Warm Hearts (37 page)

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Despite its poignant ending, the camaraderie they shared that Wednesday night carried over to Thursday. By silent agreement they spent the day together, starting with Leslie's mushroom omelets for breakfast, moving down to the beach for several hours of sun and surf, finally doubling up on the motorbike for a shopping expedition into Gustavia.

“You're sure you're up for this?” Oliver asked, strapping a helmet on her head before donning his own.

“Of course. I've taken the bike out myself many times.”

“The roads are narrow.”

“I'll hang on tight. Hey, are you sure
you're
up for it?”

Taking in her knowing grin, he returned with a pointed stare. “I will be soon,” he growled, tossing his leg over the bike, reaching an arm back to settle her snugly behind him, then setting off.

To Leslie, nothing could have been more exhilarating. Wearing shorts and a T-shirt, she felt the sun's rays in counterpoint to the breeze whipping her skin. And Oliver—so firm and hard and strong between her thighs, against her stomach and her breasts—She held on for dear life, her arms wrapped around his lean middle, her hands flattened on his ribs.

“Okay?” he called back once, rubbing her hand with one of his own in a warmly endearing gesture.

“You bet,” she returned, closing her eyes as she pressed her cheek to his back. To have a viable excuse to do this was … was ecstasy.

To her delight, the ecstasy continued long after they left the bike at the quai and began to stroll along the streets. Oliver kept her hand tucked firmly in his, holding her close to his side as they ambled idly in and out of shops in search of nothing in particular. Indeed, they chanced upon a kind of euphoria; they were a couple among many couples, yet were oblivious to all but each other.

Twice, as they browsed, they stopped at small cafés to sit and talk and further savor the atmosphere of the town. The few purchases they made were Leslie's—a bottle of imported perfume, a small enameled box and, on a whim, a soft pink pareo made of an original hand-blocked fabric that had appealed to her instantly. She knew that the three items would have special meaning for her, given the circumstances under which they'd been bought. Her only regret was that the bag holding them came between Oliver and herself during the airy ride back to the villa.

“How about a swim?” Oliver asked as he parked the bike next to the car.

Leslie smiled and stretched. “I don't know. I feel really lazy. I think I could go to sleep. What with late nights and fresh air and walking.…”

“Come down to the beach with me, then. You can sleep while I swim.”

To her amazement, that was precisely what she did. She remembered seeing Oliver dive into the waves, watching him swim for a minute … then nothing. Once she stirred, finding the warm body near her in her sleep and snuggling closer. When she awoke, Oliver was there, sleeping beside her, his arms cradling her ever so gently. Turning carefully, she raised her head and looked at him. His face was the image of peacefulness. In turn, her own glowed.

“Oliver?” she breathed in a whisper.

“Mmmmmm?” He didn't move.

“You awake?”

“Sure,” he murmured in a sleep-slurred voice. “Just have my eyes closed.”

“Is that all?” she teased.

“Sure. Late nights don't bother me. Do it all the time.” He smacked his lips lightly together once, twice, then his head lolled to the side. His eyes still hadn't opened.

Capitalizing on a rare opportunity, Leslie made a free study of his chest. She loved the smoothness of his skin with its soft mat of hair. She loved the way his nipples hid amid dark whorls of chest hair, camouflaged in apt reminder of a dormant sexuality. She admired the fluid span of his collarbone and the way the muscles of his shoulder had bunched to accommodate her head. She was fascinated by the more vulnerable skin on the underside of his arm and the silkiness of hair there. She raised her fingers to touch, momentarily resisted the temptation, then yielded.

“Hey!” Oliver came alive at once, capturing her hand with unerring aim. “That tickles!” One eye opened, deep and brown. “You must be bored.”

“Oh, no.”

“Restless?”

“A little.”

“Hungry?”

“Mmm.”

The double-entendre sizzled between them for a breathtaking minute. Then Oliver snatched her to him and hugged her tight. “My God, Les!” he exclaimed softly as he crushed her to his bare skin. She felt the tremor of his arms and knew an elementary satisfaction that was in no way lessened when he set her back.

