Warm Hearts (41 page)

“Are you all right?” she asked softly. She took a step forward, then was stopped by a sudden sense of foreboding. Shaking her head, she moved forward again. “Oliver?”

He blinked and inhaled. “Sorry, Les. I missed that.”

Very gently, using her own towel, she began to dry his chest. “Didn't miss much. I was only being smart.”

“Again?” His cockeyed smile was a relief, as was the mischievous eye that warmed her length. “You know, we really should get dressed,” he suggested, tugging her against him. “It's been nearly two days. Think we'll remember how?”

At first she thought he was mocking her. After all, hadn't she just commented on their seemingly perpetual state of undress? But he looked so innocent and sounded so sincere. Where had his mind been then? She'd noticed his tension of late, a tension coming at odd moments such as the one just past. What was he thinking?

It was getting more difficult. Each day of bliss made it worse.
Think of today, only today
, Leslie told herself. But it didn't work. There was tomorrow, and the tomorrow after that … and so on until she was back in New York. Would she see Oliver then? Could she possibly reconcile her far slower life-style with his faster one? Did she want to? Did he want her to? All she knew was that she wanted Oliver. Very desperately.

“Hey, what's this?” he asked with exquisite tenderness as he dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye. Without awaiting her answer, he closed his arms about her and hugged her tightly.

“I don't think I like the idea of getting dressed,” she said in a soft, sad voice.

“Neither do I, but we'll have to sooner or later. You know that, don't you, Les?” His deeper meaning was as glaring as the sun upon open waters.

“Oh, yes.”

He drew his head back to look at her. His jaw was tight, his expression closed. “You also know that I'm not letting you go, don't you?”

His vehemence surprised her as much as it pleased her. “No, I didn't know that,” she whispered.

“Do you mind?”

She shook her head. Mind?
Mind?
The first hint that he wanted to see her back in New York … how could she possibly mind? True, there'd be mammoth hurdles to clear. True, she might stumble and fall. But … what if she took it one day at a time, much as she'd tried to do here? Wouldn't it be better than nothing at all?

“Of course I don't mind,” she answered, eyes misty, a smile on her lips.

“Good. Then what say we get dressed and go into town. There's something I want to pick up.”

“Sounds fine.”

“And brunch on the quai, a drive around the island, the afternoon on the beach?”

“Um hmm.”

“And dinner … a last night out?”

She swallowed down the knot that was so very quick to form. “You bet.”

He kissed her then, each eye in turn, then the tip of her nose, then her mouth. Sucking in a shaky breath, he hugged her tight, then, head down, moved back and took her hand. Leslie could have sworn he was as affected by the moment as she, but how much of what she saw was a product of what she wanted to see, she didn't know. Wishful thinking was a dangerous thing. Dangerous … though irresistible.

*   *   *

It was a busy day, this, their last full one on St. Barts. By unspoken design, they kept their minds occupied with the pleasure of what they saw, said and did. It was as though each feared the thoughts that, given idleness, might creep in and begin to fester.

Gustavia seemed more alive than ever. They walked, then brunched—then, to Leslie's horror, stopped at the jewelry shop Oliver had obviously visited earlier that week, to pick up a beautiful gold necklace he'd purchased. It was a serpentine chain whose central links had been removed to make way for a single amethyst. The stone matched her eyes perfectly. Only when he lifted the chain from its box and started to put it around her neck, though, did she realize he'd bought it for her.

“I can't accept this, Oliver,” she breathed. “It's … it's too much!”

“Not too much. Just right. It was made for you, your birthday present. I'm sorry it's late.” He deftly hooked the clasp, then straightened the chain and stood back to admire the way it nestled against her skin.

Leslie raised a trembling finger to touch the warm amethyst. “But you didn't have to—There was no need.…” Then, embarrassed, she scowled. “Tony didn't put you up to this, did he?”

For a minute she thought Oliver would hit her. His eyes grew dark, his features fierce. “No, Tony didn't put me up to it. I thought of it all by myself.”

