Rekindled (11 page)

Anticipation constricted her throat, making breathing harder. The aftereffects of her jog had faded; this quickening was due to desire. Ross turned her on. Part of her wanted nothing more than to give herself to him. Give herself? She would take as well, take as she had been too the I’ve to do eleven years before. She felt suddenly greedy, possessed with a need to satisfy the gnawing inside.

“You’re back!”

Chloe whirled around.

Undaunted by her alarm, he grinned. “I’d hoped to be out of your way.” He gestured in token apology toward her bed. “Guess I misjudged the time.” He shot a look at the hall. “I helped myself to your supplies. That okay?”

That okay? The towel was draped around his hips with as much panache-and as little ceremony-as she had earlier imagined. It hung low on his stomach and left little to the imagination. She dragged her eyes upward, following a narrow line of hair past his navel to his waist and slowly higher.

“Chloe,” Ross began in husky chiding, “do you have any idea what it does to a man when a woman looks at him that way?”

It took every ounce of her willpower to keep from lowering her gaze in curiosity. “I’m sorry-“

“Oh, don’t be sorry.” He came closer. Though he didn’t touch her, his body was no more than a breath away.

And she felt it, felt the need. She put a hand to his chest to ward it off, but it was a sorry miscalculation. Her fingers found a mat of soft, dark hair that sprang, warm and still moist, from the freshness of lightly bronzed skin.

The pounding of her pulse frightened her so that she tore her hand from his chest and thrust it behind her back. She felt a huge measure of guilt. If he did also, it was hidden behind desire. His amber eyes smoldered, heating her all the more. The need, ahhhh, the need. The ache to be held and loved … Ever so slowly, Ross lowered his head until his lips shadowed hers. She felt them, wanted them. Her own parted in silent invitation. She closed her eyes to savor the sensation. But he never kissed her. Rather, there was a soft exchange of breath, a whisper of lips against one another, sweet, sweet torment.

Chloe felt ready to burst, willing to beg. But that was a sure road to self-disgust. So she finally did what she had meant to do all along. She pressed against his chest, pushing him gently but firmly away.

As he slowly straightened to what was, even barefoot, an awesome height, he cleared his throat. “You’d better wait downstairs,” he said in a voice that was thick and taut. “I’ll finish up quickly.”

She took his suggestion. By the time she reached the bottommost step, sanity had frilly returned. Swearing softly, she traipsed through the kitchen and stood on the back porch looking out on the beach. But the tide within her was high. No amount of cooling breeze could stern it.

He had to leave. It was as simple as that. Indifference was a pipe dream. He stirred her too much.

Having him around today was a taste of what it might be like to have him around all the time. She wanted to say she had hated it, but she couldn’t. There had been something nice about waking to find a man in her kitchen cooking her breakfast, something nice about knowing that he was patiently waiting for her to finish work, something nice about going marketing with him, even about finding him in her shower. It had been nice. But would any man fit the bill?

With a sigh, she shook her head. It had to be Ross. Always Ross.

“It’s all yours, princess!” he called.

Chloe looked up in surprise to find the horizon pink-orange in advance of sunset. Back over her shoulder, Ross stood at the kitchen door, silhouetted by the light inside.

“Be right there,” she called, looking at the sunset again, gathering composure. When she felt in control, she returned to the house. She caught a trace of cologne when she moved past him, but moved steadily on until she was safe in her room.

Promptly at eight she descended the stairs, wearing a pale blue sheath of lightweight wool appropriate to the fast-cooling night air. Its lines were simple; it was nipped in at the waist and wrists, lightly flared at the sleeves and skirt, and deeply slashed into a vee at the throat.

She worried about that low vee. The dress was simple, but provocative. She had bought it the year before for one of those blundered attempts at a date, and would have avoided it for that reason. Unfortunately, it was the only dressy dress in her wardrobe that was of recent vintage.

In other respects she felt confident. Her hair was brushed to a fine sheen, swept back behind either ear, and held in place with buds of pale blue silk. The single pearl at each ear matched the strand around her throat. And her eyes were luminescent. From her makeup, perhaps?

Whatever, she felt like a porcelain princess descending the stairs.

