UPON THE STORM Page 11

  The morning dawned bright and crystal clear. The living room was full of golden light, blending well with the bright colors of the comfortable furniture, giving it an open, airy feel that was emphasized by the huge windows that opened to the expanse of the sparkling Pacific Ocean.

  Christy paused at the bottom of the stairs, a little disconcerted at how at home she felt here. Had she chosen the furnishings herself, she could not have found anything she thought more suited to the house. More suited to herself. The realization disturbed her.

  She had called Mrs. Turner—collect, of course—to let her know she would be here longer than expected. By that time it had been too late to speak to Char, and for once she was almost glad; she wasn't at all sure she could handle the strain of pretending all was well just yet.

  Drawn by the calming view of the glistening water, she crossed the room, her bare feet sinking into the thickness of the large, colorful throw rugs that were scattered cheerfully around the gleaming white tile floor.

  She was back in her beloved jeans and a big, white silk shirt, worn strictly for comfort. She had no idea how slenderly fragile the loose folds of the lustrous fabric made her look, nor how the jeans lovingly molded every inch of her long legs and the taut curve of her derrière.

  She quietly slid open the door leading to the deck. She hadn't seen Trace since last night, when he'd gruffly told her to go to bed, she looked exhausted. She couldn't deny it, but he had looked just as bad, and she thought perhaps he was still sleeping.

  Not that she had slept much last night. It had been hours before her weary mind had stopped spinning, and when she had at last slipped into sleep, her subconscious had stubbornly refused to let her forget that he was right down the hall.

  She took a deep breath of the salt-tanged air, leaning over the railing to peer up and down the beach. In the aftermath of the rain, it was virtually empty.

  "Good morning."

  She spun around, startled. He was sitting at a round table in one corner of the deck, shaded by a jauntily tilted, brightly colored umbrella. He was clad only in a faded pair of navy sweatpants and a pale blue T-shirt that seemed painted across his broad chest. To Christy it was infinitely sexier than any designer outfit could ever be.

  He looked as if his night had resembled hers; shadows darkened his eyes, and his face was drawn and rough with the stubble of his beard. His hair was windblown and tangled, and she wondered if he had gone to bed at all.

  "I— It's a beautiful morning." She looked out at the beach again nervously.

  "Sit down. I'll fix breakfast."

  "You don't have to."

  "I know. An omelet okay?"

  "I— Fine. Thank you."

  She felt uncomfortable with this studied politeness, but he seemed unaware of it as he went inside. She turned her gaze back to the steady, calming roll of the surf and tried to empty her mind and enjoy the loveliness of the morning.

  "Hey, Dalton! What the hell's going on? Your phone's out, and there's this stupid rumor on the news—"

  Christy stared at the man who had come bounding up the steps; it was hard not to. He was huge, six-four at least, and the image of the perfect Nordic blond. He was impossibly tan, and his eyes were impossibly blue, and if she hadn't been looking at him in person, she never would have believed he was real.

  He was staring at her the same way, although why he should doubt her reality was beyond Christy. Yet he was looking at her as if she had just disembarked from the 7:00 a.m. UFO.

  "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?"

  "I might ask you the same," Christy said mildly. She'd stopped being impressed by sheer bulk when she'd managed to toss the school bully over her shoulder at twelve, after one crack too many about her lack of parents.

  The platinum blond eyebrows shot up, and a glint of admiration flickered in the blue eyes. He looked her up and down with a new interest, this one blatantly and purely male. "I must say, when he decides to break a rule, he does it with style. And with excellent taste."

  "A rule?" She focused on the one thing she didn't chalk up to typical male bluster.

  "He's never brought a woman here."

  Christy felt her stomach knot oddly, but she held the man's gaze steadily.

  "Until now," he said softly, a glimmer of realization joining the admiration in his eyes. "It's you, isn't it?" he murmured softly. "This is your house."

  * * *

  Nine

  « ^ »

  Christy raised an eyebrow at him. Whoever this Norse god come to life was, he wasn't making much sense. "Me?"

