Warm Hearts (27 page)

Beneath the sheet, he bent one knee out to the side. Leslie eyed its vivid outline with something akin to anguish, breathing only a marginal sigh when he safely adjusted the sheet over his hips.

“Alone is no fun,” he countered softly. His eyes dropped from her face to her chest, taking in the straps of her bra, the disarray of the jersey, which she clutched more fiercely than ever to her breasts, the slender expanse of purple wool running from her waist to her toes. She assumed she must look like a lavender elf; in truth, she felt more like the court jester.

Following his gaze and for the first time realizing her state of dress, Leslie took a step backward. “Alone can be lots of fun,” she argued, recalling the plans she had to read, to sunbathe in the buff, to amble around the island to her heart's content with no thought of any other living soul, for a change. It simply wasn't fair, she mused, then slanted him an accusing glance. “You're in
my
bed, you know.” She felt on the defense both physically and emotionally.

But her brief spurt of belligerence was feeble and reflected her growing torment. Not only was she appalled that her brother had taken seriously what she'd said purely tongue-in-cheek, but she felt sicker by the minute.

“I thought this was the master suite,” came the deep rejoinder.

“It is. And this time round,
I'm
the master.” So she'd been telling herself for the past few weeks; it had been part of the lure of spending her vacation at the villa in solitude.

The man on the bed arched a brow and skimmed her defensive pose. “You don't look terribly masterful right now. As a matter of fact—” his dark brows knit and he sat forward “—you don't look terribly well. Are you feeling all right?”

In no mood to be witty or subtle, Leslie simply shook her head. “I was up before dawn to get to JFK and had to wait forever sweltering on St. Martin to catch the island hopper here. I'm hot and sweaty and just want to get out of these things and into a cool shower. Besides that, I've got a splitting headache and one hell of a cold.” She took a stuffy breath. “In short, I feel awful!”

When the man quickly pushed himself up from the bed, she shut her eyes. All too well she remembered the sliver of smooth flesh by his hip. She didn't think she could take that just now.

“You mean your normal voice isn't as nasal?” came the note of amusement not far from her ear. Simultaneously an arm circled her shoulder and propelled her forward.

Feeling perfectly stupid, she opened her eyes, careful to keep them straight ahead as the bathroom door neared. “No, it's not,” she managed, struggling with the
n
's.

“That's too bad,” the man replied softly, teasingly. “It's sexy. Deep and … sultry. That's it. Sultry.”

“Sultry, as in hot and humid. And sweaty.” Sexy was the last thing she felt.

At the bathroom door he slipped a hand to her forehead. “And feverish. Wait here.”

Sagging against the jamb, she closed her eyes. Then, hit by a wave of dizziness, she gave up even the idea of a cooling shower. Suddenly nothing mattered more than lying flat. Turning, she stumbled back to the bed. The thought that the man whose body had warmed its sheets moments before might have a god-awful social disease was totally irrelevant to the situation. Her legs simply wouldn't hold her any longer.

With a soft moan she curled on her side, then, forgetting her company, rolled onto her back, clutching her jersey to her stomach with one hand and throwing the other arm across her eyes. When, moments later, the same arm that had led her toward the bathroom lifted her to a half-seated position, she groaned.

“Let me rest,” she whispered, but her protector had other ideas.

“First, aspirin,” he said gently. “Are you taking anything else?” She shook her head and docilely swallowed the tablets, washing them down with the water he'd brought. “There.” He took the glass from her and eased her back onto the bed. Then he reached for the waistband of her tights and began to shimmy them over her hips.

“What are you doing?” she cried in alarm and squirmed away. When she tried to sit up, though, a firm hand pressed her flat. For the effort she'd made, her only reward was the sight of the pale blue briefs that ringed his hips. With strong, knowing hands he proceeded to peel the tights to her toes and off.

“Better?”

By twenty degrees at least. “Oh, yes.”

“Want a shower now?”

She shook her head and rolled to her side again, pulling one of the pillows against her for comfort. “Not yet. I think I'll just lie like this for a while.”

