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Originally published by Bantam Loveswept, 1988
Now that daylight had arrived Renny Knight could see the area he'd been driving through for the past hour. The Selkirk Mountains loomed all around, in the west lit gold and pink, in the east still, black shapes with a fiery, cloud-dotted sky behind them. Deep in the valleys, long, fiordlike lakes gleamed dully as cascading streams, ice-flanked and frothing, tumbled into them and then snaked out into fir- shaded forests.
As he swung the truck in a wide curve around a granite-lined cliff, Ren slowed and came to a stop, his eyes widening in appreciation of what lay before him. It was a triangular valley, the twin mountains at either end of the base appearing to have been swept aside by the hands of nature to provide a better view of the massif at the triangle's apex. That sweeping motion had created a valley with sloping sides that rose in uneven terraces north and south, and at the western end, where the valley narrowed, stood what he guessed must be his destination -- Roseate Mountain. Reflecting the rising sun, it lived up to its name.
Impatient to end his journey Ren drove on toward the buildings he could see, their windows winking brightly against the snow-covered land. It was going to be good to have snow under his feet again and mountains in his view. If he stayed. The thought came to mind suddenly and he brushed it aside. He meant to stay only long enough to find the answers to a couple of questions, one being why he had felt such a burning need to make the trip in the first place. Then, as always, he'd be on the road again -- a new road, a new destination, a new adventure. If he wanted mountains and snow, he could find them, bigger and better, in a lot more exciting places than this.
He parked at the end of a row of cars and four-by-fours and stepped out into the crisp air, seeing the moving chairs of a ski lift swing up and out of their shed to sail aloft empty. Tracks on the snow, however, suggested that someone was up on the slope, and he scanned the mountain, searching. A flash of brilliant color caught his attention and blinked out of sight before he could focus on it. It came into view again, much lower down, and he distinguished a skier dressed in a scarlet suit, flying over the snow, eating up distance, expertly maneuvering with a grace and skill that was pure joy to witness.
Joy, too, was in the verve with which the skier glided, the energy, the exuberance as she took to the air again and again, flying from mogul to mogul, skis touching down in perfect alignment each time, speed growing with each passing moment as she headed toward the lip of a sharp sided bowl which, if filled with liquid would be spilling directly onto Ren. It could, he saw, be entered by only two routes. The easiest of those was a gentle, shallow trough on the left. The other was a treacherous run that would force the skier to slalom among the pylons of the chair lift towers and many clumps of trees. He laughed softly, his breath leaving puffs of white vapor in the air. He knew which route his scarlet skier would pick, just as he knew, without knowing how he did, exactly who was wearing that suit.
Jacqueline! An unexpected rush vibrated through him. His brows lifted in surprise as she bypassed the top of the challenging run and angled her way across the slope, letting her momentum carry her far around the top edge of the bowl, where she was momentarily swallowed up by a fold of land.
She reappeared almost at once, her speed having doubled as she crouched low over her skis, heading straight toward the cliff at the top of the bowl, as if she were a scarlet bullet which, once fired, was powerless to change its own trajectory.
At the very brink, she arose from her tuck and stretched herself out over her skis, soaring up and up, claiming the air as her element. Out, out, out she flew, steady and lovely in a flight that seemed to take endless moments. She was a poem, a song, as she hovered there and was captured for all time in Ren's memory as a still photograph.
When her skis kissed the snow again, her landing looked as gentle and as easy as a tern alighting on a wave-top, and she was in perfect control as she rushed toward him across the pristine whiteness of the snow.
* * *
Jacqueline saw him as soon as she landed. Her reaction to his appearance surprised her. Her heart suddenly stopped, then started up again, slowly, painfully. Inside her heavy leather gloves, her palms grew moist. A bead of sweat rolled between her breasts. He was as tall as she remembered. His shoulders, within the confines of his sheepskin jacket, were as broad. Her memory hadn't exaggerated one little bit, as she had so often told herself it had. His hair, as dark as her own, curled carelessly across his forehead over thick brows. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, and his big feet were planted apart as he stood watching her approach.
She bit her lip and steadied herself -- inside and out -- and when she came to a neat halt close to him she was under firm control.
Pushing her sunglasses up to the front of her red hat, she tilted her head back and smiled at him. "Good morning. Ren," she said, as if it hadn't been more than two years since she had seen him. "What a surprise."
He lifted one dark brow as he smiled at her. "Is it? Funny, you don't look surprised. Though I thought, for once, maybe you would be."
Her smile turned to a grin. "Sorry to disappoint you." If only he knew she hadn't had the slightest clue that he was back.
His white teeth glittered in the early morning light. "Oh, but you haven't. I'd be disappointed if you did what was expected of you. You always managed to keep life interesting."
"What a relief! I'd hate to think I might have bored you, Renny," she said dryly. "I've never cared to be just one of the crowd." Her smile faded as she heard the slightly antagonistic note in her voice. With a grimace of annoyance, she planted her poles into the snow and pushed off, ski-skating hard and fast away from him, knowing without looking back that he was following her at a seemingly leisurely pace that nevertheless covered a lot of territory in a big hurry. So intent was she on escaping, she ran into a snowladen branch of a mountain hemlock, sending a cold cascade over her head and shoulders. She didn't let it slow her.
Her scooting away like that irked Ren, though he vowed not to show it. She had her skis clipped together and leaning in a rack when he reached her side. She pulled off her knit hat, shook it free of snow from her collision with the tree branch, and shoved a hand through her short, curly hair. Her hair had been long and straight last time he'd seen it, a dusky curtain that could cover her dark pink nipples and had, Ren recalled. The memory of how he had parted that curtain with his hands flooded unexpectedly over him. When she spoke, it jarred him back to the present with an unpleasant thud.
With a cool smile, eyes still hidden behind dark glasses, she said, "Did you have a nice trip, Ren? Plenty of new places, new faces? Lots of adventure?"
He nodded. "It was what I wanted," he said, but knew he lied. In retrospect, he could recall plenty of times when he had known it was not what he wanted. Yet, he wasn't sure exactly what was.
"I must have missed the news of your triumphant return," she said. "If I'd known you were back, I'd have expected a phone call or a letter from your lawyer, but certainly not a personal visit from you. Still can't stand San Diego? How are your parents?"
He grinned. "Overbearing. Insufferably superior." Her laughter pleased him, telling him she remembered that those were the exact words she'd used to describe his parents after she'd supervised their fortieth wedding anniversary celebration in the San Diego hotel where she'd worked. At the time she hadn't known she was talking to their son, but he'd agreed with her wholeheartedly, and from there the beginnings of a friendship had sprung up. That their friendship had died aborning was of little concern now.
"I'm the boss now, the general manager of this resort, so I no longer permit myself even to think such things about my guests, let alone say them. I'm sure your parents have many redeeming features."
"I haven't been able to find them. So, characteristically, I split after a month of trying. And here I am."
"So I see," she said, her tone so bland he had no hope of guessing what it might hide. "What do you want here, Ren? I assume you knew I was here, so I suppose it has to do with the past."
He gazed at her, unsure of what to say. He didn't like that. He was not accustomed to feeling unsure. But what, exactly, did he want there? Her face was lovely in the bright sunlight, her skin almost transparent. He reached out and filched her sunglasses. For an instant, he thought he saw a wary expression flicker in her eyes. It so belied her dispassionate manner he concluded he must have imagined it.
He could be just as cool. Hell, he'd "cool."
"For starters, how about breakfast?"
