sand, and held out his hand to her, “Sit,” he commanded and helped her down to the jacket.

“Dawson Blakely,” she giggled, “your coat will get all sandy.”

He dropped down beside her, smiling, and said, “Ah, but I can get a new jacket, while you, my dear, must make your pretty little feet last for a lifetime.”

Amy Wentworth stretched her arms out beside her and watched him as he pulled her soft blue dress up over her ankles. He drew a clean white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, raised a small foot and meticulously dusted the sand from it, then placed it atop his jacket. He repeated the action with the other foot. Both feet were now free of any particle of sand. When he impulsively bent and kissed the instep of her right foot, Amy giggled nervously. Carefully, he pulled the blue skirt back over her feet and turned to look at her. “Is that better?” he asked and moved up to sit beside her, propping his arm behind them.

“It’s perfect,” she smiled at him, her blue eyes wide and shining, “You certainly know how to treat a lady, Mister Blakely. I’ll bet you take good care of all your … your women, don’t you. Are there many?”

“Hundreds,” he teased, “but I told you, you ask too many questions, precious girl.”

“I know, but can I ask just one more.”

Dawson laughed louder than he’d laughed in months, his white teeth gleaming in the moonlight, his black eyes merry and dancing. “Yes, sweetheart, you may ask all the questions you please.”

“Do you think you would like to kiss me?” she said and turned her face up to his.

“I think I’d like that very much,” he answered and leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. He drew back instantly and the smile on his face faded slightly. The muscle in his firm jaw began to twitch and slowly he moved a hand up to her waist. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, “so beautiful,” and kissed her again. The fieriness of his kiss surprised Amy and, when he forced her lips apart, he pulled her to him and held her so tightly she could hardly get her breath. She raised her hands to his chest and tried to push away, but he refused to loosen his grip. The experienced mouth probing her own ended her half-hearted attempts to draw away and she sighed and put her arms around his neck. Her surrender heightened his desire and the kisses became more forceful and demanding. The fierceness of his embrace pushed her backward and soon she was laying on the jacket. Dawson followed her to the ground, his lips never leaving hers. His kisses continued and became so intense she grew frightened. His hand went to the soft blue ruffles of her dress and he pulled them down from one shoulder. He moved his mouth to its bare loveliness. He was sighing softly and kissing her shoulder and she grew more alarmed by the heat of the mouth she felt covering her sensitive skin.

“Dawson,” she said, “Dawson, I …”

He was mumbling now while the kisses continued and at last he moaned, “Oh, Kathleen, Kathleen, darling, please, I love you.…”

Amy’s eyes flew open and she started pushing on him with all her strength. “Kathleen? I’m not Kathleen! I’m Amy Wentworth!”

Slowly, the mouth on her shoulder grew still and Dawson raised himself up. She looked up at him and said, “Who is she? You thought I was Kathleen,” she said getting up.

“I’m sorry,” he said without looking at her as he stood up. She got to her feet without his help. By then, he had walked to where her shoes lay in the sand. He came back slowly, bent down, and started putting the slippers back on her feet. She put her hands on his back for support and watched while he took the sole of her foot in his hand and slipped the shoe back on. He put the other one on in the same swift manner and rose in front of her.

“Dawson,” she said, putting her hands up to his chest, “Look at me, please.”

He looked down at her, but removed her hands from his chest. “You’d better go,” he said, tired.

“Aren’t you coming, too? I don’t want to go back without you.”

“No, I’m not. I want to stay here for a while.”

“Then I’m staying with you,” she said, stepping close to him and putting her arms around him.

“No,” he almost shouted as he took her arms away. “You’re going back, it’s getting late.”

“Look, Dawson, it’s all right. I’m not mad, honest. Let me stay,” and she stood on tiptoe and put her arms around his neck.

He jerked her arms away and spun her around. Gripping her shoulders, he leaned down and said, “I’m not fit company for you or anyone else tonight. Now get out of here.” He gave her a little shove. Confused and hurt by his complete change of mood, she did as he commanded. At first she walked fast, then she started running as tears stung her blue eyes. When she was a few yards away from him, she stopped and turned back to look at him. He hadn’t moved, just stood there, looking at her coldly. Her pride and feelings hurt, she shouted at him, “I hate you, Dawson Blakely,” and turned away, crying loudly.

“Good,” Dawson said almost in a whisper and watched her full blue skirts billowing out behind her, the golden hair flying wildly around her head. Slowly, he dropped back to the ground, weary and alone. He sat for hours, his eyes cold and hard, staring out at the sea as it grew darker when the moon began to fade. His long legs bent at the knees, arms resting on them, he sat without moving, his body rigid, his mind aflame with the golden-haired love he had left in America. The fever in him soared until he felt his body would burst into flame from a desire that was impossible to sate.

Impulsively, he stood and stripped the clothes from his tortured body. He rushed headlong into the cold Mediterranean Sea. He splashed out into the water and felt its welcome coolness on his hot skin. He moved out to the deep water in seconds and his body sliced through the waves as he swam further and further from shore. The lights grew smaller behind him and still he continued swimming. He swam and swam until he was exhausted from exertion and the muscles in his arms and legs ached. When he could go no further, he turned over onto his back and slowly floated in to land with the tide. Wondering at times if he would make it back, and considering if he really cared whether he did or not, Dawson floated slowly in, looking at the heavens overhead with tired, lifeless eyes.

In the shallow water at last, he got to his feet and walked to the deserted beach. The night air hit his wet body and he shivered from the cold and exhaustion. The long, tiring swim was like a healing potion. The agonizing heat was gone, washed away in the cold waters. He felt better, felt like he could get his breath, felt cleansed of his demons, felt like he would be able to sleep.

