ISLAND OF LOVE Read online

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  She made a face at him. “Thanks a lot.”

  She drained her coffee in just a few swallows, and it wasn’t long before the caffeine did its work. She reached for a cracker and took a cautious bite to see how it would go down. It tasted so good that she finŹished it and reached for another. Getting food in her stomach seemed to help. She hadn’t eaten anything since the scones she’d had at Ben’s.

  “Now,” Jerry said, leaning back with one arm stretched across the back of the sofa, “tell me how you made out with Ben Poole today.”

  “Not too well, I’m afraid.” She swallowed the last of the coffee in her mug, set it down on the tray and turned to him. “I did ask, Jerry, honestly.”

  “And he wasn’t receptive?”

  She shook her head. “To say the least. In fact, he turned me down flat. Wouldn’t even discuss it.”

  He eyed her thoughtfully. “Just how hard did you try?”

  “What do you mean? I asked him. I even put it as a personal favor, but he got quite huffy, said he never gave interviews and I should know that. Really, Jerry, I did everything I possibly could to convince him.”

  It wasn’t exactly a lie, she thought. She’d certainly done all she intended to do. No interview was worth jeopardizing her relationship with Ben. If she had pressed him, he might have refused to see her ever again, even as a friend.

  Jerry was gazing thoughtfully at her, his mouth pursed, the dark eyebrow raised, skepticism etched in every feature. “Why is it, Anne,” he asked softly, “that I don’t quite believe you?”

  She looked away. “Probably because you have such a suspicious nature,” she mumbled.

  “You know, I’m determined to get that story,” he went on, ignoring the comment. “And I think you owe it to me to tell me right here and now if you don’t think you can do the job, maybe for personal reasons. I mean, if it’s really impossible, I won’t hold it against you. There have been good stories even I haven’t been able to get. But I keep having this funny feeling that there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  She looked down at her hands, which were twisting in her lap. He was right. For all his faults, his unŹreasonable demands, his blithe assumption that, since the magazine was the most important thing in his life, it should come first with all his employees, he’d been a pretty good boss—open, aboveboard, fair-minded. And he’d really been rather sweet tonight, taking care of her the way he had.

  “All right, Jerry, I’ll try to explain, if you really want me to. But I don’t know if you can understand.”

  “Try me.”

  She nodded. “When I first asked you for the time off to come up here, you said you’d never heard me mention my father. Well, when I left the island ten years ago, when I was barely eighteen, it was because he and I had a terrible fight. I won’t go into the reasons for it now, but the upshot of it was we simply broke off relations with each other. Now he’s gone, and we can’t ever be reconciled, and I felt terrible about that. But today, just being at Ben’s again, just talking to him, laid those old ghosts to rest. It helped a lot.” She shrugged. “It’s probably true that Ben has always been my ideal of what a man should be. I’d almost forgotten there were men like him in the world. He’s simply a wonderful friend. And I don’t want anything to spoil it.”

  She waited for some response from Jerry. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just sat gazing into the fire. Finally he got up and threw on another log, then came back to stand before her, looking down at her pityingly and shaking his head slowly from side to side.

  “Anne, Anne,” he said softly. “He’s an old man. He’s not for you. You’re young, alive, a vibrant, lovely woman. You deserve better than a reclusive artist who would only feed off your youth.”

  She gave him a startled look. “Oh, you’ve got it all wrong.” She smiled. “I admit that when I was a girl I had a terrific crush on him. But there’s never been any question of anything like that between us. Not seriously.”

  He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Are you sure? I wonder if that old adolescent crush isn’t being revived.”

  “Jerry, you don’t know anything about it,” she said softly. “You don’t know him. You don’t really know me.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” he said. “And, from everything you’ve said about the whole subject so far, it sounds very much to me as though you’re looking for your father in Ben Poole.”

  She could only stare at him. Although his words stung, the look he was giving her was full of genuine concern, real caring, not like the old arrogant, tyrŹannical, self-centered Jerry she thought she’d known so well all these years.