Of course, Jacquie thought. Food was one of Renny Knight's greatest pleasures, and he had never been a man to deny himself anything he wanted. As she'd made her way down on the last of her three morning runs, she'd been thinking of food herself. Now, though, her appetite seemed to have disappeared. She felt slightly sick. She had to admit -- though she'd never admit it to him -- his sudden appearance had unnerved her badly. She had never expected to see him again, and now that she had, she knew she'd been right to send him away as soon as she'd freed him from his part of their bargain. She had removed him from her life before he'd had a chance to destroy it.
Unless he had merely come to ski? Though that, she decided, was pretty unlikely. After all, why would he choose a very minor ski resort that was well off the beaten track, tucked away in a secluded valley in eastern British Columbia? It was not Renny Knight's style. This place would never hold him, she realized. Nothing would. And no one.
Which was why she had chosen him, she reminded herself. He was a wanderer. It wasn't his fault that she'd done the unthinkable and fallen in love with him. "Right. Breakfast. This way," she said, and swung away from him.
Renny caught Jacqueline's arm, noticing that even through her ski-jacket, it felt almost frail, which was odd. He knew her to be a strong woman. Physically, emotionally, and mentally. "Jac?" He turned her to face him. He watched her expression, searching for visible emotion, should there be any, but of course there wasn't. Her aqua eyes were clear and serene now, betraying nothing of what she might be feeling, assuming she felt anything at all toward him -- and that she might was a pretty farfetched assumption, he told himself. Jacqueline Train showed none of her feelings. Jacqueline Train did not acknowledge emotions as part of her makeup. Jacqueline Train was so totally self-sufficient that she never needed anyone -- yet once she had needed him.
Him? No. Almost any man could have given her what she wanted -- had thought she'd wanted. It was just the luck of the draw that he had been in the right place at the right time and had needed something she could provide in return. There had been nothing personal in it, on his part or on hers. Yet he had made her eyes glaze with pleasure. He had made her feel passion. She had been unable to hide her reactions to his touch. In fairness, he had to admit she hadn't tried to hide those reactions any more than he had.
He swallowed hard to rid himself of the thickness in his throat. So why had there been a hint of bitterness in the words she had spoken? Had she felt something, even pique, when he'd left so willingly -- at her suggestion, he reminded himself.
***
Was that what she thought she'd done? He frowned, and lifted a hand to flick away a melted snowflake that lay on her soft cheek like a crystal teardrop. Tears. Had Jacqueline shed any tears for him?
Jacquie couldn't force herself to look away from him. His eyes were the same intense blue she had never tried to forget. Why try to forget? There were some memories, experience had taught her, that refused to be eradicated, and Renny Knight played a major part in them. He was also one of the more pleasant ones. She hadn't expected to see him again, so what harm could there be in remembering? Only now he was here, and it was hard to maintain a façade of indifference. His lips were firm and a shade paler than the dark tan of his face. His cheeks were hollow, and his jaw had the same stubborn thrust she had admired the moment she'd met him. Their first few conversations had shown him to be a man of convictions, a man of character with obvious strengths, both inner and outer. Like her, he had known what he wanted and was determined to get it -- any way he could.
She congratulated herself for not flinching when he touched her cheek, and made stepping back from him seem casual and natural, but his touch on her face, as brief as it had been, stirred her deeply, softening her insides as no other man had ever been able to do. One touch! Oh, heaven help her, she realized. One little touch!
"Jac, you never bored me," he said softly his breath puffing out white and vaporous. She wished she could think of something snappy to say, something quick and cute and smart to make him smile, to wipe those words from his mind. She must have been out of hers, letting him see that moment of vulnerability, but she had no riposte, and she still felt oddly vulnerable.
"Did I bore you?" he asked.
Slowly, she shook her head, and drummed up another smile. "What? in six weeks? It was hardly time to get to know you, let alone become bored with you."
"I remember," he said, his voice a low rumble. "There are lots of things about those six weeks that I never forgot. I used to think about that time we spent together, Jac, when I was alone out there on the ocean. I wondered about you and -- and what was happening in your life."
"We had -- have -- an agreement, Ren," she said sharply. "I stuck to my half of the bargain, and I released you from yours."
As she faced him, a challenge in her expression, in her stance, he had to admit she was right. He had agreed not to interfere in her life, not even to ask questions. She owed him no answers. But when they'd made their arrangement, he hadn't even considered that he might like to know how things had worked out for her, hadn't considered that he'd never be able to get her out of his mind.
There were things he wanted to know now. Things he needed to know. He recognized that she wasn't going to willingly give him the answers he sought. It would take time to win her trust. Well, he had time. His long days at sea had taught him patience. He'd simply stay and explore his feelings for her -- or exorcise them once and for all.
He reflected that if he'd had patience before, in their earlier relationship, he might have left knowing more about Jacqueline Train than the skeletal information she had provided: Parents -- dead. Brothers and sisters -- none. Aunts, uncles, grandparents -- the same.
Then, he had envied her.
Except once in a while, when he sensed a terrible, yearning loneliness in her, one that she tried to hide by pretending to need no one. Well, not quite no one. He had tried to get her to talk, but she'd changed the subject each time, or evaded his questions in some other way. Or she'd simply silenced them with a cold, unforgiving stare that made him feel like a snoop, an intruder, a worm of the lowest order. Instead of continuing to probe, he'd told himself he didn't give a damn about what made her tick. Only, he had.
Again, it had taken until he was isolated with his own thoughts far from shore, with no human contact, for him to begin to sort through feelings and memories. Always, it was the memories of Jacqueline Train that had come the strongest, the most often.
"If you came hoping to ski, Ren, I'm sorry to tell you that we aren't open yet," she said, breaking in on his ruminations.
"I came for more than skiing," he admitted slowly. "I came to see you. I think we have unfinished business, Jacqueline."
"Sorry, you're wrong."
He withdrew a newspaper clipping from his pocket, unfolded it and held it out to her. Until this moment he hadn't been sure why he'd brought it with him, but now it was about to come in handy, he decided. She gazed at it, at the picture of herself, the words underneath. "Where did you get this? It was published over a year ago."
"And reprinted two months back in a series on women in business."
"So I see. What's your point?"
"The name, Jacqueline. The name."
She lifted her brows. "I don't recall any rules regarding names."
"Jacquie, sorry to interrupt," her maintenance chief said, "but the government guy's coming this morning at ten to inspect the lifts. Will you want to see him?"
She turned and gave him a quick smile. "Hi, Bill. No, that's okay. You can handle it. Of course, if he wants to see me, I'll be in my office. Just give me a call.
"Yes, ma'am." Bill stamped his booted feet in the cold, cupped his ungloved hands and blew into them. He looked curiously from Jacquie to Renny. She sighed. She didn't have much choice, did she?
The two men shook hands. "Knight? Any relation?"
"No," Jacqueline said, just as Renny said, "In a way. I'm her husband."
"In no way!" Jacquie insisted, her tone closing the subject like a trap- door spider slamming on its prey, killing it dead.
"I -- uh -- yeah. Nice meeting you, Mr. Knight."
"Sure, Bill. Call me Ren."
"Ren." With a last, confused look from Jacquie to Ren, Bill Howe stomped away toward the lift.
"What did you do that for?"
"What?" Ren fell into step beside her, shortening his paces to match hers as she clunked down the steps toward the basement of the administration building, where the only cafeteria open at this time of year was housed.
"Oh, don't give me the innocent act. Why did you introduce yourself as my husband?"