“Then I'll shower. Where are your bags?”

Her eyes were closed, his voice distant. If the man wished to rob her, she couldn't stop him. Her total concentration was on finding relief from the aches and pains that seemed to have suddenly invaded her body. “Upstairs.…”

If she was aware of the pad of footsteps on the stairs going up, then down, she made no sign. Nor did she turn her head when the faint hum of an electric razor filled the air, or when the spray of the shower rang out, or when the rustle of clothes in a suitcase ended with the glide of smooth cotton over hair-roughened flesh. It was only when the aspirin began to take effect, when she felt just warm, rather than hot, when the pounding in her head had subsided to a dull throb, that she opened her eyes again.

Seated in a chair by the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of pleated khaki shorts, was the man she'd been given for her birthday. A rush of mortification hit her anew. For, sitting there, his hair and skin damp and fresh, his chest broad and manly, his shoulders strong and inviting, he looked more magnificent than he had in his ad. By contrast she felt as though she'd been dredged up from hell.

“I don't believe it!” she moaned, then felt all the more gauche when the faintest of smiles curved his lips.

Propping his elbows on the arms of the chair, he threaded his fingers together. “I think you've said that already.”

“I don't care! This is incredible!”

“What is?”

“This.…” She waved toward him, then herself, then extended her fingers to take in the situation as a whole. “I can't believe Tony would do this to me!”

“As I was told, you specifically requested it.”

Her chest rose and fell as she labored to breathe. “It was a
joke
! I was being facetious! Tony must have known that.” When the man opposite her slowly shook his head, she went quickly on. “And besides, the man I pointed to was a fictitious character.”

“He had a face and a body. You had to know he was real.”

“He was a paid model! I never, expected Tony to go out and track him down, then hire him to entertain me for the week!” The thought instantly revived her embarrassment. Pink-cheeked, she turned her face away and shut her eyes. “God,” she moaned beneath her breath, “I feel so lousy. Maybe I'd be laughing if I felt all right. But I can barely breathe, let alone think straight.”

The mattress yielded to another form. Though she tensed up, she didn't have the strength to move, even when a cool hand began to stroke damp strands of blond hair from her brow. Quite against her will, she found the gesture a comfort.

“How long have you felt this way?” the deep voice probed with such concern that she couldn't help but answer.

“Since last night.”

“Sore throat?”

She shook her head, then opened her eyes and peered up into his, which were studying her carefully. “You can't stay here, you know.”

“Oh?” The twinkle in his eye spoke of his amusement.

“No.”

“And why not?”

“Because
I'm
here.”

The man made ceremony of looking around the bed. “We seem to be doing just fine here together.” Anticipating her, he had a hand at her shoulder before she could begin to raise it from the bed. “Besides, I'm your gift. You can't just discard me along with the wrapping.”

“What wrapping?” she quipped. “Seems to me you weren't wearing much of anything.”

“I was wearing something.”

“Not much.”

“So you
did
notice. I was beginning to think I'd lost my touch.”

Leslie sighed and closed her eyes. “You haven't lost your touch,” she granted. It was moving in slow circles against her temples. “Great for headaches.…”

“And…?”

Her eyes flew open. “That's all,” she said quickly. “I meant what I said before. You can't.…” Her voice trailed off as a sneeze approached. “Damn,” she whispered, covering her mouth and sneezing. She sat up in time to sneeze a second time, then took the tissue he offered and blew her nose. “Do I ever feel lousy.…”

The same hand that had smoothed her hair from her brow now tucked random strands behind her ear. “Why don't you take that shower? In the meantime, I'll fix you a cold drink.”

“You can't stay.…”

“Have you had any lunch?”

“Lunch? I haven't had any
breakfast.
Feed a cold, starve a fever … I've got both. What do I do?” She raised her eyes to those above her. They were reassuring and confident.

“Don't worry, sweetheart. I know what to do. Here, you stay put.” He pushed himself from the bed and reached for her bag. “What do you want to put on?” Unzipping the stylish duffel, he began rummaging inside. “Is there a nightgown in here?”

