From the Heart (25 page)

“But that's not—”

“That's all the time you have . . . or all the time Miss Winslow will have.”

Sweat coated his lip and he lifted a trembling hand to wipe it away. “Don't do anything to her. I'll get them.”

“For Miss Winslow's sake, be successful. Twenty-four hours,” he repeated. “If you don't have them by then, she'll be disposed of. I'll retrieve my property myself.”

“No! I'll get them. Don't hurt her. You swore she'd never have to be involved.”

“She involved herself. Twenty-four hours.”

J
essica had no answers. Alone, she sat on the beach, chin on her knees, and watched the early sun spread streaks of pink above the water. Yards away, Ulysses chased the surf, bounding back to the shore each time it turned on him. He'd given up on the idea of conning Jessica into tossing sticks for him.

She'd always liked the beach at sunrise. It helped her think. The screech of gulls, the pound of water against rock, the burgeoning light, always calmed her mind so that an answer could be found. Not this time. It wasn't as if she'd never considered marriage, sharing a home, raising a family—but she'd never had a clear picture of the man. Could it be Michael?

She enjoyed being with him, talking to him. They shared interests. But . . . oh, there was a
but,
she thought as she lowered her forehead to her knees. An enormous
but.
And he loved her. She'd been blind to it. Where was her sensitivity? she wondered with a surge of guilt and frustration. How could a thing—a business—have been so important that it blocked her vision? Worse, now that she knew, what was she to do about it?

Slade came down the beach steps swearing. How the hell could he keep a rein on a woman who took off before sunrise? Gone walking on the beach, Betsy had told him. Alone on a deserted beach, Slade thought grimly, completely vulnerable
to anything and anyone. Did she always have to be moving, doing? Why couldn't she have been the lazy halfwit he'd imagined her to be?

Then he spotted her—head down, shoulders slumped. If it hadn't been for the mass of wheat-colored hair, he would have sworn it was another woman. Jessica stood straight and was always heading somewhere—usually too fast. She didn't curl up in a ball of defeat. Uncomfortable, he thrust his hands in his pockets and walked toward her.

She didn't hear him, but sensed the intrusion and the identity of the intruder almost simultaneously. Slowly she straightened, then looked out at the horizon again.

“Good morning,” she said when he stood beside her.

“You're up early.”

“So are you.”

“You worked late. I heard your typewriter.”

“Sorry.”

“No.” A fleeting smile. “I liked it. Is the book going well?”

Slade glanced up as a gull soared over their heads, white-breasted and silent. “It moved for a while last night.” Something's wrong, he thought. He started to sit beside her, then changed his mind and remained standing. “What is it, Jess?”

She didn't answer immediately, but turned her head to study his face. And what would he do, she wondered, if he wanted a woman to marry him? Would he wait patiently, choose the best time, then be satisfied when she asked him to wait for an answer? A ghost of a smile touched her lips. God no.

“Have you had many lovers?” she asked.

“
What!
”

She didn't pay any attention to his incredulous expression but turned to stare out at the surf again. “I imagine you have,” she murmured. “You're a very physical man.” The clouds skimming over the water were shot through with red and gold. As she spoke Jessica watched them brighten. “I can count mine on three fingers,” she continued in a tone that was more absent than confidential. “The first was in college, a relationship so brief it hardly seems fair to include it. He sent me carnations and read Shelley out loud.”

She laughed a little as she settled her chin back on her knees. “Later, when I was touring Europe, there was this older man, French, very sophisticated. I fell like a ton of bricks . . . then I found out he was married and had two children.” Shaking her head, Jessica gripped her knees tighter. “After that there was an advertising executive. Oh, he had a way with words. It was right after my father died, and I was . . . groping. He borrowed ten thousand dollars from me and vanished. I haven't been involved with a man since.” She brooded out to sea. “I didn't want to get stung again, so I've been careful. Maybe too careful.”

He wasn't overly pleased to hear about the men in her life. Forcing himself to be objective, he listened. When she fell silent, Slade dropped down beside her. For the space of a full minute, there was nothing but the sound of crashing waves and calling gulls.

“Jess, why are you telling me this?”