"Because that's what I am." He opened the door, holding it while she walked inside, and then slid onto a bench beside her when she sat down. He patted the pocket where he had replaced the clipping. "Seems you've been using my name, making it public that you're my wife. Why shouldn't I introduce myself as your husband?"
"Because you're not," she said, bending down to unsnap the buckle at the back of one of her ski boots. He lifted her other boot onto his thigh and undid it, pulling it off and setting it beside its mate.
"These yours?" he asked, reaching for a pair of shaggy mukluks. Without waiting for an answer, he slipped one of the soft-soled boots onto her foot. Gritting her teeth, Jacquie swung half-around and stuffed her other foot into the soft warmth of the other fur-lined boot. She was letting him get to her, and she simply had to stop it. Standing, she unzipped her one-piece ski suit to the waist, pulled her arms free, and left the top hanging down her back. She was intensely aware of his gaze on her high, full breasts, which were clearly outlined by the fabric of her black silk turtleneck sweater.
She cleared her throat. He lifted his gaze to hers, smiling in appreciation, then let it wander again to where her zipper tab hung, six inches from the end of its track. His fingers twitched.
"Don't even think about it," she said.
He laughed softly. "Why not? You can't hang a guy for his thoughts. Anyway, how did you know I was wondering what would happen if I pulled that zipper to its lowest limit? Am I so transparent?"
"Sometimes," she said. "And if you tried it, you'd find out what a fast and effective knee reflex I have."
He grinned and she marched to the counter where breakfast was laid out. "What did you mean, I'm not your husband?" he asked, following her. "As far as I can ascertain, you never filed for divorce."
"Renny. Not here." she said in a fierce whisper, grabbing a plate and ladling scrambled eggs onto it from a pan in the steam table. She added a couple of slices of bacon, then some toast, and poured herself a cup of coffee. Ren reached over her shoulder and added a glass of frothy orange juice.
"Vitamins." he said. Jacquie only took her tray and sailed to a table in a far corner, her head held high.
Behind her, she heard Elsie, the cashier, say to Ren, "Four fifty-five, please."
"Is that for me my wife?' he asked. "I noticed Jacquie didn't pay."
Jacquie slammed her tray down on the table, slopping coffee and orange juice into her plate. She didn't have to turn around to know that Elsie was staring at Ren. "Wife?" Elsie's voice rose to a squeak. "You're Jacquie's husband? Well! So you're real. A lot of us have been wondering about you, even though her secretary's been drooling over your photograph on Jacquie's desk. Welcome to Roseate Mountain, and of course you don't have to pay for your breakfast -- or any other meal -- in this cafeteria. Jacquie will give you a staff-badge, I'm sure. I'm Elsie, and whenever you want something to eat, you just come and ask for me, Mr. Knight."
"Call me Ren." Jacquie guessed he was treating Elsie to one of his rogue smiles, the kind of smile that could melt the socks off any woman -- socks and whatever else he might want off her.
"Elsie," she said sternly, swiveling around in her chair. "He eats, he pays -- he doesn't get a staff badge. And don't you go tempting him to stick around. He won't be staying long."
"Oh, Jacquie!" Elsie said, her round eyes nearly closing in creases of fat as she laughed. "He's your own husband, and you're pretending to rush him off. What a kidder you are!"
"Isn't she?" said Ren with a chuckle. "Always was. That was the very thing I missed most while I was at sea, Jacquie's kidding."
It was Elsie's turn to chuckle again. "Oh sure! I'll just bet it was." She and Ren shared a grin that would have made Jacquie blush had she been the blushing kind; instead, she compressed her lips into a severe grimace, her brows drawn tight in a frown. Turning back in her chair, she stared in distaste at the mingling brown and orange liquid addition to her eggs and shoved the tray away in disgust.
She took her coffee cup from it and sipped, nearly choking when she heard Ren add, "But now that I'm home, I plan to stay, Elsie, and if the rest of your meals look as appetizing as this, you won't be able to keep me out of your cafeteria. If Jac won't let me have a badge, I can afford to pay. Do you want cash, or can I run a tab?"
The words echoed in Ren's mind as he carried his tray to the table where Jacquie sat, glaring at him. Did he? He looked at her. Yeah. He did. Without his knowing it, his mind had been made up. Yup, he planned to stay. For a while, anyhow. He noticed Jacquie had slopped coffee and juice onto her plate, and silently wrapped several slices of bacon in one of his pieces of toast and passed it to her. She took it without comment and nibbled on it between sips of coffee, pointedly ignoring him -- except when she slid angry glares his way.
Ignoring her mood, Ren cheerfully consumed a great heap of scrambled eggs, the rest of his bacon, and three slices of toast. He caught Jacquie's glance and grinned at her. "Metabolism," he said.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Excuse me?"
"You were wondering how I can eat like a logger and maintain the same lean, powerful physique I've had since my ski-team days. The answer is: Metabolism."
"Or maybe," she suggested, "You burn up all those excess calories with vigorous sexual activity."
He just laughed and continued eating. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth on a napkin, leaned back, and looked at Jacquie. "Now," he said, "what did you mean? Am I, or am I not your husband?"
"Not," she said succinctly, setting her cup onto the tray with a decisive click.
"So show me the divorce papers. I never signed anything. When did I cease to be your husband?"
Shoving her arms back into the top half of her ski suit, she shrugged it over her shoulders and stood. It was as if he hadn't spoken.
"If you'll excuse me now," she said, making him feel like an unwanted traveling salesman whose pitch she'd been kind enough to listen to before dismissing him without placing an order, "I have to get to work. Nice seeing you again, Renny. Good of you to drop by. Why don't you do it again in another couple of years? But make reservations first, okay? The lodge isn't due to open for another three days, and when it does, we're booked solid."
He restrained himself from reaching out to stop her physically. He didn't quite dare to touch her. He wasn't sure what kind of explosion might occur. In himself, or in her, or what the results might be. "Jacqueline, we have things to discuss."
"I didn't see any point in filing for divorce with you a thousand miles from land. However, now that you're back, I'll sign any papers your lawyer sends me. There's no need for you to bring them. We have nothing to discuss," she reiterated firmly and walked away.
Renny sat down again -- quickly, before he embarrassed himself by running after her. Renny Knight did not run after women. Not even Jacqueline Train. "Dammit!" he muttered. Almost as abruptly, he stood. On the other hand, no one walked away from Renny Knight. Especially not Jacqueline Train.
Before he could stop himself, he'd taken three large steps and was following her. The swinging door nearly caught him in the face. This time, his mutter was louder and considerably more profane, but he shoved the door the other way and caught up with her in the basement foyer, where she'd left her ski boots, grabbing her by one shoulder and spinning her around before she could mount the stairs.
"What do you want?"
"To talk to you."
Her glare could have sliced glaciers. "All right then, talk. But if you want to talk about what I think you want to talk about, then don't expect any response. I'll listen." She popped her wrist free of her cuff and glanced at her watch. "For two minutes. But my life is mine, Renny Knight, and you have no right to question me about it."
"Why?" He touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers, slid the caress to her chin. She continued to look at him, her expression cool and contained.
Jacqueline was determined not to let on that his touch was converting her insides to mush. As she remained still, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch, his hand trailed down her throat, turning over so now the tips of his fingers stroked her. One thumbnail scraped on her zipper, following its path down as his fingers brushed over the rise of her breasts, traced the contours of her shape to the narrowness of her waist and the tab of the zipper. He clasped the tab, his gaze on hers. Inside her, something began to throb, to grow, to burn, and she clamped her teeth together, hard. For just a moment, his hand slipped inside her ski suit, his palm hot and hard through the knit silk of her sweater. He tucked the material out of the way and then withdrew his hand to pull her zipper up and over her breasts.
