Warm Hearts (30 page)

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When she awoke it was dawn. Pale purples and blues lit the sky, filling the room with their opalescent hues. She was alone. Alone and unguarded. Quickly shaking off the last traces of sleep, she put her feet on the floor and stood up. Cold or no cold, she'd had her fill of bed. This was her vacation. Oliver Ames could do something quite pithy with his orders,
she
was going to the beach.

Walking stealthily, half expecting her keeper to pop up from around the corner and usher her back to bed, she left the bedroom. Finding the den empty she headed for the stairs, tiptoeing down their bleached wood planks and pausing on the lowest rung. Still no sign of him. The kitchen was empty. The tile felt cool beneath her bare feet as she sped toward the glass sliding doors. When she flipped back the lock, its echo made her wince. Looking cautiously behind her, she waited. Still nothing. Dallying no longer, she quietly slid the door open and stepped out onto the terrace.

A long, deep breath told her that her cold was better. For the first time since she'd arrived, she smelled the special aroma of the island. Fresh in the morning's first light, it was a blend of sand and salt and lush tropical verdancy, a bouquet evoking lavish thoughts of laziness and leisure.

With a smile, she crossed beneath the palms of the terrace, trotted down the few stairs to the lower level, paused once again to savor the setting, then took the last set of steps at a clip. Ahh, to be finally on the beach!

Her smile spread into a full-scale beam. There was nothing like it! She wiggled her toes in the superfine sand, squished forward several steps, wiggled her toes some more, then sat down. It was beautiful as always, the beach, the sea. Her lungs drank it in, her eyes devoured it. Every one of her senses opened greedily.

Sitting cross-legged with the cushion of sand conforming to the lines of her bottom, her thighs, her calves, she thrust her fingers into the fine white stuff, heedless of the grains catching beneath her nails, simply eager to feel it all close up. Her eyes tripped forward over the softest of sand to that damp area where the surf had recently played. Here and there small shells winked, half buried in the tawny beach. And beyond was the restful ribbon of the tide, swishing this way and that with each incoming wave, rhythmic and gentle and positively addictive.

Stretching her legs forward, Leslie dropped back onto her elbows. Facing west as she was, the sunrise was behind her. Yet far ahead across the turquoise depths, discernible to none but the most watchful eye, were the faintest pink reflections of the morning sky.

She was glad she'd come. She needed this—this sense of the warm, the familiar, the relaxing. She'd always been able to think here, to walk off on her own or sit on the beach and put things into perspective. She needed that now. She'd been troubled of late. Where was she going? What did she want in life? Oh, yes, the preschool thrived, and indeed she loved her work. But something was lacking … something with which she had to come to terms.

On impulse she swiveled around on the sand until she faced the villa. Arms now straight behind, supporting her, she studied the sprawling house set into the rocks. Where was he? Surely he hadn't given up so easily and left in the predawn hours to find a more hospitable welcome in town. No, chances were he had simply made use of one of the bedrooms on the upper floor.

Her gaze rose to that level, slipping from one to the other of the large glass panes that marked each of the bedrooms in turn. Was he sleeping? Sprawled out in bed as he'd been when she'd first arrived? Wearing nothing but the bedsheet … and his Homme Premier cologne? Today she'd be able to smell it. Would it be musky? Tart? Woodsy? Spicy?

What was she going to do about him? Her plans hadn't included a live-in companion, particularly one as tall and good-looking as Oliver Ames. The mere mention of his name set small butterflies aflutter in her stomach. She'd wanted to spend her time here in total relaxation, letting it all hang out, so to speak. Yet, sexy as sin, Oliver Ames intimidated her. What was she going to do about him?

Whirling around again in frustration, she hugged her knees to her chest. Moments later she scrambled to her feet and began to walk slowly, pensively, along the water line. The soles of her feet slapped the wet sand; distractedly she eyed the pattern of granules dislodged from beneath her toes. Bending, she lifted a tiny mollusk shell, studied its spiral design, tossed it lightly back into the surf. Then she turned to face the ocean head-on, wishing she could find something,
anything
offensive about Oliver Ames. To her chagrin, there was only one thing—his occupation. A paid smile. A manufactured daydream. Prepackaged virility. And, oh yes, bedroom eyes. No doubt he was good at his job.

