Forever Spring (2 page)

Sharing the room with her would be interesting, he reflected, if not downright adventurous.

A shocking stab of sensual awareness sobered him. Staring at his reflection in the mirror above the sink, Paul was amazed at the color tingeing the taut skin over his high cheekbones. His appetite was suddenly sharp, but not for warm croissants. He wanted a woman. Paul frowned at his dark-eyed image. No, he wanted a particular woman! The sensual awareness tightened inside him, tensing every sinew and muscle in his body.

Incredible. Paul closed his eyes and savored the painfully pleasant sensation of arousal coursing through him. He had been convinced his wife had dealt a death blow to his natural sex drive long before her own demise. And now to discover his mind and body reactivated and humming with anticipation because of an errant thought about a full-figured woman in a minuscule powder room was more than incredible, it was astonishing and damned funny!

So why aren’t you laughing? Paul silently demanded of his somber reflection. It couldn’t be that after all this time you’ve forgotten how to approach a woman with the intention of seduction, could it? Drawing a deep breath, Paul stared into the mirror and watched his features lock and his lips twist derisively. No, he hadn’t forgotten, but seduction was for young, eager men, and he was no longer either.

Paul shrugged his shoulders and turned away from the mirror, bumping his lean hip on the edge of the sink as he moved. Laughing softly, he eased his tall frame from the room. The exciting inner tension was

gone; Paul couldn’t help but wonder if it would return.

It slammed into his midsection like a body blow the instant he stepped into the kitchen to find Karen bending to remove a tray from the oven. The faded jeans hugged her firm, rounded bottom. His breathing suddenly shallow, Paul fought an urge to cross the room and stroke his palms over that enticing curve. Fortunately, Karen decided the inner battle by straightening before he could make a move.

“Take off your jacket and sit down,” she said, sliding a small tray of steaming croissants onto the stovetop. “And help yourself to the coffee,” she added, inclining her head toward the glass coffeepot and cups on the table.

Aroused again and relieved at the opportunity to sit down, Paul still managed to remember his manners. “Can I help you there?” he asked, inching toward the table.

“No, thank you.” Karen shot a quick smile over her shoulder as she transferred the hot pastries from the tray to a napkin-lined basket. “But you can pour a cup of coffee for me, please.”

“Of course.” Shrugging out of the jacket, Paul draped it over the back of a chair as he slid onto the seat. To his amazement, he found his hands steady as he poured coffee into the two cups. Applying mind over matter, he had his responsive body under control by the time she sat down opposite him.

“Smells delicious,” he murmured, inhaling the aroma of the hot croissants.

“Help yourself,” she invited. “There’s butter and preserves.” She indicated the containers with a flick of her hand as she reached for her cup.

“Not joining me?” Paul asked, breaking one of the crescent-shaped rolls.

“No.” Karen shook her head. “I’m on a perpetual diet, and midafternoon croissants are not a part of it.” Lifting her cup, she sipped at the steaming black coffee.

“Diet?” Paul paused in the act of slathering wild-strawberry preserves onto a piece of the roll. His frowning gaze made a brief survey of the upper half of her body; his memory retained a clear vision of the lower half. “You don’t need to diet.” The sincerity of his tone was proof that he was not merely being gallant.

“Oh, but I do.” Karen’s smile held an odd, bitter slant. “I love to cook and I love to eat,” she said in a flat voice. “I pay for my indulgence in pounds... usually around my hips.”

Personally, Paul considered her rounded hips uncomfortably alluring. Prudently he kept his thoughts to himself. “My problem’s the direct opposite,” he said for the sake of conversation. “I often forget to eat, and I have to remind myself to do so to keep from losing weight.” He popped the bite of roll into his mouth and chewed with relish.

Her expression mocking, Karen cradled her cup in her palms and leaned back in her chair. “I should have such a problem,” she drawled, tilting her cup in a silent salute. Her gaze boldly noted the breadth of his shoulders and chest and the evidence of well-developed muscles beneath his bulky knit sweater.

“For all the lack of nourishment, you appear to be in great shape.”

Paul’s smile was wry. “For my age, you mean?” “For any age,” she retorted. “How old are you?” There was a hint of challenge in her voice.

“I’ll never see fifty again.” Paul smiled at her look of genuine astonishment and tossed her challenge back at her. “How old are you?”

“I’ll never see thirty again,” she said in a dry tone. “As a matter of fact, I celebrated my thirty-seventh birthday last Tuesday.”