"You forgot to do up your suit. It's cold outside."
She tilted her head to one side and smiled, "Is that what you wanted to talk about? Thank you," she said with mock solemnity. "I hadn't noticed the temperature, but since I'm not going outside, it hardly matters. And now, since that seems to be all you have to say and since your time is up, I'm leaving. Good-bye, Ren."
Jacquie's secretary, Mai, stamped snow off her boots as she came down the stairs. "Hi, Jac. Have I got time to grab something to eat before I come up to the office? The kids were slow this morn -- "
Mai broke off, her gaze widening as it locked on Renny, who stood much too close, in Jacquie's opinion.
"Oh!" Mai said. "Oh, your the sailor in the picture! You've come back! Jacquie, how wonderful for you!" Impulsively she hugged her boss. "I'll bring you coffee, okay? Both of you? Oh, if only it could be champagne!"
"Coffee," said Jacqueline firmly, disentangling herself from her secretary's embrace. "Just coffee, Mai. For me." With a final, cool glance at Ren, she mounted the interior stairs, heading for her second-floor corner office, swinging her boots from her left hand as if she weren't in danger of falling apart. He must never know...
It was appalling to realize she was still in love with him. It hadn't died a natural death, the love that should never have been born in the first place. It had lain dormant until he came back and brought it to life with a smile, a touch, the sound of his voice. And it hurt!
On the landing of the stairs, she turned and looked down. He was watching her as she knew he would be. "Good-bye," she said clearly, once more, as she had that day two years before from the deck of his friend's power cruiser, a few miles outside the Golden Gate. With the rumble of the heavy diesels and the whistle of the wind in his ears, she was sure he hadn't heard her, but he must have seen the shape of the word on her lips, because he answered. She'd known from the shape of his mouth what he'd said, and known he didn't mean it.
Now, as he had that day, he responded automatically, only this time, she heard him, and he said distinctly and clearly as if he meant it, "See you later."
Jacquie didn't say the words aloud, but let her eyes speak for her as she turned and left him standing there. This time, he didn't follow her. Somehow, she didn't find that especially comforting.
"Dammit," Ren said again. He had to find out what was going on. Why she was so antagonistic. And why hadn't she initiated divorce proceedings? Under the circumstances, his signature would not have been required. He was sure she knew that.
* * *
"Jacquie? Jacqueline? Are you okay?"
Jacquie quickly pulled her hands away from her face and smiled at Mai. "Sure. I'm fine. You brought my coffee," she added gratefully. "Thanks, Mai. But I could have waited for our own pot to brew."
"I also brought your juice. Ren said you should drink it. He thinks you look pale. He says you've lost weight, too."
Jacquie laughed. Clearly, the only way to deal with the man was to pretend he was still floating somewhere in the Indian Ocean, or even better, the Ross Sea. Had he ever gotten there? Oh! It didn't matter. If he had, it was obvious he hadn't run into an iceberg or been pecked to death by penguins. "Will you bring me the file on our high school ski clubs, please, Mai? I have an idea I want to explore, and I need to see what some of the costs were for the groups in past years. Maybe we can save them some money."
With a questioning look, Mai complied, and Jacquie spent the rest of the day immersed in work. She ate lunch at her desk, passed up her usual afternoon ski runs, and continued until long after Mai had gone home. It was nearly seven when she rose from her desk, stretched, and grabbed her jacket. Kicking off her shoes, she put on her mukluks and went still at the memory of Ren's hand around her foot when he put her boot on for her earlier. Then she was reminded of his touch on her cheek and her reaction to it, and the way he had let his hand trail down her zipper and had slipped his palm inside her ski suit. She swallowed.
Dammit, she had to stop this! She was not going to give in to the memories that had plagued her during the first few days after Renny Knight had sailed happily out of her life. So he had touched something in her that had never been touched before, elicited responses from her that she hadn't believed herself capable of giving, found a soft core of womanliness underneath her strong exterior that she had never wanted exposed. That didn't mean she had to succumb to thoughts of him just because he had popped his head back into her life for half an hour this morning. She had told him to get lost, and since the day had gone by with no more sign of him, presumably he had. Which was good, she realized. There was no more room for him in her life now than there had been two years ago. Or for her in his.
She locked up her office and made her way down the back stairs of the administration building, glancing around automatically to be sure everything was as it should be. Here and there, people moved from building to building; workers heading toward dinner in the cafeteria, to the staff quarters on the first floor of the building she had just left, or to their cars in the parking lot and the drive down the mountain to their homes in Marsden, the nearest town.
On her left, the lodge was quiet, the windows dark. in three days, in time for Thanksgiving -- American Thanksgiving, the Canadian holiday of the same name having been in October -- it would be filled, the windows sending glowing light across the snow. Since the lodge was so close to the border between B.C. and Idaho, most of their guests would be Americans who were happy to bring their stronger dollar here, which was the reason Captain Harbison, her boss, had bought the place.
The windows of the lodge were beginning to catch glimmers of the moon as it rose over the mountain range. The twenty-one chalets, invisible now without lights or occupants, nestled in the trees at the edge of the forest a quarter mile away. She headed toward them, her feet crunching in the crispness of snow.
After a near collision with a couple of very young dining room trainees, Jacquie discovered they were using serving trays as sleds.
"Gentlemen," she said sternly, "I suggest you get these trays back into the restaurant without Francois seeing them. Believe me, if push comes to shove, I'd find it a whole lot easier to replace two busboys than I would one French chef. Got it?"
"Yes, ma'am," one boy said. His nametag read "Robby."
"Sure, Mrs. Knight. Sorry," said the other.
"Okay. Now get out of here before I get phone calls from your moms about sending you driving down the mountain so late. But first, how did your training session go?"Francois had cooked dinner for the outside staff and the restaurant staff had served them in the hotel.
"Okay," Robby answered for both. "I guess it'll be a lot different when there are real customers in the dining room, though."
"Count on it," said Jacquie, a note of warning in her voice. "Night, boys. Here's a word of advice from an old-time resort-rat -- inner tubes make much better sleds than trays do."
They're so young, she thought. But at least the two of them still lived at home and went to school. Many of the others didn't and didn't look or act old enough to be away from home. Then, who was she to talk? Since the age of sixteen, she had been on her own, with the exception of the six weeks she had lived with Ren. She mentally shook off what threatened to be another rush of debilitating memories and quickened her pace.
Her chalet, set apart from the others in its own little grove of trees, beckoned to her, the light she had left on that morning gleaming faintly to welcome her home.
It was cold inside, and she quickly turned up the thermostat on the wall and lit the fire in the airtight heater. Then, having put a pot of stew on the electric range for her dinner, she went into the small bathroom to run a bath -- her most beloved ritual.
When the tub was filled, with a groan of pleasure, she eased her tired body into the deep, hot water and lay back. Fragrant bubbles rose up under her chin, popping, tingling, and she closed her eyes, trying to relax, breathing deeply and quietly, the morning's events replaying in her mind, unable now, or maybe just unwilling, to try to block them.
Why had he come? The question was foremost in her mind. His having the newspaper clipping didn't tell her a lot. So she had claimed him as her husband, in effect hidden behind him, used his name. By law she was entitled to use it. What difference could that make to his life? None that she could see. Even when they were divorced, she'd still be entitled to use his name if she chose.