  Suddenly it was all too much for her. Tears of exhaustion began to sting behind her eyes, and before she could stop them they had spilled over and were now coursing silently down her cheeks. She jumped

  to her feet and turned away from him and covered her face with her hands.

  There was dead silence in the room except for the crackling of the fire and the rain still drumming on the roof. In a moment she felt his presence behind her, his hands on her shoulders. With a loud sniff she tried to shrug him off, but he hung on, the hands moving now in a soothing kneading motion. He pulled her back against his chest and began stroking her hair, his warm breath at her ear.

  “I’m sorry, Anne,” he murmured. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I can’t stand to see you cry. Come on now. I’m truly sorry. It’s all right.”

  As she listened to his halting, totally ineffectual atŹtempts to comfort her, the whole thing began to take on a humorous aspect, and in spite of herself she found the tears turning to laughter. This was hard, tough-minded, iron man Jerry Bannister, actually petting and soothing her as though he really cared.

  She reached in the pocket of her robe for a tissue, and when she couldn’t find one she sniffed loudly again. Then she heard his low chuckle from behind her, and she turned around to see him grinning at her, holding out a handkerchief.

  “Here, you’d better blow your nose. It’s dripping.”

  “It’s not funny,” she said stiffly. She yanked the handkerchief out of his hand, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose.

  “No,” he said. “I suppose not—at least not to you. But you should see yourself from where I stand.” He shook his head, looking her up and down. “You look exactly like a ten-year-old whose favourite doll just got broken.”

  Tears threatened again as a wave of sheer exhaustion passed over her. “Jerry,” she said wearily, “I’m so tired I could drop. Please don’t badger me any more tonight.”

  He didn’t say anything for a few moments, then in one swift movement he reached out for her, swooped her up in his arms and started carrying her out of the room. She was too tired to protest. All she could do was put her arms around his neck and lay her head on his shoulder.

  They went down the dark hall until he came to her bedroom. He stumbled over the clothes she had left lying on the floor earlier, cursed under his breath, and clutched her a little tighter so that she wouldn’t fall. By now, away from the light and the bright glow of the fire, Anne was almost asleep. It made her feel so safe, so protected, to be held in these strong arms. He carried her so lightly, as though she were a feather, a small wounded bird. A delicious sensation of warmth filled her whole body, and she nuzzled closer against his shoulder, bony, solid, and well-muscled.

  He stood at the side of the bed for a moment, still holding her. She could feel his warm breath on her face, his hair brushing against her cheek, smell the scent of his skin, fresh and clean, with just a hint of a lemony masculine soap. She suddenly knew he was going to kiss her, but before the idea had clearly formed in her groggy mind his lips had come down on hers.

  In the shock of that sudden contact, she simply reacted. Her lips parted softly under his, and when his arms tightened around her she could feel his heart pounding next to hers. Then carefully, his mouth still on hers, he lowered her to her feet. Still too dazed to

  take in what was ha
ppening to her, except that it felt wonderful, she clung to him, running her fingers into the thick hair that curled at the back of his neck.

  “Anne,” he whispered. His hands were moving up and down her back now.

  “Mmm?” she murmured drowsily, and pressed herself up against his lean hard body.

  Somehow, in transit from the living room, her robe had come untied, and she felt his hands slip underŹneath it, warm and large and slightly callused on her bare back, still moving, traveling now up over arms, her shoulders, to the base of her neck. He kissed her again, harder this time, and as his hot tongue pushed past her lips one hand moved from her throat to cover her breast.

  The flimsy material of her nightgown sliding over her bare skin and the touch of his fingers on the hardened peak of her breast set up an ache in her loins she’d never felt before. It never occurred to her to protest. Whatever it was he was doing, it felt so heavenly that she never wanted it to stop.

  It wasn’t until the hand slipped underneath the low bodice of her nightgown and began to move back and forth, stroking each breast gently in turn, and she became aware of his own hard arousal, pressed tightly against her thigh, that it penetrated her dim conŹsciousness what was really going on here.

