Warm Hearts (46 page)

She waited in silence, determined to do nothing to put him at ease. For ease was the last thing she felt. Looking at Oliver, vitally aware of his very presence in her home, she felt as though she were being torn apart. Strange, when Joe had come to her apartment that last time, she'd felt angry and strong and vindictive. Now, though, angry and vindictive were simply for show, while strong was nonexistent. What
did
she feel? She ached—inside, outside, everywhere.

Oliver took several gulps of wine, then tugged his tie looser and unbuttoned the top collar of his shirt. Anchoring one hand in the pocket of his slacks, he looked down at her. “I was going to tell you this weekend,” he said quietly.

“Were you.” It wasn't a question, rather a statement whose blatant mockery was quickly punished by the piercing arrow of his gaze.

“I would have told you as soon as we arrived in the mountains, once I'd isolated you from the world so you wouldn't be able to run out of the house and barrel off in your car. That was a dumb thing to do, Leslie!”

“That's strange.” She gritted her teeth against the hurt. “I thought it was pretty smart. I wasn't needed there. Diane was well taken care of.”

“And what about us?”

“We were well taken care of, too.”

“Well taken care of … as in finished?” he asked, his voice grating. “Not quite.”

She sipped her wine without tasting a drop. Then she took another sip, a larger one in search of the inner warmth that totally eluded her. She drew her legs up under her and wrapped her arms about her waist. “I think so,” she murmured. “You've ruined everything.”

“Only if you decide that I have,” he countered firmly. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders rigid. “I'm not Joe Durand, Leslie. I did nothing immoral. And I didn't set out to hurt you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”

“You lied.”

“I never lied.”

“You said you were a model. Not a psychiatrist. A model.”

“I am a model. You've seen my work. I pose every so often just for the fun of it. And I never said I
wasn't
a psychiatrist. I just—” his voice lowered “—didn't say that I was.”

“And that's not lying?”

“Technically, no.”

“Then you're splitting hairs, Oliver. You let me go on believing that … that … oh, what the hell.” Eyes moist, she looked away and took a fast drink of her wine.

“Go on.”

And give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly she ached? “No.”

“You disappoint me,” he taunted. “You're a woman of strong opinions. You mean to say that you've suddenly gone private with them? Where's the woman who asked point-blank why I'd choose to spend a quiet week at her Caribbean villa rather than live it up at a nearby hotel?”

“Maybe she's wary of the answers. Maybe she knows not to trust them anymore.” Finding small satisfaction in seeing Oliver wince, she once again sank into a dark, brooding silence. Bowing her head, she didn't see him set his wine down on the nearby coffee table. Only when his hands settled on the arms of her chair did she grow aware of the large body bent over her.

“That's bull,” his voice rumbled near her ear. “Her pride's been hurt, and she's vulnerable and in love—”

Leslie snapped her head up. “She is not!”

“No?” he hummed, his lips near her cheek.

Momentarily unable to function, she closed her eyes. He was close and warm and beckoning. His smell, clean and natural even at the end of the day, titillated her senses. All week she'd waited to be with him. She wanted him so badly.…

“No,” she whispered, reinforcing the lie. If he could do it, so could she.

“I love you, Leslie,” he murmured, his own eyes closed, his own senses absorbing her closeness. All week he'd waited to be with her. He wanted her so badly.…

“No!” she screamed, taking him by surprise and bolting past him. Oblivious to the slosh of wine over her hand, she ran to the fireplace and turned to face him. “No!” she cried, suddenly shaking all over. “I don't want to hear it! You had plenty of time to say it before. You had plenty of time to say everything before. Now it's too late. I can't believe any of it!”

“Leslie—” He started toward her.

“Don't come near me!” she yelled, cringing against the marble. When he continued forward, she tried to escape to the side, only to have her shoulders caught in the vise of his hands. “Let me go! I don't want you touching me!”

“You'll hear me out,” he growled, then grunted when her foot hit his shin. Rather than releasing her, he slid his hands to her upper arms for better leverage, then with one hand relieved her of her endangered wineglass. “Childish, Les. Really childish.”

