Warm Hearts (29 page)

“Actually,” he offered wide-eyed, “they're quite proud of me.”

“Oh.”

“Uh huh.” He grinned. “A parent's love is all-abiding, wouldn't you say?”

She couldn't say much. A breathy, “I guess so,” was all his closeness would permit. Her gaze fell briefly to his chest, but the sight of the light furring of hair there was all the more unsettling, so she forced her attention back to his eyes. Her insides burned; much as she wanted to blame the sensation on the aspirin she'd taken, she couldn't.

“You'll catch my cold if you sit this close,” she warned as she tried to sink more deeply into the bed.

“I don't mind,” came the silky reply.

“But … then where would you be?” she persisted, unable to free herself from his sensual spell, struggling against its hold by voicing frantic wisps of thought. “I mean, who wants a red-nosed model with glassy eyes? Who wants a lover with a stuffed nose and the sneezes? As it is there are already too many communicable diseases rampant in your trade—”

“Ah, so that's what frightens you—catching something from
me
?”

“I'm not frightened.”

“Then why are you trembling?”

“Because … I'm sick.”

To her chagrin he moved one hand to her forehead. “You feel cooler. You're not even as pale. No, there must be something else that's given you the shakes.”

“I don't have the shakes!” she declared loudly, then clamped her mouth shut when even her voice belied her claim. It was sheer chemistry. She knew it, and it mortified her. Granted, he was a pro. But to be so totally susceptible to him appalled her. “And if I do, it's your fault. You're the one who's making me nervous. Damn it, you should be some kind of arrogant, unsavory creep, with little bugs crawling around here and there.”

“I'm not,” he stated, his voice calm. “And there aren't any bugs.”

“I know,” she replied miserably. It was obvious that the man was both clean and healthy. She didn't have to ask; she just knew. Besides, she trusted Tony. Though his sense of humor was sadly misguided, he did love her. And he was protective. Hadn't she kept her experience with Joe Durand from him partly out of fear of what he might do to Joe? No, Tony would never have invited anyone objectionable to spend the week alone in a villa with his little sister. Tony would have checked everything out. Strange. A male model checking out? A paid escort? In
Tony
's book?

“Well…?” Oliver asked softly, his face no more than a hand's width from hers.

“Well what?” she managed to whisper.

“The verdict. I can see those little wheels going round and round in your head. Will you let me kiss you … or am I going to have to be forceful about it?”

“Forceful? Truly?” she asked softly.

His forearms came to rest flush on the sheet, bringing his abdomen into contact with hers. Leslie caught her breath, aware of his warmth and of the precious nothings she wore beneath her shirt. Meanwhile, hidden high up her sleeves, his fingers cupped her shoulders and gently massaged their tautness. Her response, an instinctive coil of heat that sizzled its way to her toes and back, made moot the point. He would never use force. He wouldn't have to. He was good, she mused in dismay. Too good.

“Don't…” she heard herself say, then looked as puzzled as he.

“Don't what? Don't touch you? Don't kiss you? Don't take care of you?”

She wanted … she didn't. “Just don't.…”

“But I have to,” he whispered.

Her voice was no louder, though tinged with regret. “Because you were hired?” The word stuck in her throat like a large piece of overcooked liver. She swallowed hard to dislodge it, managing to produce only a tiny moan. He'd been hired to love her … and it hurt.

When he slid his fingers to the back of her neck and pressed feathery circles in her skin, she closed her eyes and turned her face away. “What is it?” he murmured. She simply shook her head and squeezed her eyes tighter. “Come on, Les,” he coaxed. “Tell me.” His thumb slid across her cheek to stroke the taut line of her jaw.

“This is … humiliating.…”

“Why?”

“Because Tony … arranged for you,” she said, feeling ugly and sick and sexless.

“And if I said that that had no bearing on this moment…?”

“I'd wonder whether it, too, wasn't part of the act.” Very cautiously she opened her eyes to find Oliver studying her intently. Then, easing up, he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“So distrustful … and at such a young age.”

