Joy? Did she mean that much to him?

  He wanted her in his bed; that was all.

  Bryce set out to charm her, deliberately keeping the conversation low key. The nightclub, where he was a member, was understated yet beautifully appointed. The dance floor was dimly lit, the tables positioned for privacy and the service unobtrusive. They were led to a banquette, where Jenessa sank down into the soft seat with another sigh of relief. After she'd asked for a Brandy Alexander, Bryce ordered a beer and some seafood appetizers. As Jenessa tucked into the food with an appetite he found amusing, they began to talk, exploring each other's tastes in books, television and sports; while she had some strong opinions, she was also willing to consider his point of view. He discovered he was enjoying himself enormously, and was pleased to see that the strain had vanished from her face. Half an hour later, he said lightly, "Want to dance?"

  Jenessa was halfway through her second drink. "Does that mean I have to put my shoes back on?''

  "You can go barefoot as far as I'm concerned."

  There was a note in his voice that sent a shiver down her spine. "This doesn't look like the kind of place where you dance barefoot," she said severely.

  "I make my own rules," was Bryce's lazy response.

  He'd said exactly the same thing twelve years ago. A second shiver followed the first along her backbone. ‘‘Just don't step on my toes."

  "That would be counterproductive."

  "To what?" she demanded.

  "To your enjoyment, of course...what else?"

  She liked fencing with him, more than liked his rapier wit and the glint of steel in his gray eyes. Throwing cau­ tion to the winds, she said, "Let's dance, then."

  There were several other couples on the floor. The slow, smoldering melody coursing through her veins, Jenessa slipped into Bryce's embrace. One hand was splayed on her hip; the other clasped her own hand and brought it to his shoulder. Her forehead dropped to his other shoulder, against the hardness of bone and the taut muscle beneath the fine wool of his jacket. As though she didn't have a worry in the world, Jenessa surrendered to the music and the man, allowing herself to drift in a tide of sensuality. Her hunger wasn't hot and imperative this time, as it usu­ ally was. It was slower and deeper and—she recognized this—infinitely more dangerous.

  She'd played it safe for twelve long years. Was that all she wanted from life? To be safe? Could that be the root of her inability to love?

  Wasn't that also what was wrong with her paintings...a fear of taking risks?

  She wasn't just an artist: she was a woman. In Bryce's arms she felt her femininity fully and with a pride that was new to her. As he drew her closer, pushing her mass of hair away so that his lips could trace the long line of her throat, she trembled like a leaf in the wind; her tiny whimper of pleasure couldn't have been heard by anyone but him.

  Then she raised her head to meet his eyes, making no more attempt to mask her desire than he was to hide the erection that pressed into her body. He said softly, "I want you to know something. There's only one woman I've wanted as much as I want you right now—and she was scarcely a woman all those years ago."

  Jenessa smiled, a slow, secret smile. ‘‘You mean me?"

  "You don't need to ask."

  She moved her hips suggestively against his, looking at him through her lashes. "When I said I wanted to sketch you that night, I was telling the truth. But only part of the truth."

  "I knew that at the time." He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingertips one by one, then burying his mouth in her palm until she dissolved into nothing but a passionate hunger for more. For greater intimacies she could scarcely imagine. For their two bodies naked to­ gether in a bed of his choosing.

  She said faintly, "I'm booked into a hotel overlooking the harbor."

  "The Colonial?"

  She bit her lip. "I've done it again, haven't I? Lied to you. Ten days ago I said I wouldn't have an affair with you. Ever. Yet now I'm telling you I'm staying in a hotel overnight...I'm pursuing you."

  Bryce said huskily, "Jenessa, you're honoring me. With the gift of your body."

  He meant it, she thought. More than that, he understood that what is valued must be freely given.

  For a moment sheer terror gripped her throat. She forced it down, allowing herself to be led back to their table, where she fumbled for her shoes while Bryce paid the bill. Then, her hips swaying gracefully, Jenessa wove between the tables toward the door of the nightclub. Again, the hot air struck her like a blow, the humidity claustrophobic. She got into the Jaguar, folding her hands in her lap.

