Warm Hearts (31 page)

“There's nothing,” she said quietly, all the while thinking how soft and coaxing his voice was.

“Look at me and tell me that.”

She kept her eyes glued to the horizon. “There's nothing.”

“Look at me,” he whispered, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around her wrist. When still she didn't comply, he gave a gentle tug. Catching her off balance, he pulled her down onto the sand. Before she could begin to recover, he'd pinned her down. “Now,” he murmured, his eyes an ardent brown, “look at me and tell me what's on your mind.”

“You!” she cried. “You! You shouldn't be here, Oliver Ames! You're all wrong for me! I need … I need.…” Her voice trailed off, caught in her throat as the damp warmth of his body seeped through to her. “I need…” she whispered, mesmerized by the low glimmer of his gaze.

“I know what you need,” Oliver whispered in turn, lowering his lips to her neck. “You need a man's loving.” He pressed his mouth to her throat as she gave a convulsive swallow, then ran his tongue along an imaginary line to her chin. When he lifted his head to meet her gaze once more, he moved his body over hers. “You need me.…”

3

He was right in a way, she was later to muse. She
did
need a man's loving. But not just in the physical sense Oliver offered. She needed something deeper. A relationship—that was what was missing from her life. That was what she'd read in the ad. That was what she'd wanted when she had fingered Oliver's picture in response to Tony's magnanimous offer. She wanted love. A man, family, a home. And Oliver Ames, whose body was his prime negotiable commodity, was not the one to give it! Oh, yes, she found him attractive. Her body responded to him in precisely the way he intended. But there was far more to love than desire alone. Blinded by passion, she had made a fool of herself once. Never again.

“You need me,” Oliver repeated in a husky whisper.

Leslie shook her head, her eyes awash with apprehension. “No. That's not true,” she gasped, fighting his pull with every bit of determination she could muster.

Threading his fingers through hers, Oliver anchored her hands to the sand on either side of her head. “It is,” he insisted. “Don't you see it? Don't you
feel
it?”

What she felt was the boldness of his body, hard and warm and aggressive, imprinting its maleness onto her. What she felt was the answering tremor of her limbs, the gathering of a heat deep within, the stoking of unbidden fires.

“I feel it,” she cried softly, “but I can't, Oliver, I can't give in to it. Don't you see?” Her fingers clutched tightly at his, her eyes held a hint of desperation. “I can't view it the way you do. You may be able to jump from relationship to relationship, but I can't. I suppose I'm an anachronism in this day and age. But that's the way I am.” Her voice lowered to a mere quaver. “I'm sorry.”

With a harsh chuckle, Oliver rolled off her and sat up to stare at the sea. “Don't be sorry. It's really very … lovely.”

Leslie watched the muscles of his back flex with a tenseness echoed by his jaw. Without a doubt, she'd made her point. What must he think of her now? Drawing in an unsteady breath, she sat up, then rolled to her knees. On a whim, wishing only to soften her dictate, she reached out to touch him, then thought twice and let her hand waver in the air before dropping it to her side. She'd wanted him to leave; now she'd simply given him further incentive.

Pushing herself from the sand, she headed for the stairs.

“Leslie?”

She paused, head down, her bare foot on the lowest rung.
Move, Leslie, move. Show him your grit. Show him you really don't care.
But she couldn't. Because she did care. Dubious life-style or no, she couldn't help but feel something for Oliver Ames.

“Leslie?” His voice was directly behind her now. She turned and looked up, then felt her insides flip-flop. His expression—so vulnerable, so very like that he'd worn in the ad.… But it couldn't be an act; there was something far too deep and needy.… “Listen, Les, I've got a proposition.”

“Proposition?”
Oh, God, what now? He's imposing and appealing and powerful. A woman can only withstand so much.…

At her look of fear, his gaze gentled all the more. “Nothing compromising,” he soothed, his lips curving into the ghost of a smile. “Just practical.” When she stood her ground, he went on. “This is your vacation. The week was to be something special for you.” He lifted a hand to her shoulder, wavered, dropped it. She couldn't help but recall her own similarly thwarted gesture moments before. “What say we call a truce? You go your way, I'll go mine. You take the master suite, I'll take the bedroom I used last night. I'd like to explore the island, so I'll stay out of your hair. You can do anything you'd intended to do all by yourself … unless you change your mind. If that happens—” his gaze dropped to her lips “—I'll be here.”