Lifting her soapy sponge, she washed herself and then lay back again until the water began to cool. Reluctant to get out, she added more hot water. She should have gone to her secret pool. Tonight of all nights she would have benefited from its seclusion and its serenity, the relaxing properties of its minerals.
Renny...Wishing she could forget those blue eyes that had gazed so warmly into hers was useless, so Jacquie succumbed, thinking about Renny until she was startled into alertness by his voice calling her name.
"Jacquie? Jacqueline! Where are you?"
She sat erect with a splash. Why was he here? He had no right to walk into her house! Nor, she thought a second later, did he have the right to walk into her bathroom!
"Good evening." she said quietly, determined not to let him get her goat, not to let him know what his presence did to her body. She sank back under the water. "What do you want?"
She was glad that her bubbles had not completely dissipated, but they were quietly bursting away, leaving her breasts half-exposed and visible through the water. "I thought we'd agreed there was nothing to discuss, no reason for you to stay."
"I don't remember agreeing to any such thing. You told me there was nothing to discuss. That doesn't mean I feel the same."
He sat down and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. He swept a glance over her. "You're just as good to look at now as you were two years ago." He seemed to be addressing not her, but her breasts. Jacquie restrained her impulse to cover them with her hands. Still, it dismayed her the way his gaze affected her pulse and respiration, to say nothing of her blood pressure.
"Dinner's ready," he said, sliding his gaze back to her face with obvious reluctance. "I stirred it and set it off the heat."
"Thank you," she said. "How kind of you to let me know." She had forgotten she'd put the stew on. Suddenly, she'd had enough -- more than enough. "Now get out of here so I can get ready for dinner." She put deliberate emphasis on the possessive pronoun.
"Not until we've had a chance to talk," he said, grinning down at her, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "I respected your working hours, didn't bother you all day." He frowned. "Besides, if I'd tried to see you earlier, you'd have walked away again. I don't like people to do that, Jacqueline. It irritates me. Finding you in the tub is the best luck I've had in a long while. At least I can be sure you'll stay in one place long enough for us to do a bit of talking."
He had a point there, she had to admit. While she might not want to act like a Victorian maiden, wouldn't any woman in her position draw the line at stepping naked from her tub in front of a man who, in spite of those six weeks in the past, in spite of a shared name, was still a stranger?
"Really?" She lifted her brows, drew in a deep breath, and stood, water streaming from her naked body as she stepped from the tub. Unhurriedly, she reached for a towel, wrapped it around herself, and stepped over his legs.
"Jacqueline!" His voice was hoarse as he pulled in his legs and shot to his feet, staring at her. "Damn, but you're cool!" She thought he was angry. She guessed he'd imagined that by trapping her in what to most people would have been a vulnerable position, he could get his own way.
"If you don't like it, get out of my bathroom." She laughed and began to dry herself, careful not to let the towel slip and expose any more of her body than she chose to have exposed. To do something unexpected strictly for its shock value, and to rely on that very element of shock to prevent his making a move was one thing. To leave her actions open for misinterpretation was another. She certainly did not want to give Renny Knight the wrong impression of what she might be willing to have him do.
With one more look at her, his blue eyes glittering with suppressed laughter and, she thought, a little admiration, he gave her a nod and left her alone in the bathroom. As he closed the door, the sound of his laughter floated back toward her. At least he hadn't lost his sense of humor.
When she emerged, dressed in a blue velour lounging suit, the aroma of her rich, thick stew wafted out of the kitchen. Two place settings were on the table, along with a stack of thick-sliced fresh bread and a dish of butter. Ren stood at the stove stirring the contents of the pot, which he'd put back on the heat. He had certainly made himself at home. But then, when hadn't he?
With a tea-towel over his arm like a make-believe maitre d', he graciously seated her at the table, heaped her plate and his, and then sat across from her. "There now," he said in a satisfied tone. "Isn't this nice? We're acting just like the real married couple you've been pretending we are."
Calmly she said, "Very nice," and proceeded to eat. She was ravenous.
Hunger slaked, shoving her plate aside, she put her elbows on the table and looked at him, unsmiling. "All right," she said. "I guess maybe I owe you an explanation."
He lifted one brow and said, "I guess you do."
"I didn't write that article. I had no idea it would be picked up and reprinted. I thought it was going to be a local thing. I hadn't used your name until I came here. I needed it then to -- to smooth my own path." She looked down, doodled with her fingernail on the tablecloth, and then glanced back up at him, contrition on her face.
He had to smile. "Hey, it's okay, really. How did being married to me smooth your path?' he asked. "Was someone coming on to you too strong?"
She shrugged, frowned, and then nodded. "in a way, but not offensively. Just persistently. I have this old friend, Eric Sorensen. He was sort of a father figure to me for a few years when I was a child. I loved him very much, but we lost touch. When I came here, to my amazement, Eric was here -- is here. He's the hill manager."
"And?" Ren prompted when she fell silent, doodling on the tablecloth again. He'd met Eric today, a grizzled guy in his fifties who looked like George C. Scott in middle-age?
"And he...well, he sort of thought it might be better for me if he wasn't just a father figure to me anymore. He decided no single woman should try to run a place like this. He's very...protective of me, and before I suspected what he was thinking, began talking about marriage. Him and me. So I told him about you."
She looked up, her expression earnest. "I love Eric, Ren. Please understand that. He's one of the most important people in my life, and I don't want to hurt him. But I know his feelings aren't what he tried to pretend they are. As I said, he's very...protective. He thinks that a woman needs a man to look after her. He felt the only way he could do that properly was to marry me. I learned all this within half a day of my arrival here shortly before we began operations last year. I was really stuck, so I brought you into the picture and painted your position in my life as being a bit stronger than it really is. And it worked. As long as he believes I have a husband to keep me from starving if I lose my job, Eric's content to be my friend."
His next question surprised her, though it shouldn't have. She had always known that under his flippant cover of rakishness, Renny was deeply perceptive. It made him even more dangerous to her.
"And a friend is of far more value to you than a husband, isn't it?" he asked.
"Well, yes. I suppose that's true," she admitted after a moment. "But if I'd been interested in Eric that way, I'd have accepted his proposal even though he is more than twenty years older than I am. I'd have told him about you, and then applied for divorce on the grounds of desertion. That way, your signature wouldn't have been required. I didn't, because I don't want to be married. To anyone. Ever."
She seemed to be forgetting that she was speaking to her husband, Renny thought. Clearly, she didn't think of him in that role. But then, he hadn't spent a lot of time thinking of her as his wife. He had spent a lot of time thinking of her, true, but their so-called marriage hadn't figured in his thoughts. Not until he'd seen the picture of her in the newspaper article and read the name she was using -- Jacqueline Knight. It had come as a bit of a shock, even made him uncomfortable, and, in spite of himself, intrigued. Not that he hadn't been wondering about her even before that; he'd spent many a night thinking he should track her down when he got back, wondering how he'd go about it. He hadn't thought she'd stay forever as assistant manager of the expensive resort where they'd met. She'd had too much on the ball.
She was one smart woman, Jacqueline Train -- Knight, he reminded himself.
She smiled. "Of course, Eric's is the only offer I've ever had, so maybe I shouldn't say so quickly that I don't want to marry."
"Not true," he said. "You had my offer. You accepted it."
"Aren't you forgetting? I was the one who did the asking."
He grinned. "I'll never forget it. I was so stunned, I refused. Then after I thought it over and decided your proposal made sense and suggested you ask me again, you were the one to refuse."
