The Best is Yet to Come Part 7

His face hardened. "I know he hit you at least once," he said tersely. "Only a blind man could have missed the bruises. I told you, that's why I stayed away. Jean swore you were pa.s.sionately in love with him. I know all too well how women can delude themselves about men they care for."

She didn't know how to handle it. He had a totally wrong idea about her loyalty to Ben, but there was no way she could correct it without telling him things she didn't dare. While she hesitated, she sipped the brandy and the silence between them began to lengthen. Across from her, Ryder sipped from his own snifter, his long legs stretched out over the coffee table. He looked worn. Probably he was, because he lived at twice the pace a normal man did.

Ivy sighed. The taste of the brandy wasn't unpleasant, but she wasn't used to alcohol and she didn't really like the effect. Her head started swimming in no time and she felt all too relaxed.

"What if you hadn't stayed away, Ryder?" she asked, lifting her eyes to his.

His face went taut. He emptied the brandy snifter. "If you think you can sleep now, we'd better call it a night," he said, rising.

She got up, too, weaving a little as the alcohol worked on her. He was much taller when she wasn't wearing shoes. She paused just in front of him and stared up, entranced by the sheer impact of his masculinity in his state of undress.

"Ben was all white without his clothes," she said dizzily.

His jaw tautened. "I spend a good deal of my time in the field."

"So did he," she pointed out.

"Ben was fair. I'm not. I tan easily. Ivy..."

She touched his chest, hesitantly. Her fingers were cool, but they burned his skin like a brand. He felt his body going rigid and his fingers went to her hand to pull it away from his aching body. But he couldn't quite manage to drag it loose. The scent of her drifted up into his nostrils, a clean, flowery scent that was hers alone.

"Don't," he said quietly. "Not like this, when you're three sheets in the wind."

She drew in a slow breath. "Just like old times," she said huskily. "You accuse me of trying to get away from you, when you're the one who pushes me away." She felt the pain of his rejection keenly in her intoxicated state, and tears choked her. She flattened her hand over his hair-covered breastbone, feeling the hard slam of his heart under the warm muscle of it. "Why?" she whispered.

"Because it's never the right time or the right place," he said angrily. He caught her hand and pushed it over one hard male nipple and a furious heartbeat, trapping it there. "Feel me," he whispered roughly, while his free hand grasped her long hair and pulled her head back so that her eyes met his. "Feel what you do to me. I've never known a woman who could knock me off balance the way you do."

"Is that all it is?" she asked sadly. "Just...desire?"

His eyes were blazing and he was rapidly losing control. He had to get her out of here while there was still time. "You know how I feel about commitment, don't you?" he hedged.

"You don't want it," she said. "You never have." She let her eyes fall and pulled her hand away from his body. "I'm sorry. I think I'm a little tipsy."

"You're a lot tipsy," he corrected. "And it's time you went to bed."

"Not as stoic as you look?" she chided gently.

His eyes darkened as he stared down at her. "Not stoic at all," he said. "But I won't take advantage of you."

"My legs feel funny," she murmured on a stifled giggle.

"No wonder."

She took a deep breath and felt the world vanish around her.

Ryder caught her before she fell and carried her into the bedroom. She was a soft weight in his arms and as he laid her down on the sheets he had to fight his conscience every step of the way. He put her under the sheet and coverlet and drew them up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She looked like an angel lying there, her black hair haloed around her gentle face, her eyes closed and her long lashes resting on her creamy cheeks. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, and he loved her desperately. But she was still hung up on her late husband, and he was no match for a ghost. With a vicious curse, he turned and left the room.

He overslept the next morning for the first time in years. He hadn't managed to get to sleep until late, aching with his need for Ivy. When he got into the suite's living room, she'd already ordered breakfast, which had apparently just been delivered because the coffee she'd poured into her cup was steaming.

"Oh," she said self-consciously. "I was just about to call you."

She'd hoped she wouldn't have to. She had embarra.s.sing memories of the night before. Her hands went to smooth her oyster blouse down over her dark slacks in an unconsciously nervous gesture.

"Let's eat something," he said. "Then we might go sight-seeing down to St. Augustine."

"To the Castillo de San Marcos?" she asked hopefully.

"There." He nodded. "And to the Ripley Believe it or Not Museum as well, if you like."

She poured him a cup of coffee and pushed it across the table to him, her eyes lingering on the blue checked open-neck shirt he was wearing with his slacks. The color complemented his pale eyes, and s.e.xy glimpses of his chest were visible in the opening. She remembered touching him there, and felt self-conscious all over again. Would she never learn to stop throwing herself at him?

She sipped coffee slowly. "I'm sorry about last night."

"I'll bet you are," he replied, his voice deep and curt. "Head hurt?"

She grimaced. "A little. I took a couple of aspirin."