“Maybe because I don't know you. Maybe because it seems I've known you for years.” A bit shakily, she laughed and dragged her hands through her hair. “I don't know.” Taking a deep breath, she stared straight ahead. “Michael asked me to marry him.”

It hit him hard—like a stunning blow to the back of the neck that leaves you disoriented just for an instant before unconsciousness. Very deliberately Slade gathered a handful of sand, then let it sift through his fingers. “And?”

“And I don't know what to do!” She turned to him then, all turbulent eyes and frustration. “I hate not knowing what to do.”

Stop it now, he ordered himself. Tell her you're not interested in hearing about her problems. But the words were already slipping out. “How do you feel about him?”

“I depend on Michael,” she began, talking fast. “He's part of my life. He's important to me, very important—”

“But you don't love him,” Slade finished calmly. “Then you should know what to do.”

“It's not that simple,” she tossed back. With a sound of exasperation, she started to rise, then made herself sit still. “He's in love with me. I don't want to hurt him, and maybe . . .”

“Maybe you should marry him so he won't be hurt?” Slade gave a mirthless laugh. “Don't be such an idiot.”

Anger rose quickly and was as quickly suppressed. It was difficult to argue with logic. More miserable than offended, she watched a gull swoop low over the water. “I know marrying him would only hurt both of us in the long run, especially if his feelings for me are as deep as he thinks they are.”

“You're not sure he's in love with you,” Slade murmured, considering the other reasons Michael might want her to marry him.

“I'm sure he thinks he is,” Jessica returned. “I thought maybe if we became lovers, then—”

“Good God!” He caught her by the shoulder roughly. “Are you considering offering your body as some sort of consolation prize?”

“Don't!”
She shut her eyes so she couldn't see the derision in his. “You make it sound so dirty.”

“What the hell are you thinking of?” he demanded.

In an uncharacteristic gesture of futility she lifted her hands. “My track record with men has been so poor, I thought . . . well, given a little time he'd change his mind.”

“Imbecile,” Slade said shortly. “Just tell him no.”

“Now you make it sound so easy.”

“You're making it complicated, Jess.”

“Am I?” For a moment she lowered her forehead to her knees again. His hand was halfway to her hair before he stopped himself. “You're so sure of yourself, Slade. Nothing makes a coward of me more than people I care about. The idea of facing him again, knowing what I have to do, makes me want to run.”

He was responding to the fragility she so rarely showed. Deep inside him, something struggled to be free to comfort her. He banked it down an instant before it was too late. “He won't be the first man who's had a proposal turned down.”

She sighed. Nothing she'd said had made sense once it had been spoken aloud—everything he said had. Some of the burden lifted. With a half smile, she turned to him. “Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Had a proposal turned down.”

He grinned, pleased that the lost look had left her eyes. “No . . . but then, marriage didn't figure in any of them.”

She gave her quick gurgle of laughter. “What did?”

Reaching over, he grabbed a handful of her hair. “Is this color real?”

“That's an abominably rude question.”

“One deserves another,” he countered.

“If I answer yours will you answer mine?”

“No.”

“Then I suppose we'll both have to use our imagination.” Jessica laughed again and started to rise, but the hand on her hair stopped her.

The quizzical smile she gave him faded quickly. His eyes were fixed on hers, dark, intense, and for once readable. Desire. Hot, electric, restless desire. And she was drawn to him, already aroused by a look. For the first time she was afraid. He was going to take something from her she wouldn't easily get back, if she managed to get it back at all. He pulled her closer, and she resisted. In an instinctive defense against a nebulous fear, Jessica put her hands to his chest.

“No. This isn't what I want.”
Yes, yes, it is,
her eyes told him even while her hands pushed him away.

In one move she was under him on the sand. “I warned you, I wouldn't treat you like a lady.”

His mouth lowered, took, and enticed. Fear was buried in an avalanche of passion. At the first taste of him, response overwhelmed her, wild and free. Jessica forgot what she stood to lose and simply experienced. His tongue probed, slowly searching, expertly seducing, while his lips crushed hers in an endless, exquisite demand. She answered, mindlessly willing, desperately wanting. Then he tore his mouth from hers to move over her face, as if to absorb the texture of her skin through the sense of taste alone.