  With a stifled little cry, she tore her mouth away from his and stepped back from him. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. Would she have to beat him off bodily? Here she was, virtually stranded at the back of beyond with no other soul within half a mile, all alone with a man who was fast reaching the point of no return. She couldn’t see him in the pitch

  darkness, but she could hear his heavy rasping breath, feel the strong hands still gripping her bare shoulders.

  Instinct told her to stand perfectly still and not say a word. In just a few seconds his breathing steadied, the hands on her shoulders relaxed and he was pushing her down gently on the bed. Was this going to be it, then? Would he take her by force? Should she, like the Victorian ladies, close her eyes and think of England?

  Then she felt him tugging the blankets back. She raised her hips and slid in between the sheets. He tucked the covers under her chin, and the next thing she heard was his slow, steady tread as he walked out of the room, and the door closing behind him.

  With a groan, she turned over on her stomach, buried her head in the pillows, and in two seconds was fast asleep.

  Anne’s first thought on awakening the next morning was that she’d just had a terrible nightmare. It must have been. It couldn’t possibly have actually hapŹpened that way. She’d been overwrought, caught a cold, taken those awful pills.

  Then there came drifting into her room the distinct aroma of bacon frying and the sound of a surprisŹingly pleasant baritone voice, albeit a little off-key, singing some spritely operatic aria, apparently in Italian.

  She sat bolt upright in bed, staring wildly and clutching the covers tightly up over her shoulders. Her head started throbbing immediately. It hadn’t been a nightmare! She squeezed her eyes shut tight, as though to blot out the memory.

  Then she heard footsteps coming down the hall toward her room, along with the singing, which was much louder now and reaching a dramatic crescendo right outside her bedroom door. Then it flew open and Jerry strode inside, beaming. Anne pulled the covers more securely around her neck.

  “Good morning, merry sunshine,” he chirped gaily. “And how are we feeling this morning? Head any better? Not so good?”

  “Go away,” she intoned slowly and distinctly.

  She gave him a baleful look. He was grinning widely from ear to ear, and as he came closer she could see that not only was he wearing one of her mother’s old aprons, he was also freshly shaven and had on a clean shirt. He’d obviously come prepared to stay a while.

  She pointed an accusing finger at him. “You lied to me,” she said. “You meant to stay all along. You never intended to call Patrick to take you back to the hotel.”

  “And aren’t you glad I did?” he said, nodding pi-ously. “I saved your life last night. Come on, drink this.” He handed her a glass of orange juice.

  She flopped her head back down on the pillow and looked away. “I don’t want any.”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be such a poor sport.” Still she wouldn’t look at him or answer him. “Anne,” he said softly. “Look at me, Anne.”

  Grudgingly she shifted her eyes sideways to see a dead serious expression on his face. “What is it?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing happened, Anne. Promise. Nothing much, anyway. You were sick, I made you some coffee, and then I tucked you in bed. That’s all there was to it.”

  She gave him a dubious look. “Promise?”

  “Yes, I promise. Come on now. Just drink this.”

  She finally took the glass from him and drank it down in one long gulp. It tasted like manna from heaven, and when she was finished she began to feel better right away. She handed him the empty glass and muttered an ungracious thanks. He took it and started toward the door.

  “Breakfast is almost ready,” he said when he reached it. “Bacon and pancakes.”

  “I’m not hungry, Jerry, honestly.”

  “Come on, it’ll do you good.” He picked up the robe at the foot of the bed and threw it at her. “I’ll give you two minutes, then I’m coming back to get you.”

  With a cheery wave, he disappeared from view. After he was gone she felt so much better that she had to smile. This was a Jerry Bannister she’d never known existed. What had happened to the snarling, tyrannical master of all he surveyed she’d been so used to dealing with at the office? Actually, she’d thought he’d be so angry at her for flubbing up the interview with Ben that she’d half expected him to fire her.