Perturbed, she returned to the powdery sand of the beach, stretched out with her hands layered beneath her head and closed her eyes. The sky was brightening steadily; the sun wasn't far behind. A tan. That was one of the things she wanted this week. A soft, even tan. All over.

Oliver Ames would have to leave! He'd just have to! How could she possibly lie nude in the sun with him around? Smiling, she recalled the first time she'd gone topless on a beach. It had been the year before they'd had the villa built, when she and her father and Tony and Laura and Brenda and John had flown down here to scout around. She'd been eighteen at the time, confident of her youth, if not her future. In no time she'd discovered that on the beaches of St. Barts one was more conspicuous with a bikini top than without. In no time she'd discovered the delightful intimacy of the sun's warm touch on her breasts. And the rest, oh, she'd discovered that several years later, on the only other occasion she'd chanced to be alone at the villa. She'd felt free and uninhibited and sensual then. It had been wonderful.…

Opening her eyes a smidgen, she squinted toward the rooftop of the house. Another hour and the sun would scale it. Would he be sleeping still? Closing her eyes again, she pictured
him
bathing nude in the sun. Long limbs connected by sinewed bonds, tautly drawn skin, swells here, indentations there, a mat of hair extending in varied patterns from chest to ankle.…

Sharply sucking in her breath, she sat upright. Eyes wide, she dug her teeth into her knee, welcoming the pain. Then, when the slightest movement caught her eye, she lifted her gaze to the villa.

He was there, standing at the window of her room, hands on his hips, his dark head moving slowly from side to side. She stared for a minute, then hugged her knees tighter and lowered her head again. She could almost hear it.
What are you doing out of bed? And on the beach before sunup? If it's pneumonia you're looking for, you're on the right track!

Hearing the patter of his feet on the planking connecting the terrace levels, she stood quickly, propped her hands on her hips and adopted her most belligerent stance. “I don't care what you say, Oliver Ames,” she called to the fast-approaching figure, “but I'm here! And I'm fine! And I have every intention of making the best of my vacation!” She paused only for a breath as Oliver's long legs carried him toward her. “Now—” she held up a hand “—I do appreciate what you did for me last night, but I'm fine. Really fine. So you don't need to feel any further responsibility—”

The breath was knocked out of her when Oliver took her firmly in his arms. His eyes glowed, his body pulsed. “Damn it, but you look sexy,” he growled, then took her lips in a kiss so masterfully gentle it shattered all pretense of fight. “Good morning,” he whispered against her mouth seconds later. “Sleep well?”

Leslie stared at him in shock. “Good morning?” she echoed blankly, then watched him eye the sky in amusement.

“It is morning, I believe. And a beautiful one at that.” His arms remained around her waist, holding her lower body snug against his.

“But … what are
you
doing up at this hour? I was sure you'd be out 'til noon. I mean, you didn't get to bed until after two-thirty.”

“Actually it was closer to three-thirty. But I like getting up early. Morning's the best time.”

Was it the velvet softness of his voice or the glimmer in his eye that lent deeper meaning to his words? She didn't know. She didn't want to find out. Coward that she was, she put light pressure on his arms. When he released her instantly, she was only momentarily relieved. When without another word he took off at a trot toward the water, she felt disappointed. When he splashed in to thigh level, then dived forward in a graceful arc and began to swim away from shore, she felt abandoned.

Lips on the verge of a pout, she sank down on the sand and watched the dark head turn rhythmically with each stroke. He was a good swimmer.
But why not
, she asked herself. Men of his ilk were bound to have access to villas such as these, or estates with pools. Indeed, part of his appeal would be the slickness of his limbs as they propelled him smoothly through the waves. Even now he was probably wondering whether she was watching. Perversely, she twisted sideways on the sand and studied the nearby palm. Tall and sturdy, graceful in a majestic kind of way, powerful, dignified, protective.… With a soft moan, she turned back to the sea.