“I'm sorry,” she said quickly, reaching out to grasp his arm, “that wasn't what I meant.” In pain, she looked down. “It's just that it's so beautiful … and the thought that went into it.… I … I wanted, needed to know the thought was yours.” Dropping her hand, she turned away. “I guess I'm not very good at accepting gifts. So often they've either been too easily come by, or given with an ulterior motive.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he moaned and turned her to him. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he lowered his head to look at her. Her eyes lifted slowly as he spoke. “I want you to have this just … because.”

“Just … because?” she echoed timidly.

“Just because you're you and I'm me, and together we've had a pretty wonderful week. I want you to have this so that when we get back to New York—” his features stiffened imperceptibly “—you'll be able to touch your throat and remember what we've shared.”

“I could never forget,” she murmured, entranced by the goodness he exuded. “Never, Oliver.”

“I hope not,” he rasped, then crushed her against him with a kind of desperation that was to remain with them through the rest of their stay. It poked its head through the palm fronds when they played on the beach that afternoon. It was propped between the salt and pepper shakers when they had dinner out that evening.

Later that night their lovemaking was slower and more intense than it had been. It was an expression of all the things they'd meant to each other during the week—of fresh lemonade, wine and cheese and Scrabble, of gentle and intimate talk about nothing in particular, of loving and living and counting one's blessings for the moment, of a gold chain with an amethyst at its heart. Particularly when they awoke again at dawn to desire and to each other was there a desperation in it, a kind of grasping and seeking and holding to something that might never come again. For that was precisely what Leslie feared. With the north would come the cold and the real world and all the differences she could only imagine to exist between herself and this man who'd made such a thorough conquest of her heart.

*   *   *

As a couple boarding the small island-hopper Sunday at noon, they were subdued. Transferring to the larger jet on St. Martin, they were distracted. Arriving in New York in the dark to subfreezing temperatures, they were visibly tense. Only when Oliver put Leslie in a cab headed for her home on the island, though, did she come close to breaking.

“Oliver?” She raised a frantic gaze to his, prepared to blurt out her love, prepared to plead, prepared to do most anything to prolong the inevitable parting.

“Shh. I'll call you. Okay?”

Don't call me. I'll call you.
Her heart plummeted to her frigid toes. “Okay.” She flashed him a plastic smile, swallowed hard, then turned and let the driver take her home.

7

Oliver stood at the curb for what seemed hours after Leslie's cab had pulled away. With his eyes he followed it as it dodged other vehicles and slowed, then entered the airport's exit road and sped forward, finally disappearing around the bend that would take it to the parkway and on to her home.

A part of him was in the cab. He wasn't sure how or when it had happened—whether he'd first fallen in love with her honest smile or her ready wit or her breasts in the sun or her mushroom omelets. Hell, it might have been the lavender leprechaun, stuffed-up and sneezing, for whom he'd first fallen. But he'd fallen. No doubt about that. He'd fallen hard. And, damn it, he didn't know what to do!

He'd made a mess of it with his whimsy of shaking the image and existing solely as a man. It had backfired! He'd simply been pigeonholed differently.

Leslie knew him as a model. Oh, yes, it had had its moments, and it was certainly flattering. Only trouble was that she loved him. He was sure of it. Leslie, who believed in, who needed honesty above all, was in love with a man who had deceived her from the start.

“Hey, fella, we're holdin' up the line. You wanna cab or not?”

Snapped from his brooding, Oliver looked down at the body sprawled from the driver's seat toward the passenger's window, at the face scowling up at him. With a curt nod he opened the back door, picked up his bags and tossed them in, then followed them. After giving his Manhattan address to the cabbie, he slouched against the door, his fist pressed to his mouth, and stared blindly into the arena of headlights and taillights they entered.

Was it deceit? Or simply evasion? He'd never lied, but had told only half the truth. He did model, though it was purely a hobby and something he did far less frequently than he'd let Leslie believe. If only he
could
model more often! But his practice was more demanding than it had ever been. Demanding, challenging … rewarding. Even now he wondered what bizarre messages he'd find awaiting him when he got home. Then his thoughts turned to Leslie, and he lost interest in bizarre messages.

