Warm Hearts (33 page)

Lulled by the sun, she lay in a semisomnolent state, breathing slowly and evenly, savoring anonymity and the total absence of responsibility. When she felt hot, she stood and unselfconsciously walked into the water, swam about in the pale aqua surf, then returned to her towel. Stretching out on her back, she closed her eyes. It was divine. Thoroughly divine. She felt herself a part of the crowd, at ease and more in the spirit of the island than she had since she'd arrived.

Bathers came and went as the sun crept to its apex. Lathering her body frequently, Leslie knew she was beginning to blend in with the bronzed bodies all around. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and returned to her worship. Once, maybe twice a year she could do this. Any more and not only would she get bored, but her body would wrinkle like a prune. Once … maybe twice a year … it was nice.…

With a self-indulgent smile on her face, she turned her head slightly to one side and peered at the world through the shade of thick, tawny lashes. Then her smile froze in place and her complacency vanished. A man lay close by, sprawled stomach down on a towel, with his head turned away. Dark brown hair with a distinct C of gray behind his ear.…
Him!
When had he come? How could he have found her? His back glistened with suntan lotion; his breathing was even. It appeared he'd been there for some time, while she'd lain half nude, oblivious to all but the sun.…

For the second time that day she twisted onto her stomach in embarrassment. The first time she'd simply imagined him and her body had reacted. Now he was here, beside her. What was she going to do? Head turned away, eyes open wide, heart pounding, she examined her alternatives. She could nonchalantly slip on her top and as nonchalantly lie back down. But he'd know, and she'd feel more the coward for it. She could simply dress and leave, but then she'd be deprived of her time on the beach. She could lie where she was until he tired of the beach and left. But he wouldn't do that without a word to her, would he? Not after having so conveniently selected her body from all those others on the beach beside which to stretch his sexy six-foot-plus frame! Besides, was she supposed to lie on her stomach for the rest of the day?

There was one other alternative and, damn it, she was going to take it. She'd come to the beach on her own and had been perfectly happy and comfortable. Oliver or no Oliver, she was going to stay. In the sun. And on her back, if she so pleased.

On a rebellious impulse, she flipped back as she'd been when first she'd spotted Oliver beside her. When her head fell his way, she gasped in genuine surprise. He was looking straight at her.

“Oliver!” she whispered, her breath in scarce supply. “You startled me!” It was the truth. Somehow she'd been counting on time to adjust to the fact of his presence.

As though relieved that she'd only been startled, he smiled gently. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do that.” His eyes held hers without straying.

“How long have you been here?”

“Not long. Maybe fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“Oh.”

“Nice beach.”

“Mmmm.”

“Tired of yours?”

She turned down the corners of her mouth and shook her head, felt her breasts shimmy and lost her courage. As gracefully as she could—and as casually—she rolled to her stomach again. Though the move brought her all the closer to Oliver, she felt somehow let off the hook. “It's nice here once in a while,” she murmured, then managed to feign a relaxed sigh. Facing him, she closed her eyes. His next words brought them open in a hurry.

“I didn't think you'd do this, Les.”

She knew precisely what he meant. “Why not?”

“You seem more … inhibited.”

“I usually am,” she confessed in the same half whisper in which the rest of the conversation was being carried on. There was something intimate about their talk; Leslie found she liked the feeling.

Arching his back, he folded his arms beneath his chin. “What makes things different here?”

Had there been the faintest hint of mockery in his tone, she might have been put on the defensive instantly. But his voice remained gentle and curious, his eyes simply warm and pleased.

“I don't know. Maybe the other people. They're strangers.”

“And safe?”

“I guess.”

“Impersonal.”

“Um hmm.”

“Like … a gynecologist?”

“Come on, Oliver. What is this?”

“Just trying to understand why you'd bare yourself for them … but not for me.”

“Oliver!” He had almost sounded hurt. When she opened her eyes in alarm, she indeed read that same gut-wrenching vulnerability written across his chiseled face. In response, she took her lip between her teeth. As quickly, he reached out a hand.