  The drive to the waterfront seemed interminable, Bryce no more inclined to conversation than she. As desire was inexorably replaced by anxiety, Jenessa's nerves tightened to an unbearable pitch. In a very short time, Bryce would know that she hadn't made love with anyone in the years since she'd ended up in his bed. That she was, at age twenty-nine, that anomaly, a virgin. And what would he conclude?

  That she was in love with him? Had been, for years?

  Neither was true. But would he believe her? She re­ membered as if it were yesterday how he'd thrown him­ self off her in that hotel room in Manhattan; and the con­tempt that had scored his face when he realized how she'd deceived him. She remembered, too, his more recent an­ ger at Castlereigh, his inability to understand how she could have gone to bed with her brother's best friend.

  What was she to do? Nothing about her tentative rela­tionship with Bryce felt casual. An affair with him would tear up her life by the roots. She knew it.

  Was that what she wanted? To make love with him in the sure knowledge that sooner or later he would discard her? The pain of that betrayal would belittle anything she'd ever felt. Once again, she'd be abandoned.

  How would she bear it?

  With a jolt of fear Jenessa saw the harbor gleam silver between two buildings. The name of the hotel loomed into her field of vision. They'd arrived. In a few moments Bryce would leave his car with the valet. Then he'd fol­ low her to her room; and it would be too late to change her mind. She said in a voice that didn't sound at all like hers, "Bryce, I can't! I can't do this."

  He swerved into the curb, jamming on the brakes. The car behind him blared its horn. He said, any emotion ironed from his words, "What do you mean, Jenessa?"

  "I'm not willing to risk an affair with you. I'm too afraid of the consequences."

  "I'll protect you against pregnancy, and I already told you I'd be faithful to you and do my best to make you happy."

  "Until you meet someone else."

  He banged his fist against the steering wheel. "I'm not out looking for anyone else!"

  "But you're not into commitment, either."

  "I'm not into marriage—I told you that."

  "Then I guess I'm not into affairs."

  "Don't give me that," he said in an ugly voice. "Travis has shown me pictures of you and articles about you over the years—and you're always dating this man or that. There' ve been men all along—why do you have to lie to me?"

  Tell him you're a virgin. But the words stuck in Jenessa's throat, as if she'd swallowed a stone. She re­ leased her seat belt and scrambled out of the car, noting distantly that Bryce was making no move to stop her. "I'm sorry," she gasped, "I shouldn't have led you on. We mustn't see each other again—it's pointless." Then she slammed the door in his face and ran for the hotel.

  The doorman smiled at her. Her heels clicked on the lobby's marble floor, the gilded mirrors throwing back images of a distraught, elegantly clad woman who hap­ pened to be herself.

  There was no sign of Bryce. He hadn't followed her.

  Had she expected him to?

  The elevator doors slid smoothly shut behind her. Alone, after so many hours, Jenessa let out her breath in a long sigh. Her feet were killing her and she never wanted to wear this outfit again. The minute she got into her room, after bolting the door, she kicked her shoes off, then hauled her tunic over her head and yanked off her skirt, throwing them on the wide bed.

  The covers had been turned down. A gold box of choc­ olates had been placed on the pillow. If she wasn't such a coward, Bryce's head could have been lying on that pillow right now.

  In the mirror over the dresser Jenessa saw another im­ age: her slender body in its brief rose-pink bra and panties, the whiteness of her skin, and the tension in her shoulders. An untouched body, unloved and virginal.

  Because that's what she'd chosen. For better or for worse.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Jenessa was up very early the next morning. She'd slept atrociously, the empty expanse of the bed mocking her. Last night she'd had an opportunity to undo the damage of twelve years ago, and she'd refused it. She'd turned Bryce down.

  He wouldn't be back. He was too proud for that. Why should he beg for her favors, when there must be a dozen women who'd give him what he wanted? Experienced women who knew the score. Unlike herself.