"The sea air may help some. Try to eat something."

She managed the toast, but nothing else. Eating wasn't easy with a hangover, as she was learning the hard way.

"I didn't mean I was sorry I got tipsy," she began.

"If you're going to start making apologies for anything else, forget it," he said, without looking at her. "Finish your coffee and we'll go."

That wasn't a promising start, but she supposed it was just as well not to dwell on her behavior.

He drove them down the long, seaside stretch of U.S. 1 to St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city. The magnificent old fort took Ivy's breath away. It was located on a stretch of land facing the Matanzas Bay, five miles from the Atlantic Ocean. Made of stone, the structure was gray and worn smooth with age. A moat surrounded it, with a wooden bridge that allowed tourists to enter.

It had a long and proud history, belonging alternately to Spain, France and Great Britain, and then to America. It was, in fact, the oldest fort in the United States, dating to 1672. Ivy had read a tourist brochure on the way down from Jacksonville and learned a little about the old city. Ponce de Leon had landed here in 1513. He claimed the land for Spain, but in 1564 the French claimed it and established a settlement there. That settlement was destroyed by Spain the following year, and they founded the city of St. Augustine.

The basic fortress of the present Castillo de San Marcos was completed in 1695, although the ground breaking for it was some twenty-three years earlier in 1672. Several protective earthworks were built as time pa.s.sed. In 1825, however, the fort's name was changed to Fort Marion and remained so until 1942, when the original name was reinstated. The fort had withstood attack after attack. One siege against the Spanish fortress was launched by Carolinians in 1702. It lasted for fifty days and resulted in the destruction of the entire city-all of it, that is, except for the Castillo, which was the only structure still standing afterward.

One thing Ivy had discovered from some other reading was that back in the late 1800s, the proud Chiricahua Apache tribe had been housed here after Geronimo's disastrous defeat. As they walked around the ancient structure, Ivy tried to imagine how the desert-dwelling Apaches would have felt in its damp confines. Except for the small green courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the walls, there was only the sky above to look at. She closed her eyes, picturing Spaniards in their armor tramping to and fro, followed by the early Americans who'd defended this place. The sense of history was strong here, and if there were ghosts, then surely the fort had them. So many memories, she thought.

She shivered, both because of the atmosphere and the cool mist. She hadn't brought a coat, but Ryder suddenly shrugged out of his nylon jacket and gently put it around her shoulders, holding it there by the lapels.

"It's getting chilly," he remarked. "I hadn't thought it would be this cool."

"I'm all right," she said softly. "But you'll get chilled without your jacket," she protested, looking up at him with liquid dark eyes.

"My G.o.d, don't look at me like that when we're surrounded by people," he groaned. His hands were still on the lapels of the jacket, keeping it close around her, and behind them was a group of senior citizens following a tour guide over the gray stone fortifications.

Ivy was thrilled by the effect she had on him. The power to arouse him was heady and sweet, and she couldn't resist exercising it. She moved just enough to bring his knuckles against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She expected him to turn the jacket loose then.

But he didn't. His pale eyes held her dark ones in thrall while the wind blew and the fog misted and the tour guide's low voice droned on. Ryder's gaze fell to the jacket and his hands moved, deliberately caressing down to her taut nipples and back up again in a soft sensual tracing that made her knees go weak.

His eyes moved back to hers and searched them slowly while his breath rasped deep in his chest and threatened to stop altogether.

"You...shouldn't be doing this," she whispered brokenly. "And I shouldn't be letting you."

"Then stop me," he challenged softly. He glanced over her shoulder. The tour guide was still holding forth, but the group was moving away from them, although they were on the same level, near one of the tiny guard stations fashioned of stone blocks.

She could hear her own heart beating. She trembled a little with reaction and moved forward to rest her head on his broad chest.

"Ryder," she whispered longingly.

He registered her capitulation with a sense of wonder. She was vulnerable and he shouldn't take advantage of it. G.o.d knew, he'd tried hard enough to keep his distance, especially while she was still grieving for Ben. But this was asking the impossible. The feel of her was like a narcotic. He couldn't stop.

"Stand still," he whispered. "If you cry out, we're going to have an audience."

She wondered at the wording until she felt his hands turn and slowly unfasten her blouse. She should protest, she knew she should, but it was too sweet. She felt the backs of his lean fingers against her bare skin and she stifled a gasp.

He lifted his head and looked down at her, darting a careful glance at the slowly departing senior citizens. He should never have started this. His blood was raging already, and this wasn't going to help things. But she was sweet and submissive, and he'd gone hungry for her too long already. His eyes feasted on the soft pink skin. He drew the fabric farther aside to reveal the high, taut rise of her mauve nipples and his face hardened.

"Ryder," she whispered shakily.

"Perfect," he breathed roughly. "I lie awake at night and dream of you like this, your b.r.e.a.s.t.s hard-tipped and swollen under my mouth..."

