Warm Hearts (28 page)

Reaching up, she brushed her bangs from her eyes. What was she going to do? Granted, it was unfortunate that the one week she'd chosen to spend in the sun should be hampered by a mean winter cold. That, though, she could live with. And the sun, the warm weather, would be potent medicine.

But this man, this, model … this very handsome model … was something else. Never in a million years would she have sought such a man on her own. Indeed, pausing to think of the man's occupation, of the many women he must have serviced over the years, she was appalled. And embarrassed. She wasn't that type at all! She wouldn't know what to
do
with such a man.…

Shaking her head half in regret, she left the sanctuary of the bathroom to find the bedroom immaculate. The man's suitcase that had lain on the low glass table was gone, as were odds and ends atop the nightstand. The bed had been freshly made, its covers turned back invitingly. Padding barefoot to the walk-in closet, she peered inside, then turned. There was no sign of him.

While urging herself to simply climb into bed and be grateful she'd been left alone, Leslie headed downstairs toward the kitchen. He'd said he'd make her a cool drink. Well, she was thirsty.

Indeed he was in the kitchen, though his attention was not on making a cool drink. Rather, he stood before the open window, his back to her, his arms crossed over his chest, one bare foot propped on the low rung of a nearby stool. He wore the same shorts he'd put on earlier, and all in all, he presented a perfect image of reflective masculinity.

For a lingering moment she studied him. Though his hair was thick and on the long side, it was well trimmed. From the sturdy nape to the soles of his feet, he looked clean. He also looked older than she'd imagined him to be, despite the prime condition of his body. From where she stood she caught shadings of silver following the gentle curve of each ear. Rather than detracting from his appearance, these silver streaks lent him an air of dignity that puzzled her all the more.

In short, there was nothing unsavory-looking about him. She wasn't sure what she'd expected from a gigolo. Certainly not … this.

With practically no warning she sneezed, ending her moment of invisibility. The man by the window turned quickly, his features instantly released from whatever thoughts had held them taut.

“There you are,” he said, taking the few steps necessary to end their separation. “Feeling better?”

She had been, she'd thought. Now, though, looking up that great distance into a face that seemed so gentle, so knowing, she felt suddenly small and utterly insignificant.

“A little,” she murmured, adding “self-conscious” to the list. What had made her think that a T-shirt would protect her from the eyes of a professional lover? When those eyes began to wander across her chest and down, she slithered from their touch and took refuge on the stool by the window.

“Why aren't you in bed?” he asked softly.

“I felt like seeing what you were up to,” she answered defensively, then turned her face to catch the ocean's gentle breath. “Where's that cool drink you promised?” Even to her own ears her tone held a touch of arrogance. It bothered her. She didn't much care for hired help … certainly not of this sort!

After a pause came a murmured, “Coming right up.” Only when Leslie heard the refrigerator door open did she dare look back to find her attendant on his haunches sorting through the packed shelves. “It looks like someone was far more prepared for your arrival than I was,” he said, pushing aside a bushy head of lettuce to get at a carton of eggs. “I wouldn't have believed they had all this fresh produce down here.”

“Some of it is home grown, but most of it's imported. And it was Martine who did the marketing. She's a marvel. She comes in to clean once or twice while we're here and keeps an eye on things when we're not. All it takes is one call from the States and the house is open, cool and stocked to the hilt.”

“You don't ever rent it out.”

“No. Friends use it sometimes. But more often it's just us.” She tried desperately to be tactful. “We were very lucky to get this land. It's on a prime part of the island. Most of the space is owned by small inns. In fact, there's a quaint one just around the bend. You could probably get a room there.…”

Ignoring her suggestion, he added a quart of milk and a package of neatly wrapped cheese to the growing assortment in his arms. “Nice cheese. Any lemon? Ah, there.” When, arms laden, he stood at last, his knees cracked in protest. He flexed them gingerly as he deposited his armload on the counter.

Leslie focused in on the knees. “How old are you?”

“Thirty-nine.”