  "You're the one. This is your house."

  Nuts. Beautiful, but nuts. Christy shook her head sadly. The Viking grinned as if he'd read her mind. "I'm Eric Petersen." He held out a massive hand. "I live two houses down."

  Christy took his hand, or rather, let his engulf hers. "With an 'EN,' I presume," she said dryly.

  "Of course," he agreed. "What took you so long?"

  "Have they released you prematurely, or are you just out on a pass?"

  "Huh?"

  "From the asylum," Christy said gravely.

  The blond giant roared. There was no other description for it. He laughed furiously. "Oh," he choked out, "I think he was right. You're worth the wait."

  He truly was crazy, Christy told herself. She was so fascinated by the sight of this rollicking mountain of manhood that she nearly jumped when Trace spoke from the door.

  "If you came for breakfast, Petersen, forget it. I've only got two dozen eggs."

  "I'm wounded to the quick!" Eric exclaimed dramatically. "I only came by to check on you, since there's this ridiculous rumor going around—"

  "It's not a rumor."

  The blond was startled into silence. His eyes went from Trace to Christy, then back. "You really quit?" he asked after a moment, his voice solemn now.

  Trace nodded. The big man shifted uneasily, aware of the sudden current of tension. Trace set down the plates he was carrying as if oblivious to it. Eric spoke quickly, lightly. "Puts a whole new meaning on 'I knew him when,' doesn't it?"

  "Shut up," Trace said pleasantly, "or you won't get the coffee you really came over here for." He went back inside.

  "Did you?" Christy asked.

  It was Eric's turn to look bemused. "Did I what?"

  "Did you know him when?"

  He laughed. "No. I met him about a month after he moved into this place, a couple of years ago. Found him sitting in the surf, drunk to the gills and soaking wet. I didn't even know who he was then. I just figured I'd better pull him out before he drowned." He shook his head. "He just kept saying I wasn't the right one, to go away."

  Christy's heart twisted, and she made a tight little sound of pain. Eric's crystal-blue eyes held her gaze.

  "I didn't understand until later. He told me. It all came tumbling out like he'd had it bottled up for so long he couldn't stop it. I think it was because I was a stranger."

  "Who talks too much. Get the hell out of here, Eric." Trace was white-faced, staring at his friend.

  "Er … yeah. See ya." The blond giant beat a hasty retreat that left Christy smiling inwardly at the thought of him being intimidated by anyone or anything, while outwardly she watched Trace with concern.

  She ate her omelet in studied silence, aware that Trace was only picking at his. At last she laid down her fork. "Don't be angry with him. He sounds like a good friend."

  "He is. Usually." He stabbed at an errant mushroom.

  "I'm sorry he told me, if you didn't want me to know."

  His fork clattered as he dropped it on the plate. His head came up, his eyes searching her face. "There's nothing I don't want you to know. I just don't want your pity." He laughed sourly. "And believe me, I was pretty pitiful then."

  "Eric didn't seem to think so. There's a world of difference between pity and compassion, Trace. It took me a long time to learn that." His eyes widened. "I don't want your pity, either," she added softly.

&nbs
p; He let out a long breath, and Christy relaxed a little. After a moment she risked the question Eric's words had made her both want to ask and yet dread. "Why did you buy this house?"

  "I got tired of living in a hotel."

  "A hotel?" She didn't know what she'd expected, but that wasn't it. "Is that where you lived? Before, I mean?"

  She didn't have to specify before what; he knew what she meant. "No. I had a penthouse, a condo, chrome and glass, the whole celebrity bit. Fancy, modern and as cold as ice. I never spent a night in it after I got back."

  "Why?"

  He didn't look away, although she sensed he wanted to. "Because it only reminded me of what I'd turned into. I was afraid that if—" He broke off, and he did look away this time. "It sounds crazy, but I was afraid if I spent just one night in that place, it would get me back, and I'd go right back to being the jackass I'd become."

