Garden of the Moongate (10 page)

A soft moan escaped her at the first brushing touch of his fingers on the hardening peaks that surged against the sheer fabric of her bra. Her hands kneaded the straining muscles of his back and lean sides. As his lips pressed against the ferociously pounding pulse in her throat her head fell back to rest in the warm hollow of his shoulder and her breath came from between parted lips in soft, rapid gasps of delight.

"Lovely," he whispered hoarsely, devouring her mouth again. "You're so lovely, Allendre."

It was conditioned reflex that made her stiffen when he sought the back clip of her bra. She had rarely allowed any man to take such liberties before, and simply letting Ric touch her as intimately as he had suddenly seemed a dangerous mistake. "Don't. Please," she whispered urgently, stilling his hands. "I can't let you…"

"You drive me crazy," he muttered, his deep voice muffled in the tousled thickness of her hair. "Absolutely crazy. But all right. Everything will be the way you want, for now." Lifting his head, he smiled down at her, dark blue fire flaring in his eyes. "I'm sorry about last night. I was tired and frustrated about Shannon House, and obnoxiously blunt. Now I see how important the preliminaries are to you, and I'm willing to wait." His voice became teasing. "Only don't make me wait too long. All right?"

She couldn't even object. Dismay knotted in her chest and constricted the muscles in her throat. Realizing that his mistaken opinion of her hadn't really changed at all, she sat up and moved out of his arms. Her hands shook as she straightened her skirt and tried to tuck in her shirt. Despite her denials last night, his opinion of her hadn't altered. But she had changed her mind about him. Ric Shannon had the power to evoke emotions and desires in her she had never felt before. Allendre knew now he was a man she wouldn't easily forget.

"You did some shopping, I see. What did you buy?" Ric asked Allendre, smiling at her from across the tiny table in the quaint tearoom. "A souvenir ashtray? A plastic replica of Gibb's Lighthouse?"

She laughed, shaking her head. "Nothing so exotic. Just a set of Irish linen napkins for my mother and, of course, a pair of original Bermuda shorts for my father, which he'll probably never wear. But Mom wanted me to get them, and I think they look nice. I've seen several men here who wear them with ties and coats, like business suits."

"I've been seriously considering buying some for myself since it's beginning to look as if I'll be here for quite some time. What do you think? Would Bermuda shorts and the compulsory knee socks suit me?"

Giving a little shrug, Allendre grinned. "I don't know. Do you have knobby knees?"

"I have very nice knees," he countered softly. "Remind me to show them to you sometime."

"I'll take your word for it," she murmured, feeling warming color creep into her cheeks and wishing she didn't get so flustered by every one of his semiprovocative statements. She abruptly changed the subject.

"Are you getting things straightened out at Shannon House?"

"I'm trying." A small frown appeared on his tan brow as he shook his head. "The staff's morale is lower than I've ever known it to be, though, despite the fact that I upped all their wages. And the guests just don't seem as happy as they always used to be. Unfortunately, it does very little good to ask them for an honest evaluation of the service. Most people just don't want to complain."

"I think it may make them feel petty or cantankerous. At least, they feel other people will see them that way," Allendre offered. "So they simply do their grumbling in private."

"Have you heard any of the complaints?" he questioned very seriously. "If you have, please tell me what they were."

She hesitated, though she didn't really know why. He cared about the hotel, and since she was sure he truly wanted to correct all the problems, she thought he had every right to know what the guests were saying.

"Well, of course you know everyone's irritated because there never seem to be enough maids or bellmen."

"I'm working on that. I told Deb to call an ad in to the
Royal Gazette
this morning. It should be in there tomorrow, so we'll be expanding the staff. Of course, many of the people we hire will probably have to be trained, but we'll just have to put up with that for a while. Now, have you heard any other complaints?"

"Well, I've heard some complain that there's no room service after ten at night."

"Another of Deb's money-saving innovations," he muttered impatiently. "But I've ended that, too. As of last night, Shannon provides twenty-four-hour room service."

Not caring for the role of bearer of bad tidings, Allendre shifted uncomfortably in her chair, then decided she might as well tell him everything she had heard.

"Well, I know there's supposed to be a bus constantly going to and from the beach, but, unfortunately, I've never even seen it, though my room overlooks the beach road," she told him, her voice weakening as that muscle began ticking in his jaw. "I… Yesterday, I had to walk up myself and request it be sent down for Mrs. Wainwright and Mrs. Chandler, who were sort of stranded at the pavilion. They're just not able to walk up all those steep stairs." The icy glimmer that grayed his eyes was not exactly encouraging, and she stopped talking and gestured uncertainly.

"Go on," he prompted grimly. "There's obviously more, so just go ahead and tell me what it is."

"Well… it's that thing about the towels."

"What thing about the towels?"

Reluctantly, she explained the card system and the deadline for towel return, then almost wished she hadn't when he cursed beneath his breath. "It just antagonizes people," she added weakly. "You know, they don't like to feel they're not trusted to return a towel."