Dawson pulled his clothes back on his glistening body and slowly headed back up the hill to the villa. The sun was rising now, its first pink rays just visible on the horizon. All the guests had long since departed when he wound his way up the long steps from the beach, but, as if by magic, his driver and carriage stood ready in front of the mansion and without a word Dawson climbed in and was driven back up the hairpin curves to the baroness’ villa.

He quietly let himself in and went up the stairs. When he passed the baroness’ bedroom, the door was open and she called to him, “Dawson, darling.” Dawson paused, turned, and walked in to face her. “Sweetheart,” she said, “I was worried, it’s, well, it’s morning, and … Dawson, your hair’s wet and so are your clothes.”

“Susan, I’m very tired. I just want to go to sleep.”

“Of course, darling,” she said and pulled the covers back beside her, “Come to bed.”

“I’m sorry, I’m going to bed in my room. I’ll explain later.”

“Why, Dawson, there’s no need to explain anything to me. Get some rest, I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Thanks,” and he turned and left. The baroness watched him leave and a hint of a frown covered her lovely face. Without his saying it, she knew deep inside that the lovely affair with her handsome American, for reasons unknown to her, was coming to an end.

Dawson walked to the end of the hall and went into his room. He stripped off his clothes and let them fall to a wet heap on the floor. He stretched out atop the big bed and was asleep the minute his dark head hit the pillow, but Kathleen Diana Beauregard tiptoed into his dreams, her blue eyes looking into his, her soft blond hair framing her face. She was in his arms and she was whispering, “You do love me, Dawson, you do.”

Scott Alexander was as beautiful a baby boy as his parents had ever seen and both worshipped him from the moment he took his first breath. Louis and Abigail Beauregard were delighted with their new grandson and Hannah was overjoyed to have an infant in the house to care for once again.

If Kathleen had been less than a perfect wife, she made up for it in motherhood. She adored her son and never tired of holding him and cooing to him, while Hunter sat beside her and looked at them both in awe and wonder. She was kinder to Hunter than she had been before the baby came and he was confident it was just a matter of time before they would once again be sharing the same room.

Hannah came into the baby’s room and said, “Now it’s time ya’ll gits out o’ here and let that little feller get some sleep. Miz Kathleen, you give that baby to me and I’se gonna put him right in his crib where he belongs. You’se tiring that po’ little boy out.” And she took the baby from Kathleen’s arms, with Kathleen protesting, “Oh, Hannah, I just want to hold him for a while longer. He’s so cute and cuddly, and it’s only eight o’clock.”

“I don’t care, you been holdin’ that baby all the blessed day long. You is gonna have him so spoiled he is nevah gonna sleep in his bed.”

“Hannah, how can a six-week-old baby be spoiled? That’s silly. Isn’t it, Hunter? Tell her it’s silly,” Kathleen looked at her husband.

“Darling,” he smiled at her and put a hand to her shoulder, “he really should be in his bed. You can hold him some more tomorrow. And, besides, it’s really time you went to your room and got some rest. You look tired, darling.”

“Hunter, I’m fine, honest. I’ve felt really fine all this week. I’m perfectly all right. You sound too much like a doctor, Hunter. I felt badly last week because I hadn’t been getting any sleep, but I’m fine now.”

“I’m glad, Kathleen, but promise me you’ll go to bed soon. I realize I sound like a doctor, but that’s what I am. I’m telling you you need to get all the rest you can. These two a.m. feedings are hard on you. You must keep up your strength, darling. Why don’t you go on to your room and have your bath and I’ll bring you some hot milk in an hour?”

“Yes, Dr. Alexander,” she laughed.

An hour later, Hunter knocked on Kathleen’s door and she quickly said, “Come in, Hunter.”

He entered, smiling, carrying a glass of warm milk on a silver tray. Kathleen laid her book aside and sat up in bed, propping the pillows behind her. “Thanks, Hunter,” she said and took the milk from the tray.

“You’re very welcome,” he said and took a chair beside the bed. “What are you reading, dear?”

Kathleen blushed and admitted, “Hunter, you’ll think me foolish. It’s another of those Joseph Holt Ingraham serials. I can’t help it, I just love them.”

“Don’t be embarrassed about it, thousands of people are reading his novels, dear,” he smiled. “Kathleen, is there anything else I can get you?”

“No, as I told you, I’m feeling just fine. Don’t I look all right?”

“You look lovely, dear.” Hunter paused, then said, “Kathleen?”

“Yes, Hunter?” she looked at him.

Without answering, Hunter got up from his chair and came to sit on the edge of her bed. He took her hand in his and kissed it, then whispered, “Darling, how are you really feeling?”

“For heaven’s sake, Hunter, how many times do I have to say it? I’m fine, I feel great. Really!”

“Good. Darling, I’ve been thinking, now that the baby is here and you’re feeling good, could we, I mean, will you let me …”

“What, Hunter?”

Hunter didn’t answer. He looked at Kathleen with pleading brown eyes and bent to kiss her. Taken by surprise, he was kissing her before she knew what was happening and the kisses were passionate, demanding, his arms holding her tightly.

“Hunter, please, please,” she struggled and pushed him away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Darling, I’ve missed you so much. I know you didn’t want me in your room while you were pregnant and I understood. And then right after the baby came, you didn’t feel like it, but darling, it’s been six weeks and you said yourself you are feeling fine. Please, Kathleen, I want to share your room again, to make love to my wife. I’ve been so lonely without you and …” he kissed her again.