“That old?” Even with creaking knees and the twin streaks of gray behind his ears, she would have given him no more than thirty-five. “Aren't you a little … beyond this type of thing?”

“Beyond cooking?”

“Beyond modeling. And.…” She waved her arm in a gesture to indicate his dubious role as her supposed birthday present. “I always thought you had to be younger.…”

“To bring pleasure?”

“To do it … like this.…” The heat on her cheeks soared when he turned teasing eyes her way.

“Are you trying to say something, Leslie?”

“Yes,” she declared in frustration, growing clammy all over. “You can't stay here for the week! You've got to leave; it's as simple as that!”

Reaching for a skillet, he put it on the stove, added a dollop of butter and lit the gas. “While you're under the weather? No way. As it is, I've got to redeem myself for not being up and ready when you arrived.”

She held up a hand. “No apologies. I'm sure someone in your … field … is used to sleeping late.” It had been twelve-forty, for heaven's sake! She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept that late herself. On second thought, she could. It had been the summer before, when she'd been hooked on
Noble House.
Not that she'd loved it that much, but she made a practice of never leaving a book midway through, and there had been another book she'd been dying to start. “Late nights and all.…”

“And all.”

“So—” she sent him an accusatory glance “—you've found your way around the island? Gustavia has its lively spots. When did you say you arrived?”

“Yesterday. And I haven't been anywhere but the airport and here. Actually, I was up late reading. I was in the middle of a book I didn't really care for and I wanted to start another, but I have this practice of never leaving a book midway through, and it wasn't until five this morning that I finally finished it.”

Leslie swallowed hard, sneezed again and put her palm to her head. Things weren't going as she'd planned. Not by a long shot.

“What are you doing?” she cried when she felt her feet leave the floor.

“Getting you back to bed. Don't worry. These weary old bones won't drop you.”

“That's not the point.”

“Then what is?” He took the stairs two at a time, carrying her as though she weighed no more than a small child.

The point? What
was
it, anyway? Her head was suddenly muddled again so badly that Leslie neither knew nor cared. When she felt the coolness of the sheets she breathed a sigh of relief and, curling onto her side, closed her eyes.

*   *   *

She must have dozed off
.
By the time she awoke, the face of the sun had shifted from the skylight overhead to the sliding doors, lower and farther west. Blinking away her grogginess, she followed its rays to the tall figure propped casually in the chair by her bed.

Deep in thought, he didn't see her at first. His legs were sprawled before him, his elbows bent on the cushioned arms of the chair, his hands fisted inside each other and pressed to his lips. She wondered what thoughts held him in his distant world, then shuddered when she realized how very far that world was from her own. The faint movement was enough to bring him back.

The slowest of smiles gentled his lips. “Hi, there.”

“Hello.”

Reaching to the stand beside him, he lifted two more pills and an ice-filled glass. Without a word, she swallowed the aspirin, washed it down with several gulps of what proved to be fresh lemonade, then drained the glass. When she leaned back, it was to rest against the pillows that he'd newly puffed.

“Not bad … the lemonade, that is.” In truth, what she'd been thinking was how nice it was to have someone taking care of her for a change. A small luxury … a birthday gift. Her expression grew exquisitely soft. “When I was a child I loved Steiff pets—you know, those little stuffed animals—” she reached up and caught the upper part of her ear “—with the tiny tag right about here? They used to come with names attached to their ribbons.” She moved her hand to the hollow of her throat, then, almost timidly, raised her eyes to his. “Do you have a name?”

For a heart-stopping moment, he held her gaze. She felt drawn to him, much as earlier she'd been drawn to the kitchen when she'd known she should have stayed in bed. He had power. It had touched her from the pages of
Man's Mode.
It had touched her when he'd stood at the kitchen window with his back to her. It had touched her moments before when his eyes had been distant. A kind of dreamlike quality. A depth. A puzzlement.

Slowly, with the corners of his eyes crinkling in a most effective way, he smiled. “Oliver Ames, at your service.”