  Now here he was playing nursemaid to her. As long as he was prepared to wait on her, she thought philoŹsophically as she shrugged into her bathrobe and slippers, she might as well take advantage of it. In the bathroom she ran a brush through her hair, threw some water on her face and brushed her teeth. As she did so, she noticed sitting on the counter some very masculine toiletry articles—shaving gear, toothbrush, after-shave, a pair of horn-backed brushes—and she rolled her eyes heavenward. When it came to brass, you couldn’t beat the man, that was for sure.

  In the kitchen he’d made an unholy mess. It looked as though every bowl, every dish, pot, pan and utensil was either sitting on the tiled counter or stacked in the sink, not to mention the food. Apparently he was the kind of cook who didn’t believe in interrupting his culinary efforts to clean up after himself.

  “Sit down,” he said with a gracious sweep of his hand. “I’m just dishing it up.”

  Averting her head from the litter strewn about her, she pulled out a chair and sat down. Through the window she could see that it was still raining outside, a steady drip that covered the windowpane with streaks of water. The road to the village would still be impassable, and that meant she was stuck with him at least for a while. Unless she could talk him into walking back to the hotel in the rain.

  “Ah, here we are,” he announced, setting a plate before her.

  She looked down at the charred bacon, limp panŹcakes and greasy egg, and her stomach turned over. She glanced up at him, and he gave her a defensive look.

  “Well, that’s the best I could do with what you had on hand.” He sat down opposite her. “I must say you don’t keep your cupboards very well stocked. We’re going to be living on canned soup for a while until we can get to the grocery store.”

  She poked at the yolk of her egg, hard as a rock. “You’ll be glad to get back to the hotel, I’m sure. Carl is a wonderful cook.” She took a bite of egg and was surprised to find that it didn’t taste half bad.

  “Oh, I’m not going back to the hotel.” He waved at the window. “The road must still be closed.”

  “You could walk.”

  He nodded. “I could, but I’m not going to.” He pointed his fork at her. “Fun is fun, Anne, but I sent you up here to get a story out of Ben Poole, and I’m not leav
ing until you do. I’ll get it myself if I have to.”

  She bridled at his calm assumption that he was calling all the shots here. “In case you’d forgotten, this is my house, and I think I have something to say about it. I told you last night that I didn’t want the village gossiping about me.”

  “I don’t think you’re worried about the village at all. You just don’t want Ben Poole to find out I’m here.”

  There was too much truth in that statement to argue with him. “Just why are you here, Jerry?”

  To her amazement he dropped his eyes and a faint flush spread across his face. “I already told you,” he muttered. “I suspected from the way you resisted the whole idea of the interview right from the beginning that your heart wasn’t in it.”

  “Jerry, I tried!” she exclaimed heatedly. “I asked him yesterday. He turned me down flat.”

  He eyed her over his coffee cup. “I’ve never known one refusal to stop you before.”

  “Well, this is different!”

  “I know that. And that’s why I’m here.”

  It was clearly time to appeal to his better nature. “Jerry, this is important to me. Ben is an old friend. I just don’t want him to get the wrong idea about— about us. What real difference does it make whether we run a story about him in the magazine?”

  “Do you really care that much about what he thinks?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  He propped one elbow on the table, rested his chin in his hand and gazed at her. “Anne, to my knowlŹedge you’ve never had a love affair, haven’t even come close. Now it sounds very much to me as though you’re falling hard for an old geezer twice your age. I can’t believe it.” He grinned. “My cool, efficient little Anne?”

  “I’m not your anything!” she retorted. “Now will you please just mind your own business and keep your dumb opinions to yourself? And quit calling him that! I already told you, he’s just a good friend, someone who really cares about me, and I don’t want anything to spoil that.” She spread her arms wide, searching for the words that would make him understand. “The way I’ve always felt about Ben is something so deep, so pure, so—oh, I don’t know—almost spiritual, in a sense.” Her shoulders slumped. “I can’t explain.”