“Let's clean up and go into town for dinner,” he suggested in a deep voice. “I'm in the mood for something … hot and spicy.”

“Creole? That's funny. I would have thought you'd prefer soft and subtle and classic.”

The sudden smokiness of his gaze sent corresponding spirals smoldering through her. “Later,” he crooned. “Later.”

It was a promise that was foremost on Leslie's mind. When she bathed, it was with special care to leave her skin soft and aromatic. When she styled her hair, it was with attention to even the smallest wisps. When she made herself up, it was with the lightest hand, no more than the most subtle emphasis on eyes and cheekbones.

Come time to dress, there was no question of her choice. Padding from the bathroom into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, she took the exquisite pink pareo from its bag, shook it out, studied its gentle floral print for a minute, then turned to the mirror. Loosening the terry knot at her breast, she let the towel fall to the floor. Her eye slid from her naked body to the print, then back. With careful concentration, she straightened the fabric, held it up to herself and began to wrap it around the pliant lines of her body, finally criss-crossing the ends at the hollow of her throat and tying a loose knot at the back of her neck.

Then she turned to study herself. It was perfect. Had she picked it out with this in mind? She ran her hands down along her hips, eminently aware of the smooth, unbroken line. Soft pink. Just as the Homme Premier sculptor had requested. Soft pink. Just for Oliver.

When he met her at the front door at eight, he was very obviously affected. For a minute he simply looked at her, devouring every soft inch, every gentle curve. “You look … beautiful, Leslie. Absolutely beautiful.”

She felt it. She felt beautiful. She felt … special. In spite of all their many differences, in spite of the more glossy women he'd surely known in his time, in spite of all the power and grace and raw virility that the man exuded in his fine-tailored slacks and designer shirt, he had a way of making her feel as though there had never been, as though there never would be, another woman for him.

Leslie barely knew what she ate that night, only that she sat at an intimate table for two, elbow to elbow with Oliver, and that he didn't take his eyes from her the entire time. They may have talked of interesting things, but conversation, too, was secondary to mood. Had she tried to classify it she would have used words like loving, needing and expectant. For those feelings permeated her being, blinding her to everything but Oliver.

Somehow, sitting there at a small table in an unpretentious restaurant on the warm, cozy island of St. Barts, she was ready to play the game she'd decried for so long. She was ready to believe that Oliver was as taken with her as she was with him, that they were positively meant for each other, that what existed between them would be right and good and lasting. What he was in real life didn't matter any more than did her own past or future. They were together now and, in the illusion, very much in love. That was all that mattered.

“Dessert?” Oliver murmured, fingers entwined with hers, eyes adoring her lips as the waiter stood nearby.

Entranced by the faint but roguish shadow of his beard, she shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

“You're sure?” he whispered back, as distracted as she was.

She nodded.

Within minutes they were in the car headed back to the villa. There, Oliver led her on the long path around the house, holding her hand tightly, turning at times to circle her waist and lift her over a tricky patch of rocks. When at last they reached the beach, he took her in his arms.

It was as if she'd been waiting for just this moment all night, all week, all month, all year. Shorn of inhibition by the aura of love surrounding them, she stood on tiptoe and wrapped her arms around his neck. When her feet left the ground completely and he gently rocked her back and forth, she hung on all the more tightly.

“Ahh, Leslie, this is what I've wanted.” Setting her feet back on the ground, he curved his body over hers and buried his lips against her neck. His arms crushed her to him with a fierceness that in itself thrilled her as much as did the feel of his long, lean lines. “So beautiful.…”

“Like you,” she whispered as she ran her fingers through his hair. Inclining her face, she buried it in that vibrant shock. His scent was clean and rich, pure and unadulterated by fragrant colognes or balms. Breathing deeply, she was further intoxicated. It was only his straightening that brought her away.

His eyes were hot and intense, echoing the silver light of the moon as it shimmied over the waves. He raised a hand to her cheek, tracing its sculpted line, the curve of her jaw, her ear. “I want to kiss you, Les,” he rasped. “I want to kiss you everywhere.”