She fretted to have his lips on hers, turning her head in search. Then suddenly, fiercely, he buried his lips at her throat, wrenching a moan from her. The sand made whispering sounds as she shifted, wanting the agonized delight he was causing to go on and on.

Her hands found their way under his sweater, up the planes
and muscles of his back, down the hard line of ribs to a lean waist. The moist air smelled of salt and the sea, and faintly, of the musky scent of passion. His mouth found hers again, unerringly, as water crashed like thunder on the rocks nearby. She felt his lips move against hers, though the meaning of his murmur was lost to her. Only the tone—a hint of angry desperation—came through. Then his hands began to search, with bruising meticulousness, from her hips to her breasts, lingering there as if trapped by the softness. She was unaware of the sun beating down on her closed lids, of the coarse sand under her back. There was only his lips and hands now.

Calloused fingers ran over her skin, scraping, kindling fresh fires while feeding those already ablaze. Roughly he caught her bottom lip between his teeth, drawing it into his mouth to suck and nibble until her sighs were moans. In a sudden frenzy Jessica arched against him, center to throbbing center. Denim strained against denim in a thin, frustrating barrier.

On a groan, Slade buried his face in her hair, immersed in the scent of it as he groped for control. But there'd be no control, he knew, with the taste and scent and feel of her overpowering him.

With a muffled oath he rolled from her, springing up before she could touch him and make him forget all reason.

Slade drew air into his lungs harshly, letting it cool the heat that radiated through him. He had to be out of his mind, he thought, to have come that close to taking her. Seconds passed. He could tick them off by the sound of her unsteady breathing behind him. And his own.

“Jess—”

“No, don't say anything. I get the picture.” Her voice was thick and wavering. When he turned back, she had risen to brush off the clinging sand. The glint of the morning sun haloed the crown of her head even while the breeze tossed the ends up and back. “You changed your mind. Everyone's entitled.” When she started to walk by him, Slade gripped her arm. Jessica jerked against his hold, found it firm, then threw up her chin.

Hurt. Slade could see it all too well beneath the anger in her eyes. It was better that way, he told himself. Smarter. But
the words came out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Would you prefer that we'd made love on the beach like a couple of teenagers?”

She'd forgotten where they'd been. Place and time hadn't mattered when the need to love had been paramount. It only cut deeper into her pride that he had remembered and had maintained enough control to stop. “I'd prefer you didn't touch me again,” she returned coolly. She lowered her eyes to his restraining hand, then lifted them again, slowly. “Starting now.”

Slade's grip only tightened. “I warned you once not to push me.”

“Push you?” Jessica retorted. “I didn't start this, I didn't want this.”

“No, you didn't start it.” He took her shoulders now, giving her three hard shakes. “And I didn't want it either, so back off.”

Her teeth snapped together on the final shake. If hurt had outweighed anger before, now the tide was turned. Enraged, Jessica knocked both of his hands away. “Don't you dare shout at me!” she yelled, outdoing him in volume. Behind them water hurled itself against rock, then lifted in a tumultuous spray. “And don't intimate that I've thrown myself at you because I haven't.” With her arms pinned, she had to toss her head to free it of blowing hair. Her eyes glinted behind the dancing strands. “I'd have you crawling on your hands and knees if I wanted!”

His eyes became gray slits. Anger mixed with an uncomfortable certainty that she probably could. “I don't crawl for any woman, much less some snotty little twit who uses perfume as a weapon.”

“Snotty little—” She broke off, sputtering. “
Twit!
” she managed after an outraged moment. “Why, you simple-minded, egotistical ass.” Unable to think of a better defense, she shoved a hand against his chest. “I hope you haven't put a woman in that novel of yours because you know zip! I'm not even
wearing
any perfume. And I wouldn't need—” Breathing hard, Jessica trailed off. “What the hell are you grinning at?”

“Your face is pink,” he told her. “It's cute.”

Her eyes flashed, golden fury. The intent for violence was clear in the step she took toward him. Lifting his hands aloft, palms out, Slade stepped back.