She laughed softly, a sound that sent a little curl of delight through his insides. "Whereupon you went into that ridiculous act on bended knee, hat in hand, right there in the middle of the restaurant," she remembered aloud.
He joined in her laughter, then said softly. "Ridiculous act or not, you accepted my proposal of marriage."
"That was no more a proposal of marriage than the one I had made to you," she said, getting to her feet and stacking the plates into the sink before filling their coffee cups. "What you and I had was a business arrangement for mutual benefit."
"True," he admitted, "only you changed your mind in the end, before you could reap the benefit you wanted." He caught her hand, pulling her close to his side. She could feel the heat of his body. "I got what I wanted out of our arrangement," he said. "I fulfilled the terms of my grandfather's will and married before my thirtieth birthday. That gave me the financing I needed to take my trip. But what about you? You didn't get the baby you wanted. You decided it wasn't the right thing to do after all. That was why you encouraged me to leave right away, wasn't it -- because you no longer wanted my...services?"
She pulled her hand free and walked into the living area of the A-frame chalet. Standing with her palms flat on the glass at the front of the building, she stared out into the darkness. She saw his reflection behind her. His hands descended onto her shoulders. She suppressed a shudder. "I lied to you, Ren. I was pregnant and knew it when I told you I didn't want you to delay your trip. I didn't want you to know. But I miscarried at four months."
Renny couldn't move for a moment, shocked by her statement. Then he turned her, searching her face. As usual, it told him nothing of her feelings, but something in the way she held herself, in the rigidity of her muscles under his hands, indicated that she cared very deeply, had grieved long and bitterly -- still grieved.
Gently, almost against his will, he drew her to his chest, sliding his hands down her back and then giving in to the impulse to wrap her in a tight embrace. Rocking her from side to side, he offered wordless comfort, and found himself taking comfort, too, needing it. He swallowed hard.
All of a sudden, there was pain in discovering that he had created a child with Jacquie, a new life that had never really been.
She stayed rigid in his embrace for a moment and then relaxed a bit, rubbing her cheek on his sweater. Her hair, shining and dark, gleamed in the light, and he lifted a hand, filtering the silken strands through his fingers, stroking it back from her temple, silently communicating his sympathy to her. After a long while, he said, "Something inside me sensed you hadn't given up on what you'd wanted so badly, but I also sensed you needed to get away from me. I began to believe during the last week we were together that you were very unhappy about being married to me, that you regretted being tied, if only legally, to a man you didn't love. I thought it best not to question you but to honor your request to cancel my part of the arrangement. Why didn't you tell me, Jacquie? Why didn't you want me to know you were having a baby, when that's what I'd agreed to give you?"
How could she tell him? Jacquie knew there was no adequate way to explain that it was because she'd fallen so deeply in love with him during those few weeks that she'd felt honor bound to tell him she'd changed her mind. She'd recognized even then that Renny could never follow through on his promise to let her raise the child on her own. He simply had too much love to give, and once he'd had time to think about it while alone at sea, he'd have realized the same thing and would have come back into her life -- because of the child. Or even worse, used his family name, wealth and position to the child!
She'd wanted to make a clean break and had done what she'd thought was best. Ironically she'd lost the baby anyway. She gathered her courage and spoke. "I know you must think it strange that I hid the truth from you, Renny, but I was afraid you'd never be able to forget that you had a child somewhere. I knew after spending time with you that you'd eventually ask to see it, want to be a part of his or her life -- and I didn't want you to be bound to us. All of us would have ended up being miserable. So I told you I'd changed my mind. A few months later I...it was all over, anyway."
"What happened? Why did it happen?" he asked gently.
She drew in a deep breath and let it out, then lifted her head but didn't look at him. Tonelessly she told him, "The doctors said they didn't know. Sometimes it just happens like that."
"Were you very sick?"
"Not...very." Heartsick didn't count. "I was able to go back to work right away. Captain Harbison -- you remember him? -- promoted me to general manager and sent me here. As much as I loved the Westmount -- " Her voice cracked and she swallowed hard, steadying herself. "It had been my home for six years, but I couldn't stay on there. Too many people knew. Too many people wanted me to talk about it, to cry over it, to 'let them share' what I was feeling. Lord, but I hate that phrase! I hated the pity more than I hated leaving the Westmount. No one possibly could have shared what I was feeling. No one understood."
He turned her head and looked down into her eyes. She was grateful for her hard-won control that kept her eyes clear and dry. There'd be no sign of a tear for him to see, no sign that tears had ever filled them over the loss of her child. Yet they had. Though not for long. She'd known since early childhood the futility of tears.
"I could have shared it," he said, surprising her, and, she thought, himself as well, as his brows knitted together for an instant and he blinked as if not sure he'd actually said that. "I would have understood."
His frown deepened when she shook her head. "Yes. I mean it. Right now I feel something -- an ache, right here." He tapped his chest. "I don't know if it's for you or me or for our child -- our baby. But it's there and it hurts. Jac, I'm really, really sorry I wasn't there to help you carry the burden of the loss."
Restlessly, she moved out of his embrace and walked to the couch that sat facing the fire. Curling up on one end of it, she said, "It was my loss, Ren, not yours. The decision to have a child was mine. The burden of losing it was mine. I saw that baby as my one chance at having someone of my very own. And since you never knew about it, to you, it wouldn't have been a loss."
"Why 'one' chance?" he asked. "If I had known, maybe we could have -- well -- tried again."
She laughed softly and shook her head. "That wasn't in the contract. You were to stay with me until I got pregnant or for one year, whichever came first. Well, I got pregnant, I just didn't tell you. It was pure good luck that it must have happened in our first week together. You'd done your bit. And you wanted to go. I knew that."
He nodded. For too many years he'd had to put off his dream of sailing around the world. He wondered how he would have reacted if she had told him. He'd have hated to have his trip interrupted. He'd felt cheated when his grandfather, who had promised and promised to finance him, had kept reneging, hoping that Ren would outgrow his desire for adventure, would settle down and become the architect the old man knew he could be. But he would have been at her side in a flash, if she'd needed him -- contract or no contract, she'd realized it -- and so she had set him free before he could guess the truth.
"You make it sound so cold-blooded," he said. "'Done my bit,'"
"Well, it was. On both our parts. It was really quite horrible, don't you think? I've had time since then to become deeply ashamed of myself and of what I did. It was a lousy reason to want to bring a child into the world. I was lonely. I needed someone of my very own. Life was empty. Not once did I consider how a child conceived under those circumstances might feel later in life. It wasn't until after I lost the baby that I even began to think it out, to realize that maybe there was a purpose behind what had happened to me. That I was no longer pregnant because I hadn't deserved to be pregnant in the first place."
"Oh, come on!" he said in a strong voice, flopping onto the couch beside her, leaning his head back and rolling it to the side to look at her. "Do you honestly believe that? Divine retribution, or something? It's garbage, Jac! You miscarried because either your body wasn't ready to carry a child full term, or the child wasn't developing properly and Mother Nature took care of it.
"I think we should try again." At his startling and unexpected words, desire curled in her gut, tightening her muscles. He lifted his head and shook it. "Was that who said that?" he asked, looking stunned.
Jacquie had to laugh. "It was you. Aren't you glad I have no intention of taking you seriously?"
He cocked his head. "Haven't you?"