“Don't do that,” he murmured, rubbing the tip of his forefinger against her lip until she'd released it herself. His finger lingered a moment longer in caress of her softly parted mouth. Then he put his hand on her back. The subtle incursion brought him inches closer. “God, your skin is hot. You'll be burned to a crisp.”

“I'm okay.” She felt strangely restful and raised no objection when he began to move his hand in a gentle kneading caress. For several seconds they just lay and stared at each other. “Oliver?”

“Mmm?”

“What's it like to model?”

His hand paused for only an instant before resuming its soothing motion. “It's … fun.”

“You said that once before. But … I've always heard talk, of the trying pace—you know, hours doing the same thing over and over again. Is it like that?”

“I don't know,” he said simply. “I've never had to do the same thing over and over again.”

“You're that good?” She smiled in accompaniment to her teasing tone and was rewarded by his total absence of arrogance.

“No. It just … works.”

Her thoughts joined his on the set of the Homme Premier ad. “Is it ever … awkward?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you … I mean … you are nude, aren't you?”

He dared a tiny grin. “Yes.”

“Does it bother you?”

“I like nudity.”

“So, if this were a nude beach, you would…?” Her brief glance toward his trunks said it all.

“No,” he murmured without hesitation.

“Why not?”

“Because it would be embarrassing.”

“Embarrassing? But you've got a beautiful body!”

Again that tiny grin. “How do you know? You haven't seen it all.”

Again her downward glance. “There's not much left covered.”

He arched a brow. “Some men might take offense at that.”

“Come on,” she chided. “You knew what I meant. Would you really be embarrassed to
un
cover it?”

“On this beach … beside you … yes.”

“Because of
me
?” So she wasn't the only neurotic one?

“Yes.” He inched closer. His lips were a breath from hers. “I don't think I could lie quite as impassively as—” he cocked his head “—most of these other men seem to be doing. It was bad enough when I first got here and saw your car in the lot. I've been to this beach before; I knew what the style was.” His hand slowed its motion, coming to a rest just beneath her armpit. Leslie felt her breasts tingle at the nearness, but she couldn't move. His eyes held hers with binding warmth. “There are lots of pretty women here, Les, but I was totally unaffected … until I saw you.”

“Sounds like the lyric to a song,” she teased by way of self-defense, lifting her eyes and singing, “'Til I saw you.…” Then, recalling how boldly she'd been lying on her back with her breasts bare, exposed to the sun, she blushed.

“I'm serious,” he said, brushing the back of his fingers against the swell of her breast. Suddenly she was, too.

“I know,” she whispered. Had his earnestness been faked, something would have given it away—the glimmer of an eye, the twitch of a mouth, the rush to offer other lofty words. Oliver's expression, however, was solemn, every feature in harmony with the intensity of his gaze. He said nothing more, simply looked at Leslie as though imprisoned by the very charm that gave credence to his claim. Only his hand moved, sliding very gently along the side of her breast, up and back, doing ragged things to her pulse, damaging things to her composure. She felt his touch through every inch of her being. Her gaze dropped to his lips.

“You're very soft,” he mouthed. He slid his thumb forward until it skimmed her aureole.

Leslie caught her breath, then, swept up in the sensual magic of the moment, released it and whispered his name. It was as though her entire life had been in a state of limbo … and only now took direction once more.

4

Her lips were parted. Stealing forward, he accepted their invitation, grazing her in soft, slow mouthfuls until she closed her eyes and yielded to his quiet fire. Her insides burned, and still he teased, growing evasive between lingering kisses, forcing her mouth to be more aggressive in its search for satisfaction.

“Oliver!” she whispered, angling her body just high enough to slip his hand beneath and press it to her breast. “I can't stand this!” she gasped, watching the slow opening of his eyes.