“You must be used to it,” she gritted, trying to push against his arms and free herself. “You're the expert on temper tantrums.” She twisted and turned, but to no avail. Even when she brought her knee up, she was thwarted. Anticipating her ploy, he easily blocked the move.

“You told me about that little trick once before. Remember? You shouldn't have tipped your hand.”

“I didn't think I'd need to try it on you. Let … me … go!”

“No way,” he growled, all but carrying her to the sofa. “You're going to hear me out if it kills us both.”

“And then where will Diane be? Where will your other precious patients be? Where will the adoring public in love with the Homme Premier man be?”

Having shoved her into an upholstered corner, he stood over her, his hands on the sofa arm and back, barring her escape. “I don't give a good goddamn about anyone but you. And you will listen to what I have to say! Now, do I have to restrain you, or do you think you can try to behave yourself?”

“I am behaving myself,” she said quietly.

He stared at her suddenly still form for a minute, then straightened. Taking a long, ragged breath, he walked to the far end of the room, turned back toward her, and tucked both hands in his pockets.

“When Tony suggested I spend a week on St. Barts, it sounded like a super idea. I was tired. I needed a vacation. When he told me about you and his little joke, I wasn't deterred. It sounded like fun, entirely harmless. Tony said you were the independent sort and that you'd probably go about your business as though I wasn't even there. Other than sharing laughs that first day, I didn't expect a thing.”

“Got slightly more than that, didn't you,” she murmured morosely.

“Slightly. I didn't expect an adorable purple elf with a whopper of a head cold bounding into my bedroom to wake me up.”

“Adorable?” She screwed up her face. “As in puppy? Something you trick into fetching slippers solely for the sake of a stale biscuit?”

His tone softened. “Adorable as in fresh and pretty.”

“Come off it, Oliver! I was sweaty and hot.” The last thing she needed was his sweet-talking, given her peculiar susceptibility to it.

“Sweaty and hot, then fresh and pretty … and needing my care.” He came several steps closer. “You don't know what that does to a man in this day and age, to feel needed.”

She eyed him skeptically. “You're needed all the time! Look at the way Diane needed you, not to mention the crew of unhappy people who must have brooded around Manhattan while you were away.”

“Professionally, fine. I was talking personally. And on a personal level, it's nice to feel needed once in a while.”

“Polishes that image of the macho protector?”

His lips thinned. “The image of the macho protector is nothing compared to the one you're trying to project of the hard-bitten independent woman. Sarcasm doesn't become you, Les.”

She had no smart retort. He was right. She didn't care for her tone any more than he did, and the fact that she was merely lashing out in anger did nothing to sweeten the bitter taste in her mouth. She dropped her gaze to the fingers clenched in her lap and listened as Oliver went on in a softer tone.

“You saw me as the man from the ad. To tell you the truth, I kind of enjoyed it.” When she raised her head and took a breath to protest, he held up a hand. “No, no, Leslie. I'm not making fun of you. It was from a selfish standpoint that I enjoyed it. It was a new image for me. Believe it or not,” he said less surely, “I needed that.”

“I don't believe it,” she said, but without sarcasm. She was puzzled. It didn't make sense. “What could possibly be wrong with being a psychiatrist?”

“Do you like psychiatrists?”

“No … but my situation is different. And my bias is strictly emotional. From an intellectual point of view, I respect the fact that you've had to make it through med school to get into psychiatry.”

“Thank you,” he drawled with a touch of sarcasm of his own, then grew more firm. “But most people don't think of that when they meet me. They think of how eager I must be to hear their problems, how good I must be at reading their minds, how neurotic I must be myself. When a psychiatrist meets people, they usually fall into two categories. There are those who treat him like he's got the plague, who are aloof, who won't go near him for fear that he'll see something deep inside that they'd rather hide. And there are those who flock to him and tell him everything.” His face contorted. “Do you have any idea how boring that can be?”

“Don't you like your work?”

