Love Songs (40 page)

The soft click of the door as it closed added to the intimacy of the surroundings. As she admired the long, plush-cushioned velour sofa and matching armchairs, the low coffee table, the freestanding television and stereo unit with its sectioned desk and inevitable typewriter, she felt a surge of warmth.

“You like it?” he asked.

Her hazel eyes sparkled her approval. “It’s delightful. Do you really live here, rather than at that house?”

“For now.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means,” he sighed, “that I can’t be bothered by the worries of running a large house. This is just my size.”

Surprised, Serena turned to stare at him. “You do own the house?”

His firm lips rose at the corners. “I had to buy it to get this.”

“Tom”—she frowned through a skeptical smile—“that’s ludicrous. People don’t buy huge estates simply to live in small cabins.”

“You may have a point,” he rejoined tongue in cheek. “To be more precise, what I really wanted was a small place on the lake. I had to buy the whole parcel of land, with the woods surrounding it, to get the privacy I wanted. The house was thrown in as a bonus.”

Serena chuckled. “Some bonus!” But she grew more serious. “You really do want privacy?”

“Yes.”

“But why? From what I can imagine, given the fact that your family is a prominent one, you must have been raised in the public eye. I’d think you’d be used to it.”

He gestured toward the sofa, watched as she sank into it, then eased his long frame onto its far end. Appreciative of the distance he’d deliberately put between them, Serena relaxed.

“I may be well used to the limelight, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. From the start I preferred a more private life.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” She looked away.

“Even then. What you saw of me was my job. There was—there is—a private man behind the notebook.”

It was his vehemence that coaxed her eyes back to him. She might have been dubious still, but she wanted to know more. “So you bought this place. You’ve done it over?” Again she perused the decor, admiring the palette of browns and creams, accessorized in gray to emphasize the masculine tone.

Tom nodded. “Privacy doesn’t rule out convenience. I bought the estate when I first arrived here, then lived in a hotel while the interior of the cottage was completely torn out and redone. It needed wiring, plumbing, plastering—everything.” Tipping his head back, he smiled. “Not bad, if I do say so myself. I enjoy it here.”

“Where do you
live?
” she burst out, qualifying her question at his frown. “I mean, this seems to be the only room. I assume that’s the kitchen”—she pointed—“and that’s the bath, but…?”

Tom leaned forward, his voice a hair lower. “If you’re asking about the sleeping arrangements, you’re sitting on them.”

“The couch? You don’t sleep on the couch every night, do you?”

“Now, now, don’t knock what you haven’t seen. It just so happens that this couch is no ordinary couch. It opens into the most comfortable king-sized bed you’ve ever seen.”

“That’s not saying much, since I haven’t seen many.” Her quip was as pointed as she dared make it without inspiring Tom to revenge. As it was, she was at a disadvantage, here in this cozy cabin with him. Granted, his tall and muscled frame lounged several feet away, but her pulse fluttered strangely every time she looked at him. And it certainly didn’t help to know that they were sitting on his bed. It was like sipping champagne from a loving cup.

As if he had caught her thought Tom unfolded his limbs and rose in one smooth motion. “Would you like some wine?”

Feeling in sudden need of fortification, she nodded. “That would be nice.” But her mind was still on the king-sized bed. “Tell me, Tom. Once before you said you’d been ‘burned.’ What did you mean by that?”

“You
are
curious.”

“
You
were the one who suggested we talk. And you were the one who pointed out how little I know about you.”

Tom remained silent for a time, bent in concentration over a conveniently stubborn cork. With its climactic pop he seemed to reach a decision.

“I was married once. It was a long time ago. I was—we both were—very young.” Returning to the sofa, he handed her an empty glass, skillfully filled it halfway, then retreated to his end of the couch to fill his own glass and sink back in a posture of brooding. “She had an image in her mind of what she wanted from life, with riches and glamour ranking high on her list. I guess I was a disappointment.”

“A disappointment?” she asked, incredulous. “How can that be? Certainly you could have given her all that.”

“To Eleanor, wealth was a goal in itself. To me, it’s simply the means to an end that may be totally different, such as the modesty of this cabin. I realize that to you my attitude may sound callous. In my life money has never been a problem and most likely never will. In that respect I
am
arrogant, I suppose.” His brow furrowed beneath the swath of dark hair that the evening breeze had ruffled. “I enjoy the finer things in life, but in a very private, very personal way.”

There was something comforting in what he said, for Serena was, herself, a private soul. “But your wife couldn’t agree?”

“Hah! She couldn’t
stand
it. I put up with the parties and the globe-trotting as much as I could, but there’s a limit for every man beyond which he simply can’t go. When it became clear that we were headed in different directions in life we called it quits.”

“A mutual decision?” Serena asked softly, touched by his willingness to share this intimacy, sensing that he rarely did so.

At last he looked at her. “Yes. Fortunately there were no children. It was difficult enough.”

“You loved her.”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “In my way I did love her.”

“Do you ever see her?”

He shook his head and studied the smooth swirl of wine as he moved his glass. “She’s married again. He’s a European hotelier. From what I hear they have several kids already.”

Serena was aware of the vulnerability in him, of the hurt he must have suffered. Much as she wanted to attribute only the harshest qualities to him she couldn’t ignore the more human element that never failed to touch her deeply.

“Do you want them? Kids?” she prodded gently.

“Sure.” He smiled impulsively, then again more sadly. “That’s what the big house is for. Someday … perhaps…”

Serena ached with the dying off of his voice. She actually wanted to slide across the distance and hold him, comfort him, even promise him those things he wished.
It was absurd!
This was Thomas Harrison Reynolds! How could she sympathize with
him?