Ross was clearly pleased. “You look lovely,” he said, gently taking her arm.

She felt suddenly shy. “Where are we going?”

“Farmington Court.”

She caught her breath. “In Newport? How did you ever get reservations?”

“Oh, I managed,” he said with a coy grin.

Chloe’s excitement was genuine. “They’ve only had the dining room open a few months.”

“You haven’t eaten there yet, then? I was hoping I’d be the first to take you.

“You are,” she said and tried to get a handle on her breathiness. “I usually eat in, remember? No, I haven’t eaten at the Court, but I’ve wanted to. I heard that the dining room is gorgeous and the food incredible.” She arched a brow. “You are hungry, aren’t you?”

Ross smiled. “Since we’re dining in style, I’ll try not to paw through the pitd.” He tossed his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

The drive to the farm took them in a large U, from one fingertip of land, back to the mainland, then out to the other fingertip. Their conversation was light, in contrast to the heavy darkness that had fallen. Even the moon had disappeared behind gathering clouds.

Chloe was vitally aware of Ross. His strapping presence filled the car and her senses, adding to her excitement.

Farmington Court was on the outskirts of Newport. Without any help from Chloe, Ross found the place with ease.

“How did you find out about the Court?” she asked when the farm appeared on a gentle rise ahead. “Not many people know about the dining room here. Not many outsiders, that is. It’s a well-kept secret.”

His smile reflected the bright lights of the house. “Maybe it’s supposed to be a secret, but it’s slowly creeping out anyway. I had a recommendation from a friend in New York who’s been here.” He paused, then confessed, “I’m not a total stranger to Newport. Little Compton, yes. Newport, no. I was here last summer.”

“You were?” she asked cautiously.

He nodded. “I spent several days here sailing with friends.”

“I didn’t know you sailed.”

“There’s plenty you don’t know about me.” With a flick of his wrist, he turned the car into a space in the graveled lot. He slid from behind the wheel, rounded the car, and helped her out.

She learned something else about him when they passed through the door of the sprawling seaside estate. Not only did he greet the maitre d’ by name, but he spoke in fluent French. Along with her Southern accent, Chloe had long since lost what little French she picked up as a child in New Orleans. She remained silent, enjoying the smooth, romantic sound.

Following several moments of low conversation during which both men seemed equally at ease, the maitre dishowed Ross and Chloe to the smallest of the three rooms that had been converted for public dining. It was exquisitely decorated in Colonial style, with a smattering of the English, a dab of the French, and a triumphant dose of pure Americana. This particular room held only three tables, each set for two. Theirs was in a far corner, lit softly by a candle. It was an intimate setting, one Chloe would have wished to avoid had she been thinking clearly.

But she wasn’t. At some point Ross had ceased to be a part of the past. There was only the candlelit present. She looked over the flickering flame and met his gaze.

“Do you like it?” he asked, endearingly eager.

She smiled. “I do.”

“I asked the maitre d’ to bring a bottle of Chassagne de Montrachet.”

If his fluency in French amazed her, his knowledge of fine wines was no less astonishing. Fine wines were something she did know something about, a legacy of her father’s acclaimed cellar. Unable to resist, she grinned. “So that’s how the Army sedates its brats. Fine wine. And here I felt so sorry for you. I’m sure the Chassagne de Montrachet will be superb.”

Ross laughed. “The Army had nothing to do with it. I developed a taste for wine after I left the Peace Corps. I have several treasured bottles at home-a Mouton-Rothschild, a Chateau Lafite-Rothschfld. My favorite is a 1959 Ceteaux du Layon from the Loire Valley.”

“Whoa. Very impressive. What other goodies do you have up your sleeve?”

His right hand flew to his left cuff, one long finger making a pretense of searching. The search was forgotten when the maitre d’ reappeared, wine in hand, to present the bottle to Ross.

While he studied the wine, Chloe studied him. It was a luxury that the drive through the night hadn’t offered. Now she drank in his good looks with as much reverence as he gave to his wine.

