Warm Hearts (36 page)

At long last she sniffled and grew quiet. “I'm sorry,” she hazarded a shaky whisper. “Now I've made your … shirt wet.”

“It'll dry. Do you feel any better?”

She nodded, sniffling again. “I don't usually do things like this.”

“We all need the outlet every once in a while,” he crooned, only then looking down to wipe the tears from her cheek. “Feel like talking?”

She thought about it for a long time, hiccoughing every now and then, blotting her lower lids with the fingers of one hand. Finally she looked up at him. “I don't think I can,” she whispered.

“You can tell me anything.…”

But she shook her head against the warmth of his chest. “I can't tell you something I don't know myself.”

“You can tell me your thoughts.”

“They're all jumbled up.”

“Maybe I can help unjumble them.”

Again she shook her head. Somehow, with the expenditure of tears, she'd purged herself of much of her tension. Now she felt … tired. “It's something I've got to work out, I guess.”

“You're sure?”

With a sad smile, she nodded, then caught her breath. “But—Oliver?”

He smiled down. “Yes?”

“Can we sit here … like this for a little while? Just … sit here?”

He lowered his cheek to her head and gave her a tight squeeze. “Sure thing, Les. I'd like that.”

They said no more for a time. Leslie nestled against him, finding quiet solace in the support of his arms, reassurance in the beat of his heart near her ear. Though her thoughts were indeed a jumble, she made no effort to unscramble them. There was too much to be savored in the utter simplicity of the moment. Just Oliver and Leslie. No past or future. Just … now.

Slowly her limbs began to slacken, and her breathing grew soft and even. Relaxation was a blissful thing, she mused as she snuggled closer to Oliver's warmth. Closing her eyes, she took a long, deep breath. Then something struck her.

“Oliver?”

“Hmmmm?” His eyes, too, were closed, his limbs at rest.

She tipped her head up. “Oliver?”

He opened his eyes. “What, sweet?”

“I still can't smell it.”

“Smell what?”

“Your Homme Premier.”

“I don't wear it.”

“You don't wear it? Ever?”

“Ever.”

“Isn't that against the laws of advertising or something?”

He hugged her more tightly and closed his eyes again. “I thought you were going to sleep.”

“I think I was … then I thought of that.”

“Don't like the way I smell?” he mumbled.

“I
love
the way you smell,” she murmured, burrowing against his chest. “All warm and fresh and … manly.…” As though to make her point, she took a deep, long breath and sighed. “Mmmmmm. So very … you.…”

“I hope so,” Oliver whispered, hugging her a final time before settling his head atop hers.

Leslie's next conscious thoughts were of the sun, the living room carpet beneath her cheek, the stiffness of limbs that had spent the night on the floor … and Oliver's hand on her rump.

5

It was the last that brought her fully awake. Squirming to a sitting position, she watched as that hand slid from her hip to the floor. Oliver was dead to the world. His tall form was sprawled prone on the rug with head turned away, his breathing slow and deep.

Stretching first one way, then the other, Leslie winced, then struggled to her feet. Her skirt and blouse were badly wrinkled, but then she'd spent the night in them. Putting a hand to her head, she tried to recall what had happened. Inevitably, her gaze returned to Oliver, and it all came back.

With sad eyes she studied his passive form. She was half in love with him, she supposed. Half in love with a man who prized his freedom, who resented being tied down for more than a day, who was no doubt the heartthrob of millions of women in America. It was a sad state of affairs.

Distractedly she made her way to the kitchen and up the stairs, finally sinking down on her bed. What other ads had he made? For what products? Wearing … what?

She knew the course of those ads. Not only would they appear in
Man's Mode, G.Q.
and
Esquire
, they'd appear in
Vogue
and
Cosmopolitan
as well, plus a myriad of lesser publications. His face, his body would be seen and savored by so very many eyes. In turn, he'd have his choice of the most exquisite of those admirers. Why, then, of all the places on God's green earth, was he here? And why, oh, why was he leading her on?