“I feel about twelve. And, yes, I'm distrustful. I … I guess I just want more out of life than the buying and selling of favors.”

He thought for a minute. “What if you thought of this as a fix-up? Haven't you ever had a blind date?”

“Oh, yes.” Her lips twisted. “Charming invention, the blind date.”

“It has been known to work.”

“Not in my book.”

“And why not?”

“Because a blind date is never really blind. I mean, the person who agrees to a blind date usually does so at the convincing of a salesman in the guise of a matchmaker.” When Oliver frowned she grew insistent. “Really.” She stared at the ceiling and spoke in a mocking tone. “He's in his late thirties, is tall, dark and handsome, is a stockbroker, drives a Porsche and has a horse farm in upstate New York.”

Oliver nodded. “Sounds interesting.”

“Sounds vile! Who gives a damn if he's tall, dark and handsome, and has enough money to put DuPont to shame? I certainly don't! And I dislike the thought that I've in turn been marketed, based on similarly meaningless data.”

“Ah … the Parish curse.”

“Among other things,” she mused, then took a breath and, emboldened by indignation, faced her tormentor. “So, Oliver Ames, if you want to kiss me, do so knowing that I earn my own living as a preschool teacher, that I drive a four-year-old VW Rabbit, that I hate parties, love picnics and abide by intrusions into my privacy only with great reluctance.” Energy waning, she lowered her voice. “Also know that I'm very conservative. I don't sleep around.”

He pressed his lips together, stifling a grin. “Then I don't have to fear catching something from you?”

“Yes. A cold.”

“Which I'll risk.…”

Certain her diatribe would have discouraged him, Leslie was taken by surprise. She tried to tell herself who he was,
what
he was, but the fact of his presence muddled her brain. He was so near, so vibrant. When his head lowered, she closed her eyes. Her breath came faster; she heard its rasping. Surely that would put him off … but no. His lips touched her left eye first, whispering a kiss on its lid once, then a second time before inching away. The bridge of her nose received similar treatment, then her right eye and its adjoining temple.

What astonished her most was the reassurance she felt from his touch. It was light and gentle, imbuing her with an unexpected sense of contentment. From her temple it fell to her cheekbone, dotting that sculpted line with a string of feather kisses before moving on to savor the delicate curve of her ear. The warmth of his breath made her tingle. Unknowingly she tipped her head to the side to ease his access.

“Nice?” he whispered against the high point of her jaw.

“Mmmmmmm.”

“Relaxing?”

“Very.”

“I'm glad,” he murmured against her skin as he nibbled his way along her jaw, giving special attention to the delicacy of her chin before raising his head.

In a daze of pleasure, Leslie opened her eyes to find Oliver's, warm and alive, trained on her lips. His touch was a tangible thing, in the name of seduction doing something destructive to relaxation.

“I shouldn't let you…” she whispered meekly.

“But you can't help yourself … any more than I can,” he answered, moments before he lowered his head and touched his lips to hers.

She stiffened at first, struck by the utter intimacy of the act. Only a kiss … yet it probed her entire being. Though his lips were gentle, they slid over hers with expertise—lightly at first, sampling, tasting, then with greater conviction as he sought her essence.

“Relax, Les,” he whispered. “It's all right.” His hands emerged from her sleeves to caress her shoulders from without.

“No … don't.…” It felt too good. She didn't trust herself.

Again he raised his head, and she met his gaze. His eyes were more smoky this time; she badly wanted to believe that she'd excited him.

“Kiss me,” he said in a shaky breath, his eyes on her lips, then sliding upward. “Kiss me, and then decide.” When she shook her head, he took a different tack, dropping his gaze to his hands, which glided up her shoulder to her neck, then inched downward from the hollow of her throat, downward over her chest, downward to separate over the straining fullness of her breasts.

Unable to push him away, unable to invite his advances, Leslie bit her lip to keep from crying out. Her eyes begged that he free her from the prison of his spell, yet her breasts swelled toward his touch in primal betrayal. His fingers circled her, working systematically inward, coming at last to the turgid peaks that spoke so eloquently of her arousal.