  She dressed in a brief patterned skirt with a white halter top, braiding her hair and inserting long, jangly earrings in her lobes. She took some time over her makeup, want­ ing to look her best; and finally pulled on thin-strapped azure sandals she'd bought in the sales last fall and hadn't yet worn. Then she went downstairs to buy the morning papers. Her show would have been reviewed; the gallery's name alone would ensure that.

  Her arms loaded with newsprint, she ordered a coffee and went outside into the leafy courtyard. Choosing the table that was the farthest from all the others, she sat down, took a big gulp of caffeine and reached for the first newspaper, whose art critic she'd met on more than one occasion; she knew he liked her work. She read his col­ umn swiftly. His comments were acute, and almost exclu­sively laudatory. Relaxing a little, she picked up the paper that employed the city's most influential critic.

  This was the article that really counted.

  The review took up a third of a page. Her mouth dry, Jenessa began to read. The critic started by applauding her technique, which enabled her to infuse a painting with emotions all the more powerful for being understated; but then he moved to the all-important point that the emotions

  themselves were becoming repetitive. There had been, so he insisted, no noticeable movement since her last, highly impressive show eighteen months ago. It would be a great shame he continued, if a young artist with the potential of Jenessa Strathern settled for commercial success rather than artistic growth. She wouldn’t be the first, nor would she be the last to follow that path. But stagnation would,

  in the long run, destroy any possibility that she become a painter of true stature.

  A breeze wafted through the birch trees, sprinkling the page with sun and shadow. Tears blurring her vision, Jenessa stared at the printed words, as if by sheer force of will she could make them say something else. Why had she ever expected that a critic as acute as this one would overlook what she herself knew to be true?

  She didn't know how to change. If she did, she would.

  Dimly she heard footsteps approaching her across the flagstone path. Through the same haze of tears she saw Bryce coming toward her. She jammed her dark glasses on her nose, and hastily folded the paper.

  He came to a halt in front of her, then plucked the glasses from her face. She said in a choked voice, "Don't

  do that!"

  "I read the reviews. That's one reason I came.

  "I don't need you feeling sorry for me."

  "Jenessa," Bryce said impatiently, "all he's doing is pointing out that you need a new direction. If he didn't think you were worth it, he wouldn't bother."

  "I don't know where to go from here," she cried. "That's the whole problem. I am stagnating, he's right— I have been for months."

  Abruptly Bryce picked up the untidy pile of papers. "Come on, we'll go to my place and I'll make you break­ fast and you can tell me why you're so stuck."

  That he should use a word she'd so often used herself was the final straw. "So you saw it, too...last night at the gallery when you were looking at the paintings."

  "It doesn't take a fancy critic to figure out that you're unhappy and that you're spinning your wheels."

  "Do you know how I feel? As though I was standing around in that gallery last night stark naked."

  If she'd expected easy sympathy, she was soon disap­pointed. Bryce said evenly, "That's what real artists do— they bare their souls in the hope that others will grow from the experience. That's a major risk. But if you don't take it, Jenessa, you're dead in the water."

  "I'm the one who's stopped growing! And don't you see what else this means?'' She struck the papers with the flat of her hand. "Charles will read these. He's never ap­proved of me being an artist—and now I'm proving him right." She gave a bitter laugh. "He'll probably want a refund on the painting he bought."

  "Charles bought that painting because he's trying to repair some of the damage he's done, and the only critic he ever pays any attention to is himself." Shoving the papers under one arm, Bryce grabbed her by the elbow. "We're going to my place. Bacon, eggs and more coffee. In that order."

  It was oddly comforting to have her mind made up for her. "I like my bacon burnt," she announced. "I promise it will be."

  Bryce, so Jenessa discovered, owned an immaculately restored, bow-fronted mansion on Beacon Hill, complete with red brick, black shutters and white trim. The interior was cool, the pale walls sparsely decorated with an eclec­ tic collection of contemporary art that immediately claimed her attention. While Bryce busied himself in the kitchen, she wandered through the dining room and living room, admiring his taste, but also, subconsciously, search­ ing for family photos or any other trace of his past.