She'd been as upset as he when they'd left St. Barts. A healthy tan notwithstanding, she'd looked as pale as her hand had felt cold. They'd said little to each other. He knew she'd hoped for something, but he'd been stymied.

He'd tried. He had tried. Even if she hated him when she learned the truth, she'd have to admit that he'd tried. And every time, she'd hushed him, saying she hadn't wanted to know, that it wasn't important. So why hadn't he pushed? He'd always been strong and convincing, never one to let a woman deter him when he'd had something to do or say. But … he'd never been in love before. And Leslie was a woman like no other he'd known.

The cab swerved. The cabbie swore. From his slouched position Oliver muttered an oath and thrust a hand through his hair. New York looked ugly, all dark and gray and spattered with mud from the snow that must have recently fallen. So different from the sunshine and heat of St. Barts. Damn, but he felt cold inside!

Seeking warmth, he wearily dropped his head back and conjured up memories from the week now past. It worked for a time. As the cab sped onward, snaking in and out of the parkway traffic, he thought of the villa, the beach, bubbling Gustavia … and Leslie through it all. The times he'd spent alone at the start of the week had mysteriously fallen from mind. The images that remained were of time they'd spent together—living, laughing, loving.

But Oliver Ames, more than most, knew that one couldn't exist wholly in a world of memories. In addition to past, one needed present and future. Present and future. The present was a dingy cab fighting its way across town now, through congested Manhattan streets. The future was a confrontation he feared as he'd never feared anything before. So much was at stake. So very much.

The cab lurched through the Sunday-evening traffic, forging steadily onward until at last it came to an abrupt halt at the door of his building. Oliver dug his wallet from his trousers' pocket, thinking how strange it felt in his hand after a week without it. He tugged out several bills and paid the cabbie, then hauled himself and his belongings from the cab.

The doorman was on the spot. “Good evening, Dr. Ames. Would you like a hand?”

Oliver dipped his head in response to the greeting, held up a hand in refusal of the offer, then headed through the door that the attendant had opened. Eighteen floors later, he was in his own apartment.

Leaving his bags by the door, he easily found his way in the darkness down the two steps into the sunken living room, where he collapsed in a sofa and dropped his head into his hands. Then, propping his chin on his palms, he studied the dark.

He missed her already. It was so quiet here. Not that she made much noise, but just knowing she might be in another room would have lightened the atmosphere of the place.

What was he going to do? For three days now, since Thursday, when they'd spent the day together and then made love and he'd realized just how deeply he was in over his head, he'd been trying to decide. He could call her right now and blurt out the truth, counting on her love to master her anger. Or he could make a date for tomorrow night or Tuesday night, and then tell her the truth. He could send her a letter of confession and follow it up with two dozen long-stemmed roses. Or he could storm over to her place and confess it all in person. As a last resort, he could always abduct her, break the news, then hold her prisoner until she forgave him.

Damn Joe Durand! It sounded as though Leslie had been leery enough of deception before Joe had come along, but his shoddy treatment of her had cemented her feelings. Now Oliver had inadvertently stepped in the muck Joe had left, and his feet were stuck. He felt like such a heel! A heel!

Eyes wide, he threw his head back, then gave a savage push and left the sofa. Flipping on the lights by the door, he grabbed his bags, strode angrily down the hall to his bedroom, tossed the cases onto the bed, then stood glaring at them.

“Damn!” Crossing to the bedstand phone, he picked up the receiver, held it midair for a minute, then scowled at it and slammed it down. He stormed back down the hall, paused overlooking the living room and stood, hands on his hips, frowning.

He lived in the lap of luxury in this coop with its prestigious East Side address. Maybe she wouldn't be surprised at it; after all, she'd assumed him to be a successful model, and they reportedly did well. Rubbing a tired hand against the taut muscles at the back of his neck, he slowly descended the steps and perched on the arm of a chair.