Renny experienced an odd pang of disappointment. Had he been considering, even subconsciously, trying to fulfill the rest of the terms of his grandfather's will? No. He'd never had any intention of making a claim on the balance of his inheritance. The idea had been repugnant to him then and was just as repugnant now. All he'd wanted was what he thought was his due: For his grandfather to fulfill that long-ago promise to finance his cruise-of-a-lifetime. If the old man hadn't held out on him, hadn't put that lousy term in his will, Renny wouldn't have married anyone. Maybe in a few years, he would have, but he'd hated being forced into it just to get what he felt was his in the first place.
"No intention at all," Jacquie said, reminding him he'd asked a question. "Didn't you hear a word I said, Ren? I conceived that child with all the wrong reasons in mind. I did it for myself, for purely selfish purposes. Not because I had something good to give to another human being, but because I wanted to feed off it, to have it love me, give me something I've always felt I was denied."
"Don't you want a child anymore?" ? He clenched his teeth, not taking his eyes off her, wanting her, suddenly aching from it.
She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her velour pants and hooked her bare toes over the edge of the coffee table. Her pink polish was chipped. Oddly the slight flaw in her appearance appealed to him, made her more human. He wanted to kiss her toes -- for starters. Damn! He shifted to try to loosen the pull of his jeans over his crotch.
She shrugged. "I don't know. But if I ever have a child, it won't be because I have a personal need to have someone of my own. I'd like to think of a child as being the result of an overwhelming love between a man and a woman. The only way they can express their love fully is to create a brand-new human being."
The thought of Jacqueline Train entertaining such a romantic notion of the way love could be was novel. It had never occurred to him that she might think along those lines. He'd assumed she was very much like he was -- completely unromantic, pragmatic -- and she had been. She had wanted a child but not a husband. He had wanted a marriage but not a wife. When had she changed? Did she -- heaven forbid -- want a husband now, to go along with her child?
Carefully he said, "So you're looking for a serious relationship?"
"I'm not looking for a relationship. If I meet someone, great. If I don't, then I guess I've become self-sufficient enough not to need a child to make me feel complete. I know I am complete. I -- I like myself a lot better than I did when we knew each other before."
When he lifted his brows questioningly, she went on, slowly, obviously picking her words with care. "Back then I was greedy, selfish. What I wanted I wanted for myself. I would have been a bad mother. I'd probably have smothered my child. I'd have wanted to be everything to her because she was going to be everything to me."
"She? You were that positive about its sex?" Funny, when he'd thought about Jacqueline's child, he'd pictured a little boy.
"That positive. It illustrates my point. I wanted a daughter, a little girl to become the little girl I would've liked to have been, to have the things I'd like to have had. I didn't want a child for the sake of that child's life; I wanted her only to replace the child I had never been."
"Pretty deep," he said, feeling uneasy, as if her uncharacteristic candor were about to force him to expose his own innermost thoughts, the ones he had found filling his mind during his long days and nights of solitude as he sailed alone across the world's oceans. He wondered if, like Jacquie, once he got them all sorted out, he'd like himself a lot better.
"You're what, thirty years old?" he asked. "If you're going to find someone, you'd better start looking. Why not Eric? A man in his fifties is perfectly capable of fathering children."
She sighed and got to her feet, then sat lightly on the arm of a chair several feet away. "Because I can never love Eric as anything but a father -- my father -- not the father of my child."
Now why, Ren wondered, did her words give him such satisfaction? It was none of his affair. "You wanted me to be the father of your child, and you didn't love me," he reminded her.
"That was different."
"How?"
Biting her lip, Jacqueline tried to find ways to explain how it was different, but the words just wouldn't come. Because, she realized, even if she hadn't loved him in the very beginning, she'd soon learned to. So, with his "duty" done, and him none the wiser, she had sent him on his way before it became impossible for her to let him go without begging him to stay. She slipped from the arm of the chair and crouched to open the damper on the stove, unhook the door, and add another two chunks of wood.
She cast a glance over her shoulder at him. The firelight played over his face, gilding it, highlighting his cheekbones, dancing in his eyes. "Like I said, it was a business arrangement."
He stood pulled her to her feet, holding her in a loose embrace. "Was that all it was?" Inside her desire swelled. He smelled good. Warm, sexy, manly. His words, his intense look, the timbre of his voice, reminded her that it had become considerably more than just a business arrangement, regardless of how it had started out. Those first, tentative, awkward moments of embarrassment at finding herself in bed with a stranger -- even a stranger whose name she bore -- had been terrible. But then he touched her, and something incredible had leaped between them. She had seen her own surprise reflected in his eyes.
Now, suddenly, it was there between them again like an electric current linking them far more tightly than his arms linked around her waist, or her hands on his elbows. She saw he remembered as well as she did the magic they had found together. She had tried over and over to wipe it from her mind, convince herself it had never happened, but it had a habit of sneaking up on her unawares, kicking her feet out from under her, leaving her weak and breathless and wondering if she would ever, even once before she died, feel those sensations again.
His voice a deep rumble, he said, "For two years, Jacqueline, I've thought of the way we were together. Relived it a hundred times. It became the standard by which other-encounters -- would be judged."
"Were there many?" she asked in a detached tone.
"Some," he said. "I believed we were divorced."
"Yes. I just never...bothered with the legalities. It didn't matter to me."
He drew in a breath, then exhaled sharply. She felt the warmth of it on her cheek. She expected anger over her failure to release him legally and finally from their ill-advised contract, but instead, he appeared not to care about that.
"Nothing, no one, ever came close," he said. "I think, more than anything, that's why I came here, why I went to the trouble of tracking you down. Oh, I could have phoned you, written. Yet I found myself driving hundreds of miles into the back of nowhere in search of you. In search of the magic we'd shared. Is it still there, Jac? Why don't we find out?"
She could feel the heat of his body as he drew her inches closer, the tips of her breasts nearly touching his chest, but not quite. The last small move he was leaving up to her. Did she dare? She wanted desperately to be close to him. She trembled, lifted a hand, and touched the back of his neck with icy fingers. She slid her hand flat against the heat of his skin, took a quarter step closer, and then, with a whispered word of negation, she stepped back out of his reach.
Renny felt an explosive breath escape his lungs, a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. "Hey," he said, trying to keep his tone light. "Come on, Jac. Just a kiss. For old time's sake."
"I think not," she said, her face taking on a shuttered look she had mastered well, a look that told him.
Frustration, disappointment, anger, they all welled up in him, and he lifted a hand as if to pull her back into his embrace. To his dismay, she flinched and backed farther from him as if he posed a physical threat.
With a grimace, he dropped his hand. "Don't worry. I've never forced a woman in my life, nor seduced one who was as scared as you are." When she still made no reply, he asked, "Jac, that was why you sent me away, wasn't it? The passion we generated together scared you spitless."
At once, she was defensive. "If I hadn't sent you away, you would have left soon enough -- willingly, remember? You had what you wanted: your grandfather's money. Speaking of which, I didn't need any of the money you left for me. It's still in the account we opened. I'll sign it back to you."
"I'm not interested in the money," he said impatiently. "I'm interested in finding out what there is about me that scares you so badly."
She laughed. "What a typically male thing to say! Can't a woman simply say no without the man having to define her motives? Can't -- "
"Dammit," he interrupted, "I want to know where I went wrong! So will you, just to satisfy my curiosity, tell me why you suddenly began to hate me after all those weeks when we gave each other such pleasure!"
She drew in several deep, calming breaths before she answered, as if striving for calm. "I didn't hate you." She had the manner of a patient teacher with a stupid pupil. "I don't hate anyone."
Somehow, he knew that what she said was true. When it came right down to it, though, he really knew very little about Jacqueline Train -- in spite of the six weeks they'd spent together. But he did know that she didn't hate people. Hate was too closely akin to love.