Oliver Ames. Her heart skipped a beat.

2

“Oliver Ames.” She said it aloud, testing it on her tongue. It flowed without any effort at all. Just right for a model—or a playboy. “Is that your … professional name?”

His mouth twitched at one corner. “Yes.”

“And your real name,” she asked more softly. “What's that? Or … is it off limits?” There were rules governing this sort of thing; unfortunately, she wasn't well versed in them.

Oliver smiled openly, his lips mirroring the dance of humor in his eyes. Sitting forward now, he was fully attentive.…
As rightly he should be
, Leslie mused. Wasn't he paid to be attentive? He was also paid to be attractive: bare chested, bare legged, large and vibrantly male—she found him disconcertingly so.

“No,” he allowed lightly, “it's not off limits. As long as you don't spread it around.”

“And who would I spread it to?” she snapped in response to the unsettling twist of her thoughts. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm not too … comfortable with this situation. Not much of a chance of my running back to Manhattan shouting the name of the guy my brother
bought
for me.” She grimaced. “No woman wants to think she can't find someone on her own.”

For an instant, when his dark brows knit, she feared that she'd offended him. Yet when he spoke, his voice held only curiosity.

“Can't you?”

“I'm not looking.”

“And if you were? Surely there are men in New York who'd give their right arms for a Parish.”

Leslie's lips grew taut, her expression grim. “If a man needed a Parish badly enough to sacrifice his right arm, I'd say he's sold himself short. And yes, there are many men like that around. Funny how money can screw up priorities.” Closing her eyes, she slid lower on the pillows.

The creak of the rattan chair gave warning that Oliver Ames had moved. It wasn't until the bed dipped by her side, though, that she felt alarm. Eyes flying open, she found him settled near her hip, his arms propped on either side of her, hemming her in.

“You sound bitter,” he observed. His voice was deep and kind and not at all taunting, as it might as have been, given the fact that it was a Parish who had dreamed up the very scheme that had brought him to St. Barts. “You've been hurt?”

She shrugged, unwilling to elaborate. For she couldn't think of the past when the man before her dominated the present. What was it about him, she asked herself, as she stared into eyes the texture of warm chocolate, that made her want to forget that he was what he was? What was it that made her want to reach up and brush the hair from his brow, trace the firm line of his lips, scale the gentle swell of his shoulder? What was it that stirred senses on which she'd long since given up? What was it that affected her so, that even now, as she lay in bed with a stuffy head and clenched fists, entranced her to the point of distraction?

“Your name,” she whispered, then moistened her lips with her tongue. “Your real name. What is it?” Her expectant gaze fell to his lips and she waited, admiring the strong shape of them, until at last they moved to form the words.

“Oliver Ames,” he mouthed, then gave a boyish grin.

“You're making fun of me,” she contended soberly. “It was an innocent question.”

“And an innocent answer. My name
is
Oliver Ames. Personal. Professional. Oliver Ames.” He tipped his head to the side. “Perhaps you're the one doing the mocking. Is there something wrong with Oliver Ames?”

“Oh, no!” she breathed. “It's fine. It's more than fine. I like it. It's just that … well … it flows so easily I thought you'd made it up.” She was babbling and she knew it. He seemed so close, his voice so deep and smooth that she felt rattled.

“My parents made it up. You can thank them one day.”

Embarrassed, Leslie wrinkled her nose. “Oh, I couldn't do that.…” Her voice trailed off. A lover for hire … and his parents? Great! Then she grew curious. “Do your parents … do they know what you do for a living?”

“Sure.”

“And … they don't mind?”

“Why would they mind?”

She shrugged and fumbled. It didn't help that Oliver had moved his hands closer, that his thumbs had slyly found their way into her sleeves to ever so faintly caress the soft skin of her upper arms. “Oh, you know.… Modeling, and … this.…” She waved one arm half in hopes of dislodging his hand. The gesture only seemed to solidify his grasp. And Oliver Ames was more amused than ever.