Leslie recalled the ad that had started this farce. Her voice held more than a trace of sarcasm. “Nightgown as in silky white negligee?” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

For a minute the man raised his head and eyed her strangely. Then, as understanding dawned, he cast her a punishing glance and turned his attention back to her bag.

Perhaps it was her reference to the ad that did it. Perhaps it was simply the aspirin clearing her head. But in the moment's pause it occurred to Leslie that she was lying on a rumpled bed in nothing but scant wisps of mauve lace, watching a total stranger fish through her clothes.

“Here, let me do that,” she said crossly as she pushed herself up. Within seconds she'd managed to extract the oversize T-shirt she'd come to think of as her Caribbean negligee. A very pale aqua from too many washings, it was likewise soft and comfortable. Easily reaching her thighs, it would be suitably unappealing. “If it's sexy you're looking for,” she muttered, “you've come to the wrong place.”

Mustering her pride, she snatched her bag of toiletries from the duffel and headed for the bathroom, totally unaware of how truly sexy she looked. The man watching her, however, was not. He stood holding the picture of her in his mind's eye long after the bathroom door had closed.

On the other side of the door, Leslie pressed her palms to her hot cheeks, then slid her fingers up to push her hair away from her face. A mess. She was a mess. The entire situation was a mess. How had she ever managed it … careful, conservative Leslie?

Angrily plopping the bag of toiletries atop the vanity, she dug inside for makeup remover. Makeup? Hah! What a wasted effort that had been. She'd looked deathly regardless. But New York was New York, and one didn't show one's face in public unless it was suitably protected from the elements. Lips thinning with sarcasm, she squeezed a gob of cold cream onto her fingers and began to scrub at her cheeks. Protected from the elements? More likely camouflaged. Hidden. Shielded from the world by a manufactured sheen. How phony it all was!

With a vengeance she tissued off the cold cream, then bent low to rinse her face with water. There she lingered, savoring the sensation of coolness on her cheeks and eyes. At last she straightened and pressed a towel more gently to her skin.

She should have known … should have known never to even joke with Tony about the state of her love life. He'd been after her for years to marry, have an affair, get involved, live it up. Wasn't that what he'd been doing since his own divorce six years before? Not that she criticized him. He'd married young and had been faithful to the letter to Laura. In the end she had been the one to run off with someone else, leaving him to cope with three growing children. He was a hardworking, devoted father who needed time off once in a while; Leslie certainly couldn't fault him for his own choice of outlet.

On the other hand, she reasoned, as she turned on the shower and stepped beneath its tepid spray, he should have known not to foist something as … as preposterous as this pretty boy on her! Hadn't she spent the past ten years trying to show the world how different she was? She'd had her fill of high society back in high school. And in college, well, Joe Durand had soured her on men, period. But then, Tony knew nothing about Joe. She hadn't spoken of him to anyone. The self-reproach with which she lived was bad enough, but to air her folly for the sake of others' enjoyment …
that
she didn't need.

Adjusting the water to a warmer temperature, she shampooed her hair, then soaped herself. It was several minutes later when she stepped from beneath the soothing spray. After toweling herself as vigorously as her tired arms would allow, she drew on the T-shirt and a fresh pair of panties and blew her hair nearly dry. Then, standing opposite the misted mirror, she studied herself. Even the mist couldn't soften the image.

“Pale, Leslie. Too pale,” she announced, then sneezed and reached for a piece of Kleenex. By the time she faced herself again, the mist had begun to clear, and what she saw gave her a jolt. Oh, the features were fine—soft amethyst eyes that were large and, if anything, set a bit too far apart; a nose that was certainly small enough to balance the delicacy of her mouth and chin; hair that was an enviable shade of blond, cut into long bangs across the brow, trimmed crisply an inch above the shoulder, cropped stylishly at the sideburns and falling into place as Diego had promised. No, the features were fine, taken one by one. Put together, however, they formed the image of a lost and lonely waif.