Something, some infinitesimal inflection in her voice, alerted Paul. “Alone?” he guessed.

Karen hesitated, then sighed. “Yes.”

“You have no family?” Paul probed gently, not sure exactly why he was bothering.

“I have two sons,” she said brightly—too brightly. “They’re away at school. I.. .received lovely birthday cards from them.” Her smile was as bright as her tone, and as suspect. “Do you have children?” she asked swiftly, allowing him no time to question her further.

“Yes, two also,” Paul answered. “I have a son and a daughter, both grown and married.” Memory softened his expression.

“Grandchildren?” Karen guessed.

Paul’s smile was gentle. “Yes, a six-week-old grandson from my son and daughter-in-law, and my daughter is currently a lady-in-waiting. The child is due at Christmas, on or about their first wedding anniversary.”

“That’s nice,” she murmured, blinking as she glanced away. “I love babies.”

Once again, Paul became alert to an odd tone in her voice. For a moment she looked so lost, so unhappy, that he had to squash the urge to go to her and draw her into his arms. “Your husband?” he asked very softly.

“I’m divorced.” She turned to look at him as she stood up. The vulnerability was gone; an invisible curtain had been drawn, concealing her feelings. “If you’ve finished, I’ll show you to your room.” Her voice was steady, free of inflection.

Paul had the strange sensation of having been shoved outside, into the deepening dusk and frigid wind. The sensation disturbed him more than a little. Why it should bother him was baffling. He had grown used to being in the cold and the dark with the opposite sex. His wife Carolyn had kept him there for years. Feeling a chill, Paul tossed down the last of his coffee and stood up. “Ready when you are,” he said in an even tone, plucking his jacket from the back of the chair.

Following Karen up the wide staircase proved to be a test of endurance for Paul. She had a lovely, graceful stride, shoulders back without being stiff, spine straight without being rigid, and her hips had a gentle, unpracticed sway that profoundly affected every one of his senses. Sweetly erotic images flashed through his mind as he trailed her down the hall, his darkened gaze fixed on the movement of her hips. His mind smoky from the heat of his thoughts, Paul was only vaguely aware of the room she ushered him into. The inflec-tionless sound of her voice pierced the sensuous fog.

“Of course, if this room doesn’t suit you, you may choose any of the other six guest rooms,” she was

saying, moving to the long windows to pull the drapes open. “I thought this would be best since it has its own bathroom and looks out over the beach and the ocean.” She swept her arm toward the view as if offering him a gift.

“This will be fine.” Paul glanced around the room without really seeing it as he dutifully walked to stand beside her at the window. Darkness cloaked the land, and low-hanging clouds obscured the moon and stars. Paul could see very little except for outlines and the curling white of cresting waves. But standing this close to her he could smell her distinct scent, and his body tightened in response to it. Relief shivered through him when she moved away.

“Well, then,” Karen said briskly. “I’ll get bed linens and towels. It’ll only take a minute to make up the bed.” She was walking from the room before she’d finished speaking.

Keeping his back squarely to the room, Paul stared into the night, his thoughts just as black. What was wrong with him? he wondered bleakly, clenching his fists as he heard her reenter the room. He was reacting to Karen like a teenager with a hormonal explosion. He wanted to grab her, touch her—everywhere. He wanted to kiss her, bite her, thrust his tongue into her sweet mouth! Oh, God, how he wanted! Paul was shuddering inside when the snapping sound of a sheet being shaken dispelled the erotic thoughts teasing his senses.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Paul closed his eyes, despairing of the hoarse sound in his voice.

“No, thank you, I’m just about finished.” Karen’s tone had an edge that tugged at his attention, an edge that held a hint of—what? Trepidation? Outright fear?

Raising his eyelids fractionally, Paul turned slowly to face her. Moving swiftly, economically, her hands smoothed a candlewick bedspread over two plump pillows. On closer inspection, he thought he detected a slight tremor in her competent hands. Was Karen afraid of him? Paul mused, watching as she carried a stack of towels into the adjoining bathroom. Had she sensed his reaction to her, and was she now regretting renting him the room?

Avoiding his eyes, Karen walked into the room and directly to the door to the hallway, by her manner convincing Paul his speculations were correct.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in,” she said, reminding him of a wary doe as she hesitated in the doorway. “Dinner will be ready at 7:30.” Turning abruptly, she strode from the room.

