A Season for Love by Heather Graham Read Free Book Online Page A

often as not he didn't address her at all. The earlier encounter had been unique.
Ronnie did not tell Henri to dump the tray on his head. Instead she bit back the giddy smile that tinged her lips and replied properly, "Set it on the low table, please, Henri. I'll get to it in a minute."
"As you say, madam." Henri set the tray down as directed, clicked his heels with a little bow, and left her.
Ronnie could smell a delicious aroma drifting from the tray, and she was sure that Gretel, their surprisingly wraithlike cook, had intuitively prepared something to especially tempt her palate. Lifting the cover of the tray, she found a light and fluffy spinach soufflé. One of her favorite meals, as Gretel was well aware.
But Ronnie could do no more than pick at her food. Her head was spinning and, consequently, her stomach was churning. She should never have sought out Drake. She should have lied to Pieter.
The emotions and desires she had suppressed for years were now plaguing her with a vengeful agony. Touching her lips, she wondered if she imagined it, or if she could still really taste the sweet salt of Drake's kiss, if his scent still lingered on her own skin. . . .
She had known from the beginning that the cruise could only be a disaster. She had tried to tell Pieter, but he had become so agitated that she feared he would cause himself to have another attack, and so she had agreed, stricken that he should heap this new, inadvertent torment upon her. She had left, intending to come home cheerfully with a tan, assuring him she was complacent with her own world.
Then she had seen Drake. And in frank honesty she had simply wanted him. It had never occurred to her that the experience could so badly shatter her day-to-day existence.
Impatiently she set her fork down and gave up on the soufflé. She just couldn't eat. The memory of a previous shared meal was too close.
So as not to hurt Gretel's feelings, Ronnie guiltily flushed the remainder of the meal down the toilet. Then she unpinned her hair and climbed into the shower, making the water as hot as she could endure it, before scrubbing herself from head to toe and lathering her hair twice, soaking it in the expensive rinse Pieter ordered for her each month from Paris.
She desperately wanted to rid herself of the haunting masculine after-shave that seemed to cling to her body. The scent was driving her crazy; its intoxicating appeal wrenching her apart, creating longings that could not be fulfilled again.
The shower helped, and then she had things to do. After slipping into a set of Chinese lounging pajamas, Ronnie sat at her desk and planned a retinue of meals for the days to come, mulling over the proper wines for each with great care. She and Pieter entertained for only two reasons: Pieter's art, and his determination to create a living legend. Every guest was special; indeed, they entertained a number of dignitaries throughout the year.
If an arrogant tycoon had been invited to stay, Pieter wanted him impressed, no matter what his own feelings were. He was allowed to be moody or rude—he was the artist. Ronnie was supposed to create the atmosphere of genteel southern hospitality, to smooth all ruffled feathers. Pieter liked to be envied for his lovely wife. She was part of the elegance with which he surrounded himself.
Chewing on the nub of her pencil, Ronnie decided to have the Blue Room opened for this dubious guest's stay. The room was exceedingly masculine, its decoration basically stained wood paneling. The bed was a firm king-size, and the fireplace a very macho brick. Macho brick for a macho tycoon. That sounded good. And settled.
She picked up some of the correspondence that had accumulated but she couldn't concentrate on the letters. She dropped them again and picked up a book by one of her favorite authors and climbed beneath the cool silk sheets.
But she couldn't concentrate on the words. They kept blurring before her eyes, and the heroine was having a perfect love