Leslie studied him, trying to equate what he was with what he proposed. “You're apt to be very bored,” she warned.

He laughed gently. “I doubt that.” He cast a glance behind him. “With all this—and a good book, and a kitchen at my disposal—how could I be bored?”

She wondered what the kitchen had to do with anything. There wasn't a spare ounce of fat on the man, so he couldn't be that much of a glutton. “I can't promise you anything.…”

“I'm not asking for promises.”

“But … why? Why would you rather spend a quiet and uneventful week here than go to one of the resorts? I mean, I'm sure there'd be lots of women.…”

At Oliver's punishing glance, she shut her mouth. “I don't want lots of women. Or action. You may not believe it, but quiet and uneventful
do
sound perfect to me.” He thrust long fingers through his hair, only to have the damp swath fall right back over his forehead. Leslie was grateful that something else dared defy him, and grew bolder.

“You're right. I don't believe it,” she quipped lightly. “I'm sure your life is an endless whirlwind of pleasure back in New York.”

He grew more serious. “Pleasure? Not always. Sometimes the whirlwind seems more like a tempest. Which is one of the reasons I jumped at the opportunity to come down here. I need the break, Leslie. I'm tired.” Indeed, she heard it in his voice at that moment. “Maybe you're right. Maybe I am getting too old for this kind of—” a glint of humor returned to his eye “—rootless existence. Maybe a week of … abstinence will do me good. Build my character, so to speak. Reform me. Set me on the straight and narrow.”

“Fat chance,” she muttered, but her resistance was token. True, she'd hoped to have the villa all to herself. True, his presence would keep her on her guard. But there was something quite … appealing about him. If she had to share the villa, she could have done far worse.

“What do you say?” he prodded in earnest.

“What
can
I say? After your talk of character building, I'd feel like a heel to refuse.” Her eyes narrowed. “You were counting on that, weren't you?” He simply shrugged and broke away to start up the steps. “Where are you going?” she called.

On the terrace and fast receding, he yelled back, “I'm disappearing. As promised.” Sure enough, within seconds he'd been swallowed up by the house.

Smiling, Leslie followed as far as the lower terrace, where she sank into one of the deck chairs to track the progress of a fishing boat as it returned to Gustavia with its early-morning catch.

An hour later her nose twitched, rousing her from her peaceful contemplation of the beauty of the sea. At first she thought she was about to sneeze, then realized that the awareness was of something quite different. Lifting her head, she sniffed the air, then she stood up and moved hesitantly toward the steps. Curious, she climbed them. Stomach growling, she crossed the upper tier of the terrace. Only when she pushed back the screen and stepped onto the inner tile did she have her first glimmer of understanding of Oliver's attraction to the kitchen.

“What have you
made
?” she asked, mouth watering, eyes wide and hungrily homing in on the kitchen counter.

Oliver sat at the table, deeply immersed in a book. Before him was a plate containing the swirling remnants of some maple syrup. “Belgian waffles,” he said without looking up. “There are two left. Help yourself.”

Sure enough, on a plate covered by foil were two plump, warm waffles. In nearby dishes were strawberries, confectionery sugar, maple syrup and whipped cream. She felt as though she'd been treated to a breakfast buffet brought in from one of the local resorts. Had it not been for the waffle iron, well scrubbed and dripping dry beside the sink, she might have suspected he'd done just that.

His empty plate settled into the sink. “When you're done,” he murmured near her ear, “just leave everything. I'll be in later to clean up.” She looked up in time to see him turn. The next thing she knew, she was alone.

She hesitated for only a minute before reaching for a clean plate and helping herself to the feast he'd prepared. It was delicious. But then, she'd been starved. What had she had yesterday—one light omelet and twenty glasses of juice? Surely she was on the mend, what with this newfound appetite.

