Warm Hearts (40 page)

“But you know so little about me,” he began, his voice heavy and low.

“I know the essentials,” she pointed out quietly. “And Tony knows you. If there was something grossly unsuitable about you, he would never have suggested you come. Besides, I know that you were kind enough not to laugh at me just now.”

“Did anyone laugh?” he asked, brows lifting in a touching challenge. Was he truly a knight in shining armor, prepared to defend her virtue?

“No one laughed,” she murmured, “because no one knew. And if anyone finds out,” she warned only half in jest, “I'll personally knock you off that white steed of yours.”

Attuned to the analogy, he grunted. “Better to fall from a horse than to be kicked in the balls. Hell, you're a dangerous woman.”

“Only when I'm pushed. I don't really want to be dangerous.”

Oliver's expression took a soulful twist as his arms tightened around her back. “Oh, Leslie,” he murmured, his gaze clinging to each of her features in turn, “I wish … I wish.…”

“Shh.” She pressed a finger to his lips. His entire body felt tense; she began to rub his shoulders and back in an attempt to loosen him up. “Please don't say anything. Life here is so … basic. So simple.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It's like lying bare on the beach. Unadorned and lovely.”

“But there's still New York—”

“Next week,” she vowed more strongly. “Not now.”

“Then where's the honesty you claim you need?”

“What's honest in New York, New York can have. I just want to enjoy what's here. Now.” Her eyes grew beseeching. “Can you understand that, Oliver?”

“Oh, sweetheart, only too well,” he murmured with a sudden fierceness. Then his lips sought hers, transmitting that fierceness through her body in the name of passion. His kiss was long and possessive, enduring even as he swept her off her feet and headed for the bedroom. Only when the large bed took her weight did he raise his head. Trembling as he leaned over her, he sighed her name several times and with reverence. “Leslie, Leslie, let me love you the way you should be loved.…”

Stunned by the aching depth of his plea, Leslie could find no words to express what she felt. Oliver Ames had to be the most gentle, most compassionate man in the world. Opening her arms, she reached up to him. For just a minute he held her, embracing her with the same fierceness with which he'd kissed her, then gently pressing her away. With unsteady fingers he untied her robe and, spreading it to either side, proceeded to worship every bare inch of her body with his hands, then his mouth, then his tongue. Helplessly she writhed at the havoc he caused, loving every minute of it, loving him all the more. For there was something supremely tender about his lovemaking this time, something that went far beyond the gentleness he'd shown before. It was as though in this abandoned adulation he sought to apologize for what another man had done, to make amends, to tell her what an exquisitely feminine wonder she was.

And she believed. She believed. How could she not, with the warmth of strong, manly fingers stroking her hips, with the wetness of a long, sensual tongue adoring her breast, with the length of lean, sinewed flesh branding her cherished? If she'd thought to protest that it wasn't Oliver's apology to give, her need for his loving was far too great to deny him his penance. His entire goal seemed to be giving her pleasure; yet she reveled in the sound of his own moans and sighs, in the quaking of his limbs when he finally drew back to remove his robe.

Then, wanting to absolve him of guilt for all time, she opened her thighs and welcomed him. The ensuing fire was purgative, cleansing, propelling them onward to a climactic point where it seemed their souls would fuse forever. When, after wave upon wave of glory washed over their straining bodies, they finally cooled, exhaustion took its inevitable toll. Deliriously happy and at peace, Leslie fell asleep in her lover's arms, awakening only when morning had fully established itself over the island.

*   *   *

“Happy Birthday, sweetheart.”

She snuggled closer, eyes closed, a smile on her face. “Mmm. You remembered.”

The arms around her tightened. The voice by her ear was a deep, lazy hum. “Of course, I remembered. Thirty years old … oops, what's this?”

She felt the hair being lifted from her neck. “What's what?”

“This line.”

“What line?”

One long finger sizzled around her throat. “This. Must be your age. They say the neck is the first to show it, love.”

Leslie tipped her head back, arched a brow and opened the violet-hued eye beneath it. “Is that so?” she asked smartly.