Rolling to her back, she stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. After all, what could he see in her? There was nothing slick or glittery about her; she'd made sure of that. Nor, despite what he'd said about her breasts, did she have a body to attract a man of his stature. So he wasn't a gigolo, as she'd originally thought. Still, he was the image of glamour, the striking playboy, the model. She, on the other hand, had chosen a different track to follow, a more quiet, private one. And she couldn't switch from it … any more than he could from his.

Realizing that no amount of deliberation could alter the facts, she dragged herself from the bed, showered and pulled on a clean sundress, then set out to grocery shop in Gustavia. By the time she returned to the villa, Oliver was on the beach. For a long time she stood on the terrace, unobserved, watching him. He lay absolutely still, a unified mass of bronze flesh broken only by the thin navy swatch at his hips. He loved nudity, he'd told her once. She'd love to see him strip.…

Frustrated by the single-mindedness of her thoughts, she whirled away, made herself a tall glass of iced tea, picked up her book and settled in a lounge on the terrace. It wasn't that she wanted to see Oliver when he left the beach, she told herself, simply that she felt like sitting on the terrace. This was, after all, her house.…

By a quirk of fate she dozed off. When she came to, it was with a start. Disoriented at first, she stretched and looked around, then jumped again on encountering Oliver's worried brown eyes.

“Oliver! You frightened me!”

Perched near her legs on the edge of the lounge, he smiled sadly. “We seem to have a way of doing that to each other. Are you all right?”

“I'm fine.” Her hand went automatically to her wrist and, finding it bare, she frowned. “What time is it?”

“I'm not sure.” He squinted upward. “I think about one.” Then his gaze returned intently to hers. “
Are
you all right?”

The deeper meaning to his question didn't escape her this time around. Slowly beginning to relax, she offered a soft and helpless smile. “I think so.”

Reaching out to take her hand in his, he made study of her small, slender fingers. “About last night, Leslie—”

On elusive butterfly wings, those very fingers slipped from his and touched his lips. “Shh, Oliver. Please. Don't say anything.” Her smile grew pleading. “It's not necessary. Really it's not. I think we both got … carried away by—” she rolled her eyes to the palms overhead “—the atmosphere of this place. There's no harm done.”

“I know, but still, there's so much I want—”

“Please,” she interrupted more urgently. “Please don't. Things are … nice just as they've been. Why upset the apple cart?”

His chuckle was harsh. “To get to the rotten apple?” he mumbled, thinned his lips in frustration and shook his head. Then he, too, raised his eyes to the palms. “The atmosphere of this place—such a simple explanation.…”

“If there are others,” she stated soberly, “I don't want to hear them.” The last thing she wanted was glib words of excuse, or worse, of affection. It was obvious that Oliver Ames had one way or another gotten himself into an uncomfortable situation. She was simply trying to offer him an easy out. “Nothing's happened here that I haven't wanted to happen. I have no regrets.”

“None?” he asked, his voice a bit too low, his eyes too dark.

She had the good sense to look away. “Well … none that can't be remedied.” When she faced him again, her smile was forced. “Anyway, it's already Wednesday. I've got no intention of living with regrets for the rest of the week. Before I know it I'll be back in New York.” Her voice cracked. “Let's not spoil things by analyzing them to death. Okay?”

A strange look appeared on his face, and he grew even more intense. His dark eyes held hers relentlessly, delving deep, finding secret paths to her soul, leaving her raw and exposed. She felt as though she'd been taken apart piece by piece and thoroughly possessed. When her heart beat faster, his gaze fell to her breast.

“Oliver?” she whispered. “Okay?” Her sense of bravado was a bygone thing.

Slowly his eyes returned to hers. “It's okay, Les. I see your point.” Patting her knee, he stood up. “I'd better get dressed if I'm going to bike downtown.”

“Take the car if you'd like. I won't be using it.”

“No, thanks. I think I prefer the bike. Don't dare ride one at home.” He threw her a cynical smile. “Wouldn't want to risk damaging the goods. The camera doesn't take kindly to gross blemishes.”