  She found nothing. The tantalizing scent of bacon drew her back to the kitchen, which had granite counters, bleached oak cabinets and sunlight streaming through tall windows that were brushed by the branches of cherry trees. An apron wrapped around his waist, Bryce was scrambling eggs in a Teflon pan. He said absently, as though it was the most natural thing in the world that she should be in his kitchen so early in the morning, ' 'Want to put in a couple more slices of toast? We'll eat in the sunroom."

  As Jenessa pushed down the handle on the toaster, she found herself trying to picture the other women who'd shared this peaceful domestic scene with him. One thing was certain. She wasn't the first. Nor would she be the last.

  Shaking off her thoughts, she carried the toast to the sunroom. Positioned on the south side of the house, its delicate fig trees and tall palms were interspersed with scarlet and coral hibiscus, the bamboo furniture dappled with a dancing pattern of light and shadow. A long couch was flanked by an array of orchids, the sound of a fountain gently plashing over mossy rocks. As Bryce joined her and they sat down to eat, Jenessa said, "The bacon's got just the right degree of crunch."

  He grinned. "I'm a pro in the kitchen at burning things."

  "Do you do all your own cooking?"

  "When I'm here in Boston. I travel enough that the novelty doesn't wear off."

  He began talking about some of his experiences in Europe and the Far East; he was a good raconteur. Jenessa said wistfully, "I've never done much traveling."

  "Not with Charles?"

  "Are you kidding? But I might visit Travis and Julie in Mexico this winter, that would be nice."

  "So Charles made no effort to support you once you left home?"

  "I ran away. Defied him. He doesn't like people doing that." She hesitated. "I looked around your living room for family photos—but I couldn't find any."

  "I don't have any. Why are you stagnating in your work, Jenessa?"

  She gave him a level look. "You refuse to talk to me about your background," she said. "I call that stagnat­ ing—and I don't think you're about to tell me why."

  "Anyone ever called you stubborn?"

  She widened her eyes. "Stubborn and Strathern go to­ gether, hadn't you noticed that?"

  Laughing, they simultaneously reached for the jam, Bryce's hand closing over hers on the smooth glass. She stared in silent fascination at his fingers, so strong and lean, so warm on hers. Then she looked up.

  Of one accord, she and Bryce surged to their feet, al­ most knocking over the jar of jam in their haste. Then she was locked in his arms, the heat of his long body searing her with another heat. Yes, she thought, yes. This time I won't run away.

  She pulled his head down impatiently, kissing him with more enthusiasm than technique. He parted her lips with his tongue, and tugged her top free from her waistband, his hands seeking the smooth planes of her back. Then she felt him undo the clasp on her bra; she leaned back, her face open to him as he found the swell of her breast. Her nipple tightened. Her whole body was filled with the sweet ache of desire.

  He said roughly, "When you look at me like that...make love to me, Jenessa. I swear I'll be as good to you as I know how."

  "Yes," she whispered. "I want you so much."

  She reached for his shirt, undoing the buttons one by one, tangling her fingers in the rough blond hair on his chest, then dropping her cheek to lay it against the rapid thud of his heart. Gentle even in his haste, he pulled at the ribbon on her braid. Then he loosened her mass of curls until it tumbled free, surrounding her face. "The sunlight's caught in your hair," he said huskily. "Like fire."

  Scarcely knowing what she was saying, she begged, "Make love to me, Bryce."

  He swung her into his arms, lifting her and striding over to the couch. In a tangle of limbs, they lay back, kissing each other with fierce intimacy until Jenessa's heart was thrumming in her breast. He dropped his head, taking one nipple, then the other in his mouth, teasing them with his tongue until she was sobbing with pleasure. His knee was between her thighs; she writhed beneath him, wanting more, always more, until there would be no more to want.

  His bare shoulders, the taut arch of his ribs and crest of his hip, step by imperative step she was relearning the geography of the one man in her life who had the power to make her truly herself. Then Bryce fumbled in the pocket of his trousers, extracting a small envelope and dropping it on the floor by the couch. Protection, she thought; she'd forgotten all about it. "You carry that ev­ erywhere?" she said blankly.

 

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