She bit back a cry at the word pictures he aroused, and she shivered.

"Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" he whispered huskily. "So would I. But if I bend down and put my mouth on you like that, I'll lose my head completely. I think you might, too. And we're not here to become the tourist attraction."

Her lips parted as her breath rushed out jerkily. His pale eyes lingered on her exposed b.r.e.a.s.t.s and began to glitter. "I can almost taste you, Ivy," he groaned.

She moved feverishly against him, shivering again as his arms went around her and crushed her to his broad chest.

"Oh, Lord, what a time to want each other," he bit off at her ear. His hands flattened on her shoulder blades. The tourists were going slowly down the steps and he thanked G.o.d, because his body was giving him h.e.l.l.

He moved her just enough to get his hands in between them. They eased under her blouse and began to caress her swollen b.r.e.a.s.t.s. His lips nuzzled her temple and her forehead, breathlessly gentle, while she stood yielding in his arms and enjoyed the tenderness of his seeking hands.

He could feel her trembling, but she was clinging, not resisting. It went to his head like the brandy he'd had the night before. "Look at me," he said softly. "I want to see your eyes while I'm touching you."

Her face lifted, and her misty eyes met his. She gasped a little as his hands grew bolder, his thumbs abrasive against the hard tips.

"Someone will see," she managed in a shaky whisper.

"No," he replied. "They're leaving now."

And they were. The senior citizens followed the tour guide down the steps, leaving Ryder and Ivy alone on the battlements overlooking the bay.

"Alone at last," he whispered, and bent his head.

She felt his lips brush lightly over her mouth. This time there was no violence at all. His mouth teased hers in the windy silence, coaxing it to follow him, to plead for a harder, deeper contact. He was her heart, and she wanted nothing more than to be close to him for as long as she could.

Her arms slid under his and around him and she pressed close. His hands moved abruptly to her hips and drew them to his in a slow, sensual rhythm that dragged a moan from the lips his were nibbling. He was fiercely aroused, and she could feel the evidence of it like a hot brand against her belly. But even that was welcome.

He wondered at the lack of resistance from her. His hands contracted and he lifted his head to look down into her eyes as he shifted her hips deliberately from one side to the other against him.

"Feel it?" he bit off.

"Yes." She searched his eyes, blushing a little at the sensual, faintly mocking smile she found on his hard face.

"Thank your lucky stars that we aren't in that suite alone. This is what you've been inviting for the past week, every time you turned those bedroom eyes on me."

That wasn't what she wanted to hear. Her face paled at the insinuation that she'd been teasing him. Could he really think her that callous?

"You started it," she accused helplessly.

"You started it," he corrected. He moved back, his eyes blatantly on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "No bra, either. Was that for my benefit, to make it easier for me to get to your skin?"

She flushed and dragged her blouse together, fastening it with hands that shook. He always seemed to find a way to blame her when things got out of control. Didn't he have any idea why it kept happening?

He moved away from her, staring out toward the bay. His body was still in anguish. Why did she keep letting him do that, he wondered. And then, all at once, a horrible suspicion grew in his mind.

"Are you missing s.e.x?" he asked abruptly, turning fiercely accusing eyes on her.

Chapter 6.

Ivy spared a moment to wonder at the density of the male mind before she reacted to the question. Had she missed s.e.x, indeed, when it had been nothing more than a hated, frightening ordeal fraught with embarra.s.sment and humiliation.

Her dark eyes searched his and trembling hands drew the nylon jacket closer around her shoulders. Why should he ask such a question, after the sweet intimacy they'd just shared? He lost his temper every time he touched her.

"I seem to be missing the boat, if you want to know," she said after a minute. She moved to the edge of the wall and leaned against it, staring out over the snaky outlines of the earthen breastworks with their smooth green cover of gra.s.s, beyond the moat.

He joined her, but he didn't quite look at her. His head was bare, and the dampness made his hair look even blacker than usual.

"You...disturb me," he said roughly.

"I've noticed." She smoothed her fingers over the rough, weathered stone, aware of the musty, dusty smell of it in the dampness around her. "Why do you lose your temper every time you touch me?"

He blew out a heavy breath, his eyes narrowing on the distant horizon. "I want you."

Her fingers bit into the stone. "Yes, I know," she said softly. "But that doesn't really explain it."

He glanced down at her. "It was a long time ago, but you surely remember that I d.a.m.ned near lost control with you that night when you were eighteen?"

"I remember." She closed her eyes. "All you do is push me away."

He turned to face her, his jaw tensing before he spoke, his eyes slow and bold on her body.

"I have to," he said, his voice curt. "My G.o.d, all it's going to take is one kiss that lasts five seconds too long, and we'll be lovers. Or are you going to pretend you don't know that?"