“Thank you.” A grimace twisted Paul’s mouth as he realized he was speaking to thin air; Karen had fled. A sick despair sank heavily to the pit of his stomach. She was afraid of him, he thought, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. Dammit! The last thing he’d wanted was to frighten her. Sighing, Paul turned to stare into the unwelcoming darkness of a cold night.

Karen was also staring into the night. Directly across the hall, in a room that was a twin to his, she stood at the window, her trembling fingers clutching the old-fashioned carved wood frame. Her breathing was ragged and uneven; her stomach felt queasy.

What had come over her? The silent cry battered her mind. Her senses were jangling; her emotions were freaking out! And all because of a man who was almost twenty years her senior!

But, oh, glory, what a man! Shutting her eyes tightly, Karen shivered deliciously in response to the image of him that consumed her mind. Aristocratic. Patrician. Handsome. Cultured. Endearingly preoccupied. The adjectives crashed into each other as they rushed forward. At fifty-whatever, Paul Vanzant was the most compelling man Karen had ever met.

And he probably thinks you’re an absolute idiot!
A sigh whispered through her lips as Karen accepted the mental rebuke. She was thirty-seven years old and the mother of two teenage sons. She had experienced the satisfaction of a successful career and—though briefly—the love of a dynamic man on the way up. She was well educated and well traveled. And she had conducted herself with all the aplomb of a wide-eyed, tongue-tied, backward young girl being presented at court.

But Lord, the man was
fantastic
! Feeling as if she were melting inside, Karen tightened her grip on the windowframe and leaned forward to press her forehead against the cold pane. She longed to stroke the white wings highlighting his black hair at his temples— No! She longed to stroke the entire length of his tall, muscular body. Sensual awareness flared to life, and she quivered in response to the mere thought of touching Paul.

Was she losing her mind? Or had she simply been too long alone? It had been five years since Karen had been with a man, five years since the separation and subsequent divorce that had shredded the fabric of her marriage and life. Embittered, she had embraced celibacy, not grown frustrated because of it. Karen hadn’t wanted anything to do with a man, and she certainly hadn’t wanted to share intimacy with one.

Intimacy.
Karen moaned softly as the word echoed inside her whirling mind. Male-female intimacy meant silken touches and deep, hungry kisses and an even deeper, all-consuming possession.

Suddenly weak and shaking, Karen turned her head to press her flushed cheek to the cool window. With her mind’s eye she could see Paul, naked and beautiful, his dark eyes shadowed by passion, a sensuous smile on his sculpted masculine lips.

“Yes, yes.”

The jagged, breathless sound of her own voice startled Karen into awareness. Breathing deeply, she glanced around in confusion. What in the world was she doing? Her face grew hot and then cold at the answer. Her movements jerky and uncoordinated, she walked to the low double dresser and picked up her hairbrush. Drawing the brush through her wind-tossed curls, she frowned at the slumbrous glow in the brown eyes reflected in the mirror. Was this the same self-contained woman who had turned her back on her career and all her activities in the city to return to her childhood home? Karen wondered tiredly. Could the woman in the mirror possibly be the same person who had determinedly removed herself physically and mentally from the pleasures of the flesh?

Karen shook her head and dropped the brush onto the dresser. This would not do. Paul was, for whatever reason, obviously in transit. He would stay a while, and then he would go. And unless she was very careful, he could take a part of her with him. Karen knew she could not let that happen.

She was vulnerable to him. Why she was vulnerable to this particular man was unimportant—at least for the moment. She had to get herself firmly under control. Paul Vanzant was the stuff dreams were made of, she decided sadly. And dreams of that sort were for the young and innocent, not the wise and embittered.

Drawing a deep breath, Karen squared her shoulders and smiled at her reflected image. “He’s in his fifties,” she said in a soft but bracing tone. “He has grown children, and he’s a grandfather. Children and grandchildren presuppose a mother and grandmother. Where is she?” A spasm of pain flicked across Karen’s face. “He’s on the move, you fool!” she chided her image. “His wife is more than likely at home, playing the doting grandma.” She shut her eyes against the sting of tears and closed her mind to the bittersweet yearning to fill the emptiness of her body and arms with a tiny new life. Denying the image of a child with Paul’s aristocratic features in miniature, she opened her eyes again, wide. “He’s too old for a serious new commitment. He’s too old to be running around while his wife sits waiting at home. And he’s too old for you.”