  His voice was low and strained, and although he hadn't really given her the answer she'd wanted, why this house, she didn't force it. "Tell me about Eric," she said, feeling it was safe to ask now.

  "You won't believe it. I didn't."

  "He looks like he's a football player, so I suppose he's a ballet dancer?"

  He laughed. "Not that kind of you won't believe it. He's a pilot. A private one. Flies a Lear jet for some corporate bigwig who owns that house he stays in."

  "Nice boss. He—" She stopped. "A pilot?"

  "Um-hmm. Convenient, huh? I did more than a little brain picking over the past two years. He should have gotten paid as a technical adviser."

  Christy was stunned, but not by the fact that he had so conveniently found an invaluable resource. It was that he so easily, so naturally, spoke of his work, the work that had been his life, in the past tense. "Trace, you can't quit."

  "We settled this last night."

  "But—"

  "No. It's my decision, Christy." He reached across the table for her hand. "You gave me a month. I want it without this hanging over us. Just let this month happen, love. No what if's, no you can't's. Just you and me. Please?"

  Whatever backbone she'd ever had seemed to disappear when he looked at her like that, seemed to melt away at that pleading tone in his voice. "All right."

  "Good. No more talk about it, then. Or anything else that will get in the way. Promise?"

  Anything else that will get in the way. It was all she could do to keep from crying, but she managed a nod. His eyes, nearly as blue as Eric's, lit up with a joy that made it hard to remember what she'd been upset about in the first place.

  She didn't know precisely when she'd lost track of the original plan. It could have been the day Trace had packed up a ridiculously huge picnic lunch and driven them to a remote, lovely spot up the coast and plied her with champagne and fresh, sweet grapes. Or it could have been the day when, by pulling God knew what strings, he arranged to have an exclusive gallery that was showing an incredible collection of photographs opened on its "dark" day just for them, to peruse at their leisure and in complete privacy. Or the weekend they drove to the mountains, to a cabin set in thick pines that filled the brisk, clean air with their scent and fueled the lovely fire at night. Or when Eric had taken them on a soaring flight over the night-lit city.

  Or it could just as easily have been the simple moment on the beach, when he turned to look over his shoulder at her and she caught the pure exultation that lit his eyes.

  She didn't know and was no longer sure she cared. Her nightly collect calls home, and the plaintive voice of a daughter who'd had quite enough of Mommy being gone, reminded her of the impossibility of it all. But by morning she seemed to have forgotten the lesson. And the plan.

  And she knew the maelstrom over his sudden retirement and disappearance from the Hollywood scene was still going strong, even though he never mentioned it. And, keeping her promise with difficulty, neither did she. If he was having regrets or second thoughts, he never let them show.

  On the evening when she had completed the last of her meetings with the publishers, she left the building to find a limousine that had to be at least twenty feet long waiting.

  "I don't believe you," she gasped as she climbed in to find him elegantly attired in a dark blue tux.

  "Good," he said simply, "because this is fantasy night, my lady. Cinderella time." He tapped on the glass behind the driver. "Off, pumpkin," he said grandly, and Christy giggled in spite of herself.

  He meant what he'd said. From the austere building that housed Dragon Books, they drove to a small and very expensive boutique, where he picked out a flowing gown of pristine white shot with glittering silver threads. She protested, but he grandiosely waved her words aside.

  "Not tonight, Ms. Reno. You can yell at me tomorrow."

  And in the end he won. She took one look in the mirror after she had slipped on the dress and was stunned into silence. She exited the fitting room still a little in awe. "I didn't know it would look like this," she breathed.

  "I did."

  His eyes went over her hungrily, seeing how the delicate fabric clung lovingly to her curves, yet made her look ethereal and about as substantial as a cloud. Her eyes were wide and as silver as the glistening threads that caught the light and sent it flying.

  Christy saw his look in the mirror, and her breath caught in her throat. In all this time, she hadn't seen that look. He'd never even hinted that he wanted any more from her than the easy companionship of these past weeks.