In self-defense she grasped his wrists and put a halt to the torture by pressing his hands hard against her. “Oliver, please don't.”

“Will you kiss me?”

“I don't want to.”

“You might like it.”

“That's what worries me!”

Silence hung in the air, made heavy by the honesty of her argument. Frowning, Oliver studied her as though she was a creature like no other he'd ever known. In turn, she pleaded silently. She was sick … and aroused. It was a disturbing duo.

“You have the eyes of a fawn,” he said at last. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

The spell was broken. With a shy smile of relief, she shook her head. “No.”

“Well, you do.” He sat straighter. “The eyes of a fawn. I could never hurt a fawn. So free and alive, so soft and vulnerable.”

“You must be a poet. Funny, I thought you were supposed to be a sculptor.”

“All illusion,” he breathed magnanimously as he pushed himself off the bed. Only then did Leslie see what she wanted to. Very subtly and from the corner of her eye she saw sign of his arousal. Illusion? Not that. It was a heady thought on which to roll over and go to sleep.

*   *   *

She slept through the late afternoon and early evening, awakening only to eat the light omelet Oliver had fixed, to take the aspirin he supplied, to drink the juice he'd chilled. She felt lazy and pampered and stuffy enough neither to object to the attention nor to raise the issue of his leaving the villa again. There would be time aplenty to discuss the latter when she felt better. For the time being, having a caretaker was rather nice.

Not used to sleeping at such length, she awakened periodically throughout the night. Each time, Oliver was in his chair by her bed, either sitting quietly, reading, or, at last, dozing. Though she might have enjoyed the luxury of watching him sleep, her slightest movement roused him every time.

“How do you feel?” he asked softly, leaning forward to touch the back of his hand to her brow.

“Okay.”

“Any better?”

“I think so.”

“Want a drink?”

“I just had one.”

“That was two hours ago. Another would do you good,” he argued, bounding from his chair to return to the kitchen for juice. In his absence, Leslie marveled not only at the image of his moonlit torso edged in silver, but at the easy intimacy of their soft-spoken conversation. To her astonishment there was something warm and reassuring about it.

Then he was back, standing guard while she drained the entire glass.

“I'll float away pretty soon.”

“I'm your anchor. You won't get far. Now, be a good girl and go back to sleep.”

“Hmmph. ‘Be a good girl.' Lucky for you I'm the docile type. What would you have done if you'd had a wildcat on your hands?”

“I guess I'd have had to tie her hand and foot to the bed. Are you going to go to sleep?”

“In a minute. What time is it?”

“Two-twenty.”

“Aren't
you
going to bed?”

“Is that an invitation?”

“Uh uh. Just a touch of concern. After all, if you let yourself get run down, you'll catch this cold but good!”

“Hey … which one of us is the doctor here?”

“Funny, I didn't think we had one.”

“Oh, we have one, and it's me! Now go to sleep.”

“I'm not tired.”

“Not tired? You've got to be tired. You're sick.”

“But I've been sleeping for hours.” She started up from the bed. “What I really feel like doing is taking a walk on the beach.”

Just as quickly, her shoulders were pressed flat. “No way, sweetheart. The bathroom is about your limit tonight.”

“Come on. It's no fun walking around the bathroom. No sand, no shells, no waves—”

“Right! That gives you great incentive to get well.”

“Really, Dr. Ames. I'm
not
tired.”

He paused then. Even in the dark she felt the brand of his gaze. When, puzzled, she raised her head, she saw him push himself from his chair and approach the tape deck.

“Then we'll have some music. What'll it be?”

Sighing her resignation, she laid her head back. “You choose.” Then, recalling his occupation and suddenly fearing that his choice might be something loud and swinging, she wavered. “On second thought—”

“Too late. My choice it is.”

Moments later the soft and gentle strains of Debussy wafted into the air. Leslie lasted for all of five minutes before she fell back to sleep.