“
You
can't stand it?” he growled hoarsely. “They're apt to arrest us in a minute.” He wiggled a finger against her throbbing nipple and took pleasure in the moan she suppressed. Her fingers tightened over his, yet she didn't pull his hand away. She couldn't. His touch felt far too good, as though that of a long-lost lover who'd just come home. Feeling suddenly light-headed, she gave a mischievous grin.

“Do you think they would?” She cast a surreptitious glance around. “I mean, there have to be other people fooling around here.” Then she frowned. “Why don't I ever see it?”

“Because you're not a voyeur,” he returned simply. “If you were looking, you'd find it.”

“You did?” she asked, eyes alight, curious. “Come on, Oliver,” she whispered conspiratorially. She tugged his hand upward and cushioned it against her cheek so that his arm fully crossed her nakedness. Their bodies were snug, side by side. She felt wonderfully alive. “Tell me.”

“I will not. It might give you ideas.”

“Ideas? What ideas?”

When he grinned, the groove at the corner of his mouth deepened. She hadn't noticed it before; it had a lazy sensuality to it. “Now if I told you that, you'd know what I've seen. I think I'd better go back to sleep.” Turning his head away, he raised his hips and resettled them in a bid to ease his discomfort. Leslie appreciated the gesture, appreciated even more his attempt at self-control, appreciated most of all that strong, hairy arm that tickled her where it counted.

“Sleep?” she challenged. “Is that what you were doing?”

He turned back until their heads were intimately close. “No. I suppose not. I was lying here thinking.…” His tone was up; he seemed ready to go on. Then, expelling a soft breath, he simply repeated the word with a proper period at its end. “Thinking.”

“Are you pleased with St. Barts?” she asked, nestling more comfortably against the arm he seemed in no hurry to remove.

“Yes.” An affirmation it was, yet it dangled in the air.

“You don't sound convinced.”

“Oh, it's fine.”

“But?”

“Just about everyone's coupled up. It makes me feel lonely.”

She sent him a look of doubt. “Does it mean that much to you to be with a date?”

“For the sake of a date? No way. For the sake of pleasant talk and easy companionship, yes. That's what I see here—on the beach, in shops and cafés. Warmth. I envy it.”

“I know the feeling,” she murmured half to herself as she recalled similar feelings she'd harbored the night before. She lifted her head for an instant to look forward. “Who do you think they are, Oliver? Friends? Lovers? Husbands and wives?”

His gaze followed hers, lighting on a couple lying on the sand several yards away. “Some of each, I suppose.” He tossed his chin at the pair. “They're married.”

“Oh?”

“Sure. See his wedding band?”

“Where's hers?”

“Oh. Hmm, that shoots that theory.”

“Oliver?”

He settled his head down again, returning his mouth to within a whisper of hers. “Um hmm?”

“Were you ever married?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Never wanted to.”

“Not even for the sake of that warmth?”

“The woman, not the marriage, brings the warmth.”

“True. But what about kids?” Strange. By stereotype, she'd assume he'd have no interest in children. Somehow, though, she could easily picture him with a brood. “Wouldn't you marry for the sake of having them?”

“A bad marriage for the sake of kids can be disastrous.”

“You could have a good marriage.”

“I could … I suppose. It's been hard finding good women—” he smirked “—what with my job and all.”

She nodded. “Your job and all.”

“How about you?”

“
My
job's no problem.”

“Then why aren't you married? You seem like a warm, affectionate sort.” He moved one finger ever so slightly against her cheek. “And you love kids. Wouldn't you like your own?”

“To quote you, ‘A bad marriage for the sake of kids can be disastrous.'”

“To quote you back, ‘You could have a good marriage.'”

She grew more serious. “If only. It seems that wherever I look I see divorces piling up. Divorces, or couples in the throes of counseling or those who are simply miserable. Maybe you don't see it, or maybe you take it for granted in your line of work, but I see it every day and it bothers me. Not only has my family struck out, but many of the kids at the centers are products of broken homes. And many of them are suffering terribly.”