Moments later Oliver emerged from the waves, his body wet and gleaming in the early morning light. Pulse racing, Leslie watched him approach.

“That was nice,” he said breathlessly, rubbing a hand across his chest. Then, ducking behind her, he dragged a pad cushion from one of the lounge chairs tucked beneath the rocks and, returning to her side, spread the cushion flat. Within moments he lay on his back, his eyes closed, his hands folded on his stomach.

Unable to help herself, Leslie stared. Fit, indeed. His body was beautiful. Not perfect, mind you—there was a mole on his left shoulder, a tiny scar beneath his ribs. The gift of a jealous husband, perhaps? Or a scorned mistress?

Another scar caught her eye, this one slashing ever so slightly above the band of the slim-fitting trunks he wore. A low blow from a dissatisfied client?

“Appendectomy,” came the timely explanation.

When Leslie's gaze shot upward, it caught Oliver's knowing smile. “I was wondering,” she said hotly, “whether it was a battle scar.”

He tucked in his chin to study his body. “This one is,” he said, touching a finger to the small mark beneath the ribs. Then he moved the finger lower, following into his trunks and out again the faint ridge of the more daring scar. “This one's still pretty pink. I would have thought it should have faded more by now.”

“When was it done?”

“Last winter.” He put his head back down, closed his eyes again and gave a soft chuckle. “I'm not the best of patients. It was as much of a trial for the hospital as it was for me.”

Somehow she couldn't believe it. Turning her head to the side, she eyed him askance. “You mean to say that the nurses didn't appreciate your presence?”

“Not by a long shot. I suppose I wasn't very cooperative, but after two days of being pushed and pulled, rolled and prodded, undressed and bathed and powdered, I'd had it!” He inhaled a deep breath through his nose. “I guess I'm just not meant to be pampered.”

A shame, she mused, since he seemed the perfect subject. Lucky nurses, to have free access to that body.…

She cleared her throat. “So you prefer to do the pampering, do you? I suppose … if the reward's great enough.…” She took a breath, then shut her mouth and slowly exhaled through her nose.

Oliver opened one eye. “What were you going to say?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you gulp air often?” he teased gently.

“Only when it's preferable to putting my foot in my mouth.”

“Come on. You can say anything to me.” When she simply turned her head and studied the waves, he reached out to slide his fingers around her wrist. “Come on, Leslie … anything.”

“Actually,” she began timidly, “I was just wondering why you do it.”

“Why I do what?”

“Model. Rent yourself out. I would think you'd want something a little more … more lasting.”

“You don't approve of my … avocation?”

Avocation. On the nose. Part-time hobby or source of amusement. “Perhaps I don't understand it. I guess I'm more attuned to occupations. You know, full-time career types of things.”

“As in preschool teaching?”

“Uh huh.”

“But what about fun?” he asked, suddenly up on an elbow looking at her. “You must have outside interests. There must be things you do on a lark.”

“Is that what this is to you … a lark?”

For the first time there was a hint of impatience in his voice. “It's far more than that, Leslie, and you know it.”

Of course. Tony had hired him. “Listen,” she began, looking evasively at her toes, “this whole situation is extremely awkward. I appreciate Tony's thought in sending you down here, but now that we've had our laughs you can go on back to New York.”

“I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because we haven't had our laughs. You stumbled in here sick as a dog yesterday. All I've had a chance to do is force liquid down your throat. Tony wouldn't be pleased.”

“Tony doesn't have to know. You can go quietly back to New York, and I can tell Tony what a wonderful time we had. He'll never be any the wiser.”

“And what about me? I've been looking forward to ten full days in the sun.”

“Then I'll make a call and get you a room down the road.”

“I don't want a room down the road.”

“Don't you see,” she exclaimed, growing more frustrated by the minute, “you can't stay here!”

For a minute he was quiet. His eyes roved her face, returning time and again to her eyes. “What are you afraid of, Leslie?” he asked at last. “There's got to be something hanging you up.”