"If it weren't for Lawrence, and if Deb and I hadn't grown up together…" He shook his head. "I wish she'd never taken that blasted hotel-management course," he said disgustedly. "I think she took it at some fly-by-night school that's no longer even in business. Obviously, they devoted the entire course to methods of cutting corners to increase the profit margin. Now I can't seem to make her understand that Shannon isn't one in a chain of cut-rate, boringly identical hotels." Shaking his head, he gave Allendre a nearly wistful smile. "Until recently, Shannon was something unique, but now…"

"It's still a very special place, Ric," she said softly, impulsively laying her hand over his on the tabletop. Then, when she reconsidered the gesture and started to remove her hand, his lean brown fingers captured hers in a gentle yet relentless grip. An unreasonable, breathtaking excitement surged through her, sensitizing her skin to such an extent that the mere touch of his thumb seemed like a searing flame brushing across her pulsing inner wrist. Though she was nearly mesmerized by the strange light that flared in the blue depths of his eyes, she tried to deny the overwhelming awareness that radiated between them by adding in a whisper, "It really is—very special, I mean."

"You're a very intriguing young woman, Allendre," he said almost wonderingly. "I keep seeing glimpses of some innate sensitivity that you couldn't possibly fake. So why…" Breaking off, he shook his head. "Never mind."

"But what were you going to ask me?"

"Let's order lunch," he said, ignoring her words as he released her hand to pick up a menu.

When the cool graying of his eyes discouraged further questions, Allendre drew a deep, weary breath and proceeded to glance over her menu without any real enthusiasm. He really was the most unfathomable man she had ever met, and, unfortunately for her, the most fascinating.

Despite his cryptic comments at lunch, Allendre enjoyed the remainder of the afternoon. When they kept their conversation impersonal, they were actually quite compatible. As they strolled down Front Street by the island-dotted harbor and up the hilly sidewalks of the bustling little town Allendre began to discover what a multifaceted man he was. After wandering through a bookstore, they drifted into a discussion of Ernest Hemingway's writing, which had never particularly appealed to her but which he thought was poignantly precise.

"Maybe he was just too much of a man's man for me," she considered musingly. "You know, all that hunting and bullfighting and war. They're not really subjects women find all that fascinating."

"Maybe not, but women seemed to find the man himself fascinating enough," Ric argued mischievously. "He obviously didn't have much trouble attracting them."

"Oh, but I never said he wasn't a charismatic personality; I'm sure he was," Allendre countered with a grin. "But, personally, I prefer men who are more well rounded than his writing implies he was. A man with varied interests is much more fascinating to me."

"I'll keep that in mind," Ric teased, catching her hand to lead her up the steps of a narrow arcade, walled in by buildings on each side. It was like an alleyway, but enhanced charmingly by quaint little shops, some of which sported window boxes abloom with colorful, fragrant flowers. Then he drew her into a doorway, paused there, and lifted a golden strand of hair back over her shoulder. His fingers lingered, examining the silky texture, until the heel of his hand brushed against her skin and her eyes widened. Smiling almost indulgently, he gave the strand a playful tug, then released it. "Speaking of varied interests, you mentioned wanting to buy a painting by a Bermudian artist, didn't you? We can look in here if you want; it's one of the best galleries on the island."

The gallery was a simple room, yet quietly elegant. Straw mats on a gleaming wood floor and linen-textured white walls provided a perfect, nondistracting background for the paintings that hung at nicely spaced intervals. Allendre liked almost everything she saw, though of course some of the work was priced miles out of her range. After Ric guided her to some of the less expensive small watercolors and sketches, she found three she adored, but she could afford only two. She was sure she wanted one of the watercolors, a palm-fringed bay at sunset, but she couldn't choose between a sketch of a narrow, cottage-lined street or the other watercolor, which depicted scarlet hibiscus tumbling over a limestone wall. After she had stood indecisively looking at both of them for a full ten minutes, Ric offered his opinion.

"The watercolor's rough. The red of the petals and green of the foliage is too bright, almost garish," he commented knowledgeably. "And the blossoms are far too large. They throw the entire work off balance."

"I knew something about it bothered me, but I just couldn't decide what was wrong," Allendre said, smiling up at him. "You're right about the colors—they're too bright. So I'll take the sketch. Where do I pay?"

Almost as if on cue, the proprietress sauntered out of a back room, stunning in a Chinese red silk caftan that contrasted beautifully with the lustrous sheen of her black, waist-length hair. She was an exotic creature and obviously a close acquaintance of Ric's, because when she saw him a slow provocative smile appeared on her red-glossed lips. She went to him, wrapping her long, slender arms around his neck, her lissome body melting against his as his hands lightly gripped her waist. As they exchanged a kiss her lips clung to his until he put her away from him slightly, smiling at her with obvious affection.