“That’s a strange expression you’re wearing,” Tom observed, suddenly more humorous, as though freed of a burden. “It’s a combination of compassion and anger.” He paused. “What are you thinking, Serena?”

“I’m thinking that you totally confuse me. You’re not at all what I expected to find.”

Tom stared at her in silence. His features grew more gentle with each passing second. When he finally spoke it was very softly. “That has to be a compliment. I can imagine what it took for you to offer it.”

She burst from the couch, nearly spilling her wine, and paced to the low-silled window on the far side of the room. “It’s the truth. Unfortunately.”

“Unfortunately?”

Her hazel-eyed gaze locked with his as she turned. “It would have been so much easier to hate you. With everything that happened back in L.A., I
should
hate you!”

He rose from the sofa with an animal grace that evoked a similarly primitive response in Serena. “But you don’t,” he stated quietly. Again she was perplexed, for where there might have been triumph on his face there was only a look of gratitude.

“No,” she whispered, mesmerized once more by the manly strength of his features, now hovering dangerously close.

“Do you hate yourself for that?”

“I don’t know. I can’t think when you’re around.”

“Oh, Serena,” he murmured, kissing her with the same gentleness that puzzled her so. Responding to the longing within she returned the kiss in kind, expressing that irrational desire to protect and comfort through the warmth of her lips as they moved against his. But there was still so much to be said, and Serena was not up for rejection just yet. It was she who broke the tender embrace.

“Tom, we have to talk. You said so yourself.” The words ran into each other with the speed of her racing heart. “This is the problem. It’s so easy to become lost in … in…”

“Desire?”

She looked down, nervously fingering a button of his shirt, barely aware of her action. “Yes. Desire.”

“It’s a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

The warmth of his body reached out to her fingertips, counteracting her desperate attempt at self-control. A frown tugged at her brows, marring the face he had earlier called serene.

“I’m—I’m not sure.”

“Now, what’s
that
supposed to mean?” He closed his large palms around her shoulders but held her at arm’s reach, demanding an explanation.

“Just that,” she insisted unhappily. “I’m not sure.”

“Come on, Serena. You’ve been honest so far. Don’t stop now. It’s one of the things I admire about you. Why can’t you admit to the pleasure you feel in my arms?”

Embarrassed, she tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. “I
do
admit to that pleasure. But desire, and its end…” She looked down again. “It’s been a very long time.…”

“Ahh,” he crooned, drawing her against the solid wall of his chest and cradling her there. “So you
are
thinking of the future. That’s a good sign.”

“I don’t know about that either,” she moaned, fighting the havoc wreaked by the mingling scent of wine and man that permeated her senses and clouded her brain. “If anything I feel more guilty thinking about it now than I did then.”

Tom grew still, let his chin fall to the crown of her head for a pensive moment, then released her. “You’re right,” he sighed. “We have to talk.” Again he gestured toward the sofa. Again she sat. This time, however, he stood more warily before her. “OK, Serena, let’s have it out. First of all, I’m going to tell you what’s on
my
mind.” With a brief pause, his gaze grew darker, if possible, even more intense. By intuition alone Serena read his thoughts. But he spoke clearly, boldly.

“I want you, Serena. It’s as simple as that. I want you. I want to be with you, to get to know you. Right now I want to take you to bed and make love to you. There! Are you shocked?”

“I’m twenty-nine years old, Tom. Shocked? No. Frightened? Very.”

“You’ve got nothing to fear from me, honey. I’ve told you as much before.”

“It’s not you, Tom.” Her lips thinned in frustration. Sighing, she shook her head in disgust. “It’s me. Things may happen between the two of us that I can’t control. I’ll want them while they’re happening, but how do I live with myself afterward?”

Even now, she craved the protective solace of his arms. Yet he stood alone before her, legs planted firmly in a wide stance, hands on his ruggedly narrow hips. “Then we’re back to the issue of guilt. And I
know
that the guilt would have little to do with the actual act of making love, would it?”

She shook her head, missing the bouncing shelter of the hair which usually fell so freely but which was still anchored firmly at the nape of her neck. “We’re living in modern times—”

“And you’ve lived the life of a nun for the past ten years.”

“What is this, Tom? Would you rather I slept my way through life, consorting with every man who crossed my path? It just so happens that
that
doesn’t appeal to me!” Scowling, she burrowed deeper into the cushions. “Sex has to mean something. It’s not something I’d do for desire alone.”

“You thought you loved this—what was his name—Lowry?”

“I did, at the time.”

“And do you love me?”

“Love has nothing to do with this.”

“But you’d go to bed with me.”

“No!” She jumped up, then stormed out of his reach. “I haven’t said that either.”

“You implied it.”

“You twist everything I say!”

“But you want me?”

“I want you out of my life!”

“Let’s try desire. You desire me?”

She whirled around, eyes flashing with anger. “Damn it, yes! I desire you—if we’re down to playing word games. I’m human. I have natural cravings. I’m a woman! And yes, I
desire
you!” She spat out the word with scorn.

“You’ve made your point.” He sighed in defeat, astonishing her with his blunt capitulation. She watched warily as he retrieved his wineglass, filled it again, and strode to the window to stare into the night.

Serena was more confused than ever. She’d told him the things he wanted to hear, yet he seemed more lost than before. Drawn by the same enigmatic force that confounded her, she found herself approaching the window, putting her hand on his arm.