Oliver nodded, trying his best to keep a straight face. “Uh huh. I should know. In my business, the face is everything. We worry about important things like lines around the mouth and receding hairlines and sagging chins.”

“Do you now?” she teased. “And what'll you do when your day is done?”

“Oh, I've got no cause for concern,” he stated outrageously. “Men don't get older; they just get more dignified-looking. It's women who have to worry. Say, Les, I wouldn't scowl like that. It'll only bring out lines on your forehead.” He ducked in time to avoid the playful swat she aimed at his head, then grabbed her and kissed her soundly. She protested for only an instant before surrendering to his morning pleasure. When he came up for air, his eyes were dark and earnest. “Somehow,” he said softly, stroking the delicate lines of her face, “I don't think you have to worry about wrinkles. You sure as hell don't look thirty. I may not have known you five or ten years ago, but I'd guess that you're one of those women who's getting better, not older.”

“Oliver Ames,” Leslie scolded gently, “this sounds like a living advertisement. Next thing I know the cameramen will pop out from behind the drapes.”

“There aren't any drapes.”

“Then … from under the bed.”

“Heaven help anyone who was under this bed last night. Poor fool would have a concussion.”

She shook her head and sighed through a grin. “You are incorrigible.”

“Better incorrigible than late for breakfast. Come on,” he announced, dropping her onto the sheet as he rolled out of bed, “I'm hungry.” Then he looked down at her. “On second thought, you stay put. For the birthday girl, breakfast in bed.”

The birthday girl, however, was suddenly and acutely aware that she'd never seen Oliver nude in the daylight. Beneath the bright sun streaking through the skylights, his body looked very strong and very male.

“Les?” He leaned over her. Startled, she raised her eyes. “You do want breakfast, don't you?” he whispered.

She swallowed once and realized how silly he'd think her if she said she just wanted to look at him, to touch him. “Sure.”

As though reading her thoughts, he sat back down on the sheets. Taking her hand in his, he pressed it to his hip, moving it gently over the very strip of flesh that all the world had seen. “Maybe I'm feeling my age, after all,” he teased. “You gave me quite a workout last night.” Leaning forward, he kissed her forehead. “We'll have breakfast and then go … exploring. How does that sound?”

The deep velvet of his voice sent shivers of excitement through her, as did the smoothness of his flank. She grinned. “I'd like that.” Slipping beneath the sheet, she watched him leave the room and closed her eyes, awaiting his return.

Return he did, bearing a tray filled with all sorts of breakfast goodies. They ate to their hearts' content, then explored as he'd promised. It was nearly noon before they finally climbed from bed, showered together, then headed for the beach wearing nothing but oversize towels, which they proceeded to spread on the sand and lie upon.

“This is indecent,” she remarked, eyeing the solid length of Oliver's naked body stretched beside her, “but I love it.”

He opened one eye. “You're very daring for a conservative lady. Topless on the public beach, nude here. Say, you never did finish the story of the flower child.” He closed his eye and flipped onto his stomach, propping his chin on his hands in time to see her bob up.

“Wait,” she said, “if you're going to switch on me, you need more lotion.” She had the bottle in her hand and was kneeling at his hips, grateful for the excuse to touch him. He shivered when she drizzled a line of cream down his spine. “Wouldn't want your butt to get burned.”

“God forbid,” he muttered, burying his face in his arms to endure the agony of the hands working so diligently over his skin. It was a full minute after she'd finished and lain down again before he thought to look up. Shifting in a vain attempt to make himself comfortable, he cleared his throat. “Your story.”

She was on her back, arms and legs restful, eyes closed, face to the sun, As an afterthought, she rubbed the lotion lingering on her hands over her stomach and breasts, then fell still. “Not much more to tell.”

“Did you transfer back east to finish school?”

“And jeopardize my independence? No way.”

“It didn't bother you to be out there with memories of that fellow all around?”