If his words hadn't sent fire through her veins, his restless hands would have done the trick. Straining closer, Leslie tilted up her mouth in sweet invitation, then gave him everything when he accepted her offer. There was no teasing, no feint and parry, but rather an all-out meeting of minds, of hearts, of bodies.

Her lips parted before his thirsty advance, moving with and against him just as anxiously. When his tongue plunged inward, she opened to receive him and suck him deeper. She needed to know of his hunger, absolutely loved the feel of his consuming her, indeed wanted him to know every dark niche within.

All the while, his hands charted the outer landscape of her femininity, sliding around and across her back, over the gentle swell of her hips, the firm contour of her bottom. He lifted her, pressed her more closely, set her down and began again.

Deep within, a gathering of fire had begun. Never before in her life had Leslie known such an intensity of need. But then, Oliver's body was perfect. Arching against him, she felt its every contour. Her hands scoured him, mapping the breadth of his shoulders, the tapering length of his torso, the slimness of his hips, the solidity of his thighs. Around the latter her fingers splayed, sliding up and down as the sinewed cords beneath his slacks grew more taut. She felt the tremor that buzzed through him and found satisfaction that she could have caused it. But her satisfaction was quickly burned to a crisp beneath the flame of a hunger that flashed through her own limbs. When Oliver's voice came, thick and low by her ear, she quivered all over.

“You're not wearing anything under this, are you?” He drew back only to see her face. In the moonlight it had a pale silver glow and looked all the more fragile.

“No,” she whispered, eyes strangely innocent.

“For me?”

She shrugged shyly. “I wanted to feel … sexy. I did.”

“Do you now?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed.

“And … if I took the pareo off, would you still?”

Her pulse had taken such a giant leap that she could only nod. It was what she wanted, what her entire body craved. Somehow hearing his intent was all the more erotic. She reached back to the knot at her neck, only to have his warm hands pull her arms away.

“Let me,” he murmured, dipping his head to kiss her slowly, languorously, before turning his attention to the knot. His eyes held hers while his fingers worked, gently pulling at the ends of the cloth, steadily loosening them.

When she felt the fabric slacken at her chest, Leslie felt a moment's hesitation. There was nothing at all glamorous about her body. And though he'd seen most of it already, there was something very … special about that part he'd now see for the first time. But it was too late to go back, she knew. If the determined look on Oliver's face hadn't told her so, the soft tendrils of excitement skittering in the pit of her stomach would have.

Slowly he drew his hands forward, unwinding the fabric and letting it fall to the sand. As though sensing her need for support, he instantly put his hands on her shoulders, rubbing them gently as his eyes fell to delight in her.

“Oh … Les…” he managed brokenly.

She caught in her breath. “Is it … am I…?”

Only then did he look back to see the unsureness on her face. While one hand tightened on her shoulder, the other slid up to her neck. “You were worried?” he asked in surprise.

“I'm not gorgeous.…”

Helplessly drawn by the golden sheen of her skin, his gaze fell, to journey with his hand in a slow descent. The texture of his palm was the slightest bit rough in contrast to the butter-smooth skin of her breasts. His fingers seemed that much stronger than her waist, her hips, almost able to circle her thighs. But when they feather-touched the golden curls he'd never seen before, his hands were all male and dynamite.

In response to their tender force, Leslie reached out to clutch his shoulders in support. “Oliver!” she whispered hoarsely.

“You were worried?” he repeated dumbly as his hands flowed down and around and back up. Everywhere they touched she felt ready to explode. Again she moaned his name.

Framing her face with his hands, he tipped it up to his. “You're magnificent, sweetheart. Every inch of you. So warm—” he brushed his lips to her nose “—and soft—” he licked the line of her cheekbone “—and full where you should be full, and moist just there.…” His lips became pulsing things then, capturing hers with a frenzy that spoke more eloquently than anything else might have done. And Leslie surrendered to their argument, giving herself up to the fire of the moment, choosing to believe she was indeed as magnificent as he'd claimed.