  She had wondered, or perhaps feared, that it was because he knew it wouldn't be the same. That without the heightening of their senses by the storm and the danger it would be routine, ordinary. He'd told her he didn't believe it, but she'd seen none of the heat of those words in his actions since.

  She had wondered, then blushed at her own thoughts as she battled her newly reawakened body. Was she alone in this? Perhaps he just didn't want that—or her—anymore, she told herself. And almost believed it, until that moment when she found his eyes on her heatedly. Only then did she realize that what she'd been seeing was a fire that had been carefully banked and tamped down, not one that had gone out.

  She decided to test her theory during the rest of that fantasy evening, as he'd called it. When he held the door open for her at the elegant, exclusive restaurant, she purposely brushed against him. He backed away quickly, yet so smoothly she couldn't be sure it was intentional.

  As they slid into the velvet-upholstered, high-backed and very private booth at the back of the dimly lit room, she bent so that her breasts brushed lightly over his arm. This time she was sure; he stiffened, and she saw a muscle jump in his suddenly tight jaw.

  Well, Christy, my girl, now that you know, what are you going to do about it? She ran a finger around the rim of her fluted champagne glass, unaware of what her caress of that small circle was doing to the man beside her. He's obviously waiting for you to make the first move, she told herself. Probably afraid you'll take off running again if he does.

  Did she want to run now? Did she even have the strength to deny herself these last, precious weeks with him? Wasn't it enough that she would have to go soon? Would it be wiser now, before she got in any deeper? She nearly laughed; she was already in far over her head.

  "No frowning, not tonight." His voice was soft and warm and flowed over her like golden honey.

  No, not tonight. Tonight was a fantasy, the fantasy she'd dreamed of and been denied for three long years. He was here, with her, looking exactly as her memory had painted him so vividly every day of those years. She would live it, every minute of it, for soon it would be all she would have. She lifted her eyes to his and smiled, a slow, lazy curving of her full lips that made him suck in a quick breath and look at her sharply.

  She barely tasted what she was sure was a delicious meal, and she had no need of the champagne to feel intoxicated. By conscious decision she had let down the walls, dropped her considerable guard and rather recklessly dared the chips to fall where they might.

  Trace wasn't quite su
re what to make of this transformation; he'd been walking on eggshells around her for so long, and this new, exhilarated, carefree woman was someone he didn't know how to handle.

  When, after the meal, she asked him to dance with her, he thought she was kidding. The band was playing a slow, dreamy ballad; the thought of holding her so close sent ripples of heat through him. God, he didn't dare; he couldn't.

  What he couldn't do was look into those wide, sparkling gray eyes and say no. Feeling more like a man going to his doom than a man looking forward to dancing with a beautiful woman, he got up and held out his hand to her.

  Something short-circuited in his brain in the instant when she came to him openly, eagerly, nestling into his arms as if that was where she'd always longed to be. He forgot his plan, forgot that he was going to move slowly, never pressing her for more than she was ready to give. He forgot everything except that he was holding her, and that he was never, ever going to lose her again.

  His arms tightened around her, and he held her close, for the moment unable to stop or care about his body's surging response to her, or the fact that she had to know it. It was magic, this night, and just for a moment he could pretend that the evening's end would be other than it must be.

  The fantasy held for them; no one recognized him until they were ready to leave. A final stop, a final glass of champagne on a hilltop overlooking the Pacific, and a final dance to music only they could hear, and at last, reluctantly, they began to race the sunrise home.

  Trace came back to reality with a thud when the limousine pulled away, its discreet driver clutching an exorbitant tip to assure his silence about the identity of his passengers. The fantasy was over, and the only thing waiting for him now was a cold and lonely bed. He shuddered, but hid it in the quick movement of shedding his jacket.

  He tried to chide himself out of it, telling himself that at least she was there, with him, even if he had to maintain his distance. Nothing could be worse than the hell of three years of not knowing where she was at all. This was enough. It had to be enough. Smothering a sigh, he turned to face her, ready for that agonizingly platonic walk up the stairs.