“I was so angry at the time that I was thinking only of the discomfort he'd feel knowing I was there. When the anger faded, I realized that there wasn't an awful lot left. Yes, I was hurt and embarrassed and more than a little disillusioned. But I knew that it'd be worse to fly back home with my tail between my legs. Besides, I liked Berkeley and what with the course load I took on, I had plenty to keep me busy. I graduated a semester early and taught for six months before going back to grad school. By that time I'd accepted what had happened with Joe.”

“So you came home.”

She nodded. “I'd done a lot of growing up during those three and a half years. Not only was I the wiser for my experience with Joe, but I realized that I was a strong enough person to hold my own among the Parishes. And, as it happens, I love New York.”

Eyes closed, he groped for her hand, finding it, enveloping it in his. “Look who sounds like an ad, now? And I thought you didn't like crowds.”

“I don't … when it comes to going to work or the bank or the dry cleaner or the supermarket. But I love museums and the theater, and there's nothing more delightful than bundling up and strolling down a packed Fifth Avenue at Christmastime. That's why I live outside the city but within easy reach. If I don't feel like reaching, I don't. I have the choice.” Oliver's respectful chuckle brought her head around. “What about you? Doesn't it bother you—living right in the thick of things?” He'd previously told her that he lived in the city, though he hadn't elaborated either on where or on what kind of place he had.

He shrugged. “For the convenience of it, I'd put up with most anything. Besides, I have a small place in the Berkshires. Great for weekends.”

She wondered what he did on those weekends, whether he had someone to play Scrabble with and … do other things with. But she didn't ask. She didn't feel she had the right. After all, there had been no lofty words of love or proclamations of undying devotion. She didn't want them. They could be so very shallow.
No
, she mused,
better to assume nothing than to pin false hopes on something that would probably never materialize.
It was far safer this way. Safer, if discouraging.…

“You're awfully quiet,” Oliver whispered.

She tossed off his concern with a shrug. “Just … thinking.”

“About what?”

“About … how beautiful it is down here and how much I wish I could stay another week.” Though roundabout, it was the truth.

He was up on an elbow. “Can't you?”

Feeling his gaze, she shook her head and smiled, but didn't open her eyes. “The centers await.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Ah me, the price of success. For us lady executives, the day is never done. They depend on us,” she drawled. “They need us. Oh, to be a lowly errand girl—hey, what are you doing?” She opened her eyes with a start to find Oliver on his haunches by her hip.

“Lotioning you up.” His hands were already at work spreading the cream he'd gushed on.

“But I'm already lotioned!” Feeling her body's instant reaction to his touch, she twisted to the side. Oliver simply straddled her hips to hold her still. “Oliver…” she warned, lying flat, looking up at him. His hands slid over her skin in a pattern of sensuous circles, teasing by sheer impartiality. “Oliver!” she whispered more urgently. “This is ridiculous! The oldest trick in the book—seduction by suntan lotion!”

“Guess I'm not terribly original then,” he murmured, slithering his hands over the peak of her breasts again and again.

“My God!” she moaned. She bit her lip and arched helplessly into his touch.

“No, sweetheart, just me.” Planting his hands on either side of her shoulders, he stretched his full length over her. His eyes held the lambency she'd come to know, the depth she'd come to love, the vulnerability that could touch her every time. “Just me … needing you again.”

Leslie coiled her arms around his neck. “I don't know about these male model types. They're insatiable.”

“Only with you,” he murmured, seeking the honey of her mouth as he nudged a place for himself between her thighs.

And she believed … again. She believed because she had to, because the intense love that swelled within her came part and parcel with trust. If she was wrong, she'd be later damned. But for now she had no choice. No choice at all.

*   *   *

“This is positively decadent,” Leslie remarked. “I don't think we've been properly dressed for two days.”

It was Saturday morning, and they'd just emerged from an early-morning swim. She blotted her towel over her face, then glanced up to find Oliver just standing there, dripping wet, looking down at her. His towel hung, forgotten, in his hand, but she, too, forgot it in the face of his strangely uncertain expression. She'd seen that expression more than once in the past two days. It was not quite haunted, not quite pained, not quite worried, not quite fearful, yet it held a bit of all of those emotions and more, thrown together to produce something that cut to her heart, then twisted and turned.