He'd left before she decided just whom he'd been mocking—the camera, himself or her. But it didn't matter. Nothing did. As she'd told him, there was no point in endless analysis. And before long she would be back in New York. Strangely, this thought disturbed her more than any other.

Alone on the beach that afternoon, with the knowledge that Oliver was in town, she yielded to impulse and stripped off her bikini top. Her tan was really coming along, she mused, as she studied its golden hue while spreading lotion liberally over her skin. Would anyone see it? Not on her breasts. No one but herself—and she'd remember.… And grow warm just thinking about lying on the beach—beside Oliver.

It was a lovely memory, even if it had nowhere to go. Where were they now? Back to square one, each going his own way, leaving the other in peace. Funny how “peace” could take on such different meanings.…

*   *   *

For Leslie, a special kind of peace came that evening when, out of the blue, Oliver appeared at the door of the den. “Hi, Les.”

She looked up with barely suppressed pleasure at the sight of the tall, casually lounging figure. “Hi.”

“Whatcha doin'?”

“Crossword puzzle.” She slapped her pencil against it. “Lousy puzzle. I'm really stuck.”

“Need some help?”

“Oh, no.” She held up a hand and pressed the paper to her chest. “I can do it. It may take me several days, but I'll get it if it kills me.”

“You like word games?”

Most likely they bored him to tears. “I do,” she said pertly, tipping her chin up in challenge. Wearing cutoffs and a open short-sleeved shirt, Oliver looked disgustingly virile. She needed something to dilute the effect of him; a challenge was just the thing.

“Are you any good?” he asked, eyes shining.

Leslie gave a modest shrug. “I've never won any championships, but I think I can hold my own.”

“Got Scrabble?”

“Uh huh.”

He tipped his head almost shyly. “Are you game?”

“Are
you
?” she countered in surprise.

“Sure.”

They played Scrabble until midnight, broke for several rounds of Boggle and some coffee, then returned to the Scrabble board. Whether it was the lateness of the hour or the pleasure of being with Oliver, Leslie didn't know. But when, sometime around two, giddiness set in and the choice of words took a decidedly suggestive turn, she played right along. After all, it was a game, only a game.

SOFT. SENSUAL, LIBIDO.

“Good one, Oliver!”

BED.

“Come on, Les. You can do better than that.”

“I'm trying. But I haven't got any vowels.”

“Here. Let me give you a couple.”

VIRILE.

“Very smooth.”

CARESS.

“Not bad. I thought you didn't have any vowels.”

“I just picked them. Go on. Your turn.”

WARMTH. FLOW. WAIF.

“Thirty points, Oliver. You're good at this.”

SPA. SIR. KEYS.

“Pure, Leslie. Very pure.”

SEX.

“Oliver! That's a nothing word!”

“I wouldn't say that. It's got an
x.
That's worth eight points.”

“But you didn't even get it on a double or triple score. You blew it.”

“I'll say,” he muttered under his breath. “Your turn.”

AROUSE. GROAN. RAPE. BREAST.

“I don't know, Ol. This is getting pretty bawdy. Hey, you can't use
breast.
You've got two blanks in there that aren't really blanks. The other two are already on the board. That's cheating.”

“Come on, Les. Where's your sense of humor?
Breast
is a great word!”

“It's bawdy. Try again.”

BAWDY.

“That's not fair. I gave it to you.”

“Uh uh, Les. You didn't have the letters. I don't like that gleam in your eye.”

“Hold onto your socks.
Bawdy
is nothing. Look at this.”

QUIVER.

“Triple word score, plus double letter on the
v.
Twelve … twenty … twenty-two … that makes sixty-six points. So you can keep
bawdy
, even though the
y
does run off the board.”

For the moment she'd taken the upper hand. Then, in the last move of the game, Oliver struck.

LOVE.

No double or triple word score. Not even a double or triple letter score for the
v.
Nothing but the emotional clout of a simple four-letter word.

Strangely and mutually subdued, they called it a night after that.