Without a second thought, she cleaned everything when she'd finished, then climbed the stairs to ferret a bathing suit from her bag. Though there was no sign of Oliver, she wasn't taking any chances. Her suit was one piece—albeit cut out in back with a bevy of crisscrossing straps—and appropriately demure. Satisfied that her appearance would preclude invitation, she armed herself with a bottle of suntan lotion and a towel and headed for the beach.

The day was utterly restful. She sunned for a while, returned to the kitchen for a cold drink and her book, then spent several hours back on the beach in a lounge chair, reading beneath the shade of the waving palm, even dozing to the gentle swish of the waves. In response to the sun, the warmth and the rest, her cold continued to improve. She felt stronger by the hour and more encouraged. For true to his word, Oliver had gone his own way. Or so she assumed, since she saw neither hide nor hair of him. She felt relaxed and free, almost as though she had the villa to herself.

She didn't see him again that day. When she finally left the beach at afternoon's end, she found a large brown bag and a note on the kitchen table.

“Dinner,” it read, “if you're in the mood. I've taken the bike and gone exploring. Hear the sunset is spectacular from Castelets. If I'm not back by dawn, I bequeath you my bag of books. Particularly enjoyed.…”

Tuning out, she lifted her eyes in dismay. The motorbike. Of course, she wouldn't be able to hear it from the beach. But … to Castelets? Steep and jagged, the approaching drive had turned back many a cabbie in its day! So, she scowled and crushed the note in her fist, in the case of his demise, she'd inherit his books? How thoughtful. No doubt his choice of reading matter would fascinate her.

Then she caught herself. Hadn't she had similar thoughts regarding his choice of music? She'd been pleasantly surprised on that one. What if.… Bidden by curiosity, she straightened the crumpled note in her hand and finished reading. “Particularly enjoyed the new Ludlum. Why not try it?”

Indeed she'd had every intention of doing just that when she'd bought the book and put it in her own bag to bring to St. Barts. He liked adventure, did he? But then he probably lived it, while she was content to read it on occasion. With a wry headshake, she opened the bag on the table and removed, one by one, the small cartons. Langouste Creole, potato puffs, fresh pastry—from La Rotisserie, no doubt. Impressed by his apparent familiarity with the offerings of the island, she wondered for an instant whether he'd been on St. Barts before. Perhaps on another job? With another woman?

Fortunately at the moment hunger was a far greater force than jealousy. Setting aside all thought of Oliver and his lively if dubious past, she ate. Then read. Then slept, awakening only once, well before midnight, to hear movement on the upper level before smiling softly and closing her eyes again.

*   *   *

With the sun rising brightly, Sunday promised to be as pleasant a day as Saturday had been. Once more Leslie spent the morning on the beach. This day, however, even before she'd been able to drag herself from the sand to get a drink and a bite for lunch, she was brought to attention by the sound of footsteps on the planks leading down from the terrace. Looking up from where she lay on her stomach, she saw Oliver approaching, a large open basket in one hand, a blanket in the other.

“Hi,” he said, placing the basket on the sand and spreading out the blanket. “How're you doing?”

“Not bad,” she answered cautiously. She half wondered if she should excuse herself and give him his turn on the beach, then was too intrigued watching him unpack the basket to budge. “What have you got?”

“A picnic.” He cast her a fleeting eye. “Hungry?”

“A little.”

“Good.” Within a matter of minutes, the blanket was spread with plates bearing a thick wedge of cheese, an assortment of fresh fruit, a loaf of French bread and a carafe of white wine. When he extracted two glasses, filled them and handed one to her, she accepted it graciously.

“Thanks.”

“
De nada.
”

“
Rien
,” she corrected softly.

“Excuse me?”

“
Rien.
The island's French.” Reaching out, she touched the bread with one finger. “Still warm? Don't tell me you baked it yourself.”

“I won't,” he said jauntily, producing a knife and moving to attack the loaf. “Actually—” he made a neat cut and handed her a slice, then made a similar incision in the cheese “—it was baked in a charming little bakery.”