"Still, it scared you, didn't it, the emotion, the loss of control?" he asked. "Well, let me tell you, Jacqueline, it scared me, too, but I didn't want to run away from it. I wanted to feel it again, and again, and again."
"Are you saying you'd have been willing to give up your great adventure to stay with me just because we were sexually compatible?" she asked icily.
"No! What I'm talking about is what happened the week before I left, when you denied me completely. Darn it, for two years I've thought about it, wondered why you turned so cold so suddenly. I wanted you to thaw once more, Jacqueline. Just once more."
Jacquie gazed at him, wondering how he could not know how total her "thaw" had been, that in denying him she had denied herself even more, that in suggesting he leave when she did, she was only trying to save herself more heartbreak, she'd told herself. As a philosophy for life, it left a lot to be desired. It was a coward's way, but it was the only way she'd been able to handle what was happening to her. She would have lost him anyway. Why not sooner than later? Why not before he began to mean even more to her than he already did? Only it had been too late, of course, far, far too late. It had been too late from the very first day they'd met, only she hadn't realized it then.
"That was all I wanted from you," he said again. "Just one more night of magic. I wanted you so bad I could taste it."
"A farewell performance?"
He looked at her bleakly. "That's a lousy thing to call it," he said, "But since that's the term you chose, and since I didn't get it, how about a welcome-home performance?"
He pulled her tightly against him and pressed his lips to hers, a growl of frustration rumbling from his throat when she resisted passively, refusing to open her mouth to him. When he grew more insistent, she tossed her head to escape his kiss.
Moving was her biggest mistake. She knew it at once, but the sensation of his mouth stroking over her face was too sweet, and her movements became slower and slower, more and more sensuous, and she knew as his arms held her more tenderly that she no more wanted out of that embrace than he did. He kissed her temples, her cheeks, her chin. His hands tangled in her hair, sliding through the strands, the pads of his fingers massaging her scalp and the nape of her neck in a slow dance that set her blood aflame. She nearly collapsed, her head falling back to expose the soft flesh of her throat to his seductive kisses.
She realized how readily she was responding to him, and angrily tried to thrust him away, knowing that her strength was all but gone, but needing to show him that he couldn't win every time -- only he could. She wanted him! Lord, how she wanted him. She yearned to absorb his hardness with her softness, to take him into her, to enfold him with her flesh, to tumble with him to the couch and let her senses have full rein over her actions.
He smelled of the outdoors, of masculinity -- and desire. His hair was crisp and springy under her palms. The muscles in his shoulder quivered as he tilted her head back against it and covered her mouth hotly with his own. She stroked the roughness of his cheek eagerly, feeling his evening beard under her hand, feeling the bones of his face under his skin. If she were a sculptor, she would carve him out of the hardest jade, because only jade would suit the perfection of his structure. His shoulder curved to cradle her as her hands splayed over his back. His thigh, hard and solid, slid between hers, as he rocked her sensitive center against him.
"Ren..." She heard the soft gasp arise from her throat and knew he felt it with his lips.
He answered it with a deep sound that might have been her name as he ran the tip of a finger around and around one of her ears, then he slid his leg from between hers. He lifted his head and stared at her, bemused.
"Did I hurt you?" he asked, easing his hold but not letting her go. When she shook her head, he smiled. "I think I'd forgotten how dark a turquoise your eyes turn when you're aroused," he said. "They're so alive, now, so sparkling I never want to stop looking at them. And your face is warm, pink."
She tried to control her breathing, which was rapid, as ragged as his. But to no avail.
"Damn," he said, "but you turn me on like no one else ever has. Whatever it is we had before, it's still there for me. Even when you're being bitchy, I want you. Maybe even more then, but I never want to hurt you. I promise, I won't," she wanted to tell him, but couldn't speak.
He took little nibbling bites of her swollen lips. "You have the most incredible flavor, Jac," he murmured. "I love to kiss you. I want to, but I won't unless you want it just as much."
He might have been asking. He might have been telling. She was incapable of knowing for sure. She didn't want to think. She only wanted to feel. She had gone too long without feeling.
Ren's finger continued to outline her ear, caressing it, tracing its shape from lobe to slightly peaked tip. He smiled. "You have ears like an elf. They're pointed. Do you have elves and leprechauns and fairies in your background, Jacqueline Train?"
She squeezed her eyes shut. If he knew, would he be doing this? If he knew, would he still want her?
"Can you read minds as well as make magic and fly? I didn't know until this morning that you could fly. Do you know what a beautiful picture you made, soaring through the air?"
His fingers trailed down her neck and around the scoop neck of her top, sending her shivers of delight over her skin. One thumb, rope-hardened and rough, stroked along her jaw line, his other hand moved from her hair to her nape and downward, kneading and massaging as it tracked the valley of her spine.
This tenderness was something she had longed for -- to be touched, to be stroked, to be held. Did it matter that he didn't know? He was here for now, not forever. She and Renny had never thought in terms of forever. They never would. But oh, how she wanted to enjoy "now"! She sighed, lifting her face to his. "Ren..."
"Jacquie?"
"I like you to touch me. I need you to."
"Like this?" He cupped a hand around one of her breasts, palming the nipple into hardness. His other hand splayed over her buttocks, curving under one side, lifting her up to him, moving her against the shaft of his arousal. She sobbed softly with pleasure, feeling hot and weak and liquid inside.
He was watching her face, looking into her eyes, and of course he could tell her passion was growing, keeping pace with his. He'd always been perceptive that way. There'd been nothing she could hide from him in their bed. Nothing she'd wanted to hide. Not at first.
"Kiss me, Ren," she whispered.
He covered her lips with his, softly, so softly it made her want to weep. He parted them gently with his tongue and teasingly stroked over the lower one, filling her with delight. She wanted that kiss to go on forever.
She would have been content to spend the rest of her natural life with her mouth fused to Renny's. It was beautiful, and she felt warm and safe and fulfilled. When he tried to move back from her, she clung to him and flicked out with her own tongue, seeking deeper contact. The need for far more than just a kiss came rushing over her in heady waves.
At once he met her need, plunging into the hot darkness of her mouth, stroking her tongue with his, holding her body closer. She felt him grow harder, his need feeding hers until it rose like a flood-tide, higher with every second. She tilted her head back and spoke his name softly, questioningly.
"Yes," he breathed against her lips. "Oh, yes, Jacquie. More. Give me more."
And she did. She fitted herself to the contours of his body, tangled her hands in his hair, arched her back to fit her breast into his cradling hand, and sobbed again when his thumb began stroking its rigid peak. He answered her soft sounds of pleasure with some of his own, walking her backward to the couch and easing her down.
She felt the wonderful weight of him against her, and let her hands weave their way through his hair, then over his nape and across his shoulders. His back was burning hot when she slid her hands under the bottom of his sweater, and he shifted sideways just enough that he could push hers out of the way. At the sensation of his hand on her bare flesh, she gasped his name. Her bra came undone easily and he took a nipple between thumb and forefinger, squeezing it gently, then holding her entire breast in his hand, as his palm rolled the aching nipple around and around. She felt her legs part, felt his hardness and power as he settled into the cradle she had provided. In moments she was going to burst into flames, and she wondered dimly if their clothing would disintegrate, wished it would. Her tongue continued to stroke his, the magic growing stronger and stronger, her need growing more powerful, and then, suddenly, unbelievably, totally unexpectedly, there was -- nothing.