“I love my work …
when I'm working.
Not twenty-fours hours a day. Not when I want to relax. Not when I go to parties or dinners or the theater.” In vehemence, his brows drew together. “It's damned frustrating to be constantly labeled. In the first place, I don't identify with many of my more eccentric colleagues. In the second place,
I'm a man
.” His voice had risen steadily. Suddenly, as though a bubble inside him had popped, he spoke more softly. “At any rate, that was why I didn't jump to correct your misconception when you assumed that I was a model. It was my vacation. What better way to escape reality than by taking on a new identity?”

His manner was so sincere that Leslie could almost believe him. Almost … but not quite. He'd seemed so sincere about everything before. She'd believed then—and felt humiliated now.

“But you let me say so many things,” she argued with a surge of embarrassment, “things about women and action and—” she tried to remember them all “—and aging. I even implied that your parents might be ashamed of your work.”

To her relief, Oliver didn't laugh. “And everything I answered was honest. My parents are proud of what I do. And I do model, Leslie. Even though it's a hobby, I get a significant amount of money for it. I don't stick around long enough to see the glamorous side. You imagined that; I simply did nothing to disillusion you.” He took a deep breath and walked to the fireplace, where he stood with one elbow on the mantel, one foot raised on the hearth. His gaze raked the cold, ash-strewn grates. “Modeling is an escape for me. To spend an afternoon doing something as light as that is refreshing. I need it from time to time.”

His voice seemed to hover in the air, then drop into a chasm of silence. Leslie tried to find fault with his reasoning, but couldn't. Oliver tried to find reasoning for his fault, but couldn't.

“I should have told you everything.”

“You should have. Why didn't you?”

He looked at her then, his expression one of vulnerability. Not wanting to be affected, she lowered her eyes. But his words came to her nonetheless, accompanied by a note of urgency. “Because at first I enjoyed the role I was playing. Then, as the week went on, it grew stale. And about the time I realized that you were something very special to me, I got wind of your obsession with honesty.”

“So why didn't you say something?”

“I was scared!”
he bellowed, feeling angry and frustrated and embarrassed, just as Leslie had felt.

She wanted to doubt him. “You? Scared?”

“Yes,” he answered somberly. “Me, scared. I wanted you. I needed you. You seemed to be everything I'd waited thirty-nine years for. I felt as though we'd gotten off to such a good start. I didn't know what to do. On the one hand, I didn't want you to know I was a psychiatrist. It's so … complicated sometimes. A model—that's simpler. On the other hand, I knew you'd be upset if I didn't tell you.” He took a breath, then threw up a hand in frustration. “It was the old story. With each day that passed, it got more difficult. The longer the deception went on, the more I feared confessing to it. And in the end, the joke was on me. By the time we were ready to return to New York, I knew I loved you … and though I hated myself for having deceived you, I didn't know how in hell to correct the error without the risk of losing you completely.”

He swallowed hard. His hand gripped the mantel until his knuckles were white. Gazing at Leslie, he hated himself all the more for having put that look of misery on her face. Somehow, some way, he had to convince her of his love.

“I tried to tell you, Leslie. Several times as the week went on, I tried to tell you. But you wouldn't let me, and I was happy enough not to push. There were times when I wondered if you knew. Once when you kiddingly called me Dr. Ames, another time when you begged me not to analyze things to death.” His voice grew deeper. “Do you remember that time? We were on the terrace.…” He started to move toward her but she quickly rose from the sofa and crossed the room to stand at the window with her back to him. In tailored wool slacks, a sweater and blouse, she looked every bit the successful businesswoman, every bit the caring teacher, every bit the woman he loved.

“I remember a comment you made,” she began in a distant voice, her mind, too, back on St. Barts, “when I thought Tony had paid you to give me a good time. You laughed and said that nobody paid you for your time in chunks like that. I suppose I should have wondered what you meant, but I assumed you were talking of modeling. Deep down under all that wariness, I was so … so anxious to believe.” She shook her head in dismay. “What is it about me?” she asked herself. “After Joe, I swore I'd never be taken in. One week with you … and bam, I'm blind all over again.”