He looked wonderful. His suit was the gray-blue tweed she had seen on the bed. Same with his white shirt and crimson-ormavy tie. She blushed as she recalled the other items she’d seen, then pushed those aside and focused on the chiseled features before her. They were strong, yet relaxed, and exuded confidence. The darkness of his hair and the sun-touched hue of his skin contrasted with his shirt at neck and wrists, adding a crispness to his appearance that was enhanced by the fine cut of the obviously handtailored fabric. He was the epitome of the man of the world-suave, assured, experienced, and content. To all outward appearances he held the world in his palm.

Was he vulnerable in any way?

“Why the frown, princess?” He leaned forward to exclude the maitre d’, who worked at uncorking the wine.

“I’m not frowning.” But she was. She felt it. “I was wondering …”

When the maitre d’ poured a sip of wine into Ross’s glass and waited, Chloe held the thought.

Ross lifted the long-stemmed goblet, inhaled the scent, took the pale liquid into his mouth, patiently let his taste buds warm it, finally swallowed. “Excellent,” he complimented the very pleased maitre d’. Without further fanfare the goblets, first Chloe’s, then Ross’s, were filled.

“What were you wondering?” Ross asked the instant they were alone again. “Whether you’re happy. Are you content with your life?”

“For the most part. There are still things I want.” The directness of his gaze should have tipped her off.

But she was too curious to see. The softness of her voice spread to her lips, now moist with wine. “What things?”

“You hit on them yesterday, actually. I want a wife and children.”

“But you’ve waited this long.”

“Not by choice.”

“Then why?”

His crooked grin did stranger things inside her than even the wine, with its gentle warming touch. “I’m not totally different from that man back in New Orleans. I’m an idealist at heart. I always will be. I have a certain image of what love should be like. If I can’t have it that way, I’d rather not have it at all.”

Chloe looked down. What was love? What would she have wanted from it had she allowed it into her life? She watched Ross’s fingers, curling absently around his goblet’s stern. At that moment, love would have meant reaching out to touch them, to thread hers through them.

Burying her hand in her lap, she said, “Tell me about that image, Ross. In its most ideal form, what should love be like?”

He stared at her, his eyes a pensive gold. He seemed to weigh and balance, to sift through both sides of a private debate as the quiet sounds of the restaurant drifted by.

Chloe waited, sipping wine, buoyed by it. Her thoughts wandered, but not in debate. There was nothing to debate. Ross Stephenson was even more appealing than he had been in her memory all those years. He was a man for today, to be sipped and savored like the wine he poured into her now empty glass.

When he spoke, she was grateful for the wine’s mellowing shield. “When was the last time you were home?”

“Home?”

“New Orleans. Do you go back there often?”

“No.” New Orleans was the past. She wanted the present. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Love. You asked me about it. I’m asking you the same. You loved your family once. Do you still?”

“Yes.”

“But you never see them. Don’t you miss them?”

Even in spite of the wine, she grew defensive. “I do.”

“How often do you call home?” he asked gently.

“Every so often.”

“And the last time you flew down?”

She hedged. “It was a while ago.”

When he leaned forward to pursue his point, she sensed that he really and truly cared. “Why, Chloe? What does love mean to you that you can ignore those same people who worry themselves sick about you? That can’t be what love is about.”

“We’re talking about different kinds of love. One kind you’re born into, the other you choose.”

“The end result is the same. Once a man and a woman make that commitment and marry, they face the same kinds of trials that your family faced. You’ve run away-“

“Don’t.” She clamped a hand on his arm. “Please don’t, Ross. I don’t want to talk about this.”

His voice gentled. “You have to talk about it sometime. There are so many things you’ve refused to face, about yourself, about your family-“

“Not tonight,” she insisted softly. She let her eyes plead, only because her voice kept its dignity. “I want to enjoy myself tonight. Please?”

Ross stared first at her, then at the tablecloth, then at the far wall. When his gaze finally returned she saw a glint of humor. “When you look at me like that, I’d do anything!”

“Anything?” She clutched at that.

“Anything.”

“Then tell me about the Picasso exhibit. You saw it when it was in New York, didn’t you? Was it as spectacular as the reviews claimed?”

“Every bit.”

She waited for him to say more, but he simply stared at her.