If Ever I Loved You (13 page)

Gina raised her head and looked at him, wide-eyed with
amazement. "Torment you? I couldn't possibly torment you. You have to
care about someone in order to be hurt by them and you never cared
about me."

He closed his eyes and a spasm of emotion momentarily
twisted his features as he pulled her roughly against him and buried
his face in her dark hair. "You're a self-deceiving little fool if you
believe that," he muttered thickly. "I nearly went out of my mind after
Mel Calicutt identified that picture. For months I went around in a
haze of agony. I don't even remember what I did during that time, only
the pain."

His arms tightened around her and his voice took on a
savage tone. "I'll never let you or any other woman do that to me
again, Gina, so don't taunt me about not caring. You're right, I don't.
I don't care about anything but protecting myself from your brand of
loving."

Gina put her arms around Peter's neck and held him as she
continued to sob. But her tears were no longer for Stewart; they were
for the Ginny Lea and Peter of seven years ago who had been too young
and immature to survive the holocaust that tore away their innocence
and left them irreparably scarred.

For a long time they sat clasped in each other's arms,
drawing comfort from their intimate but passionless contact. The only
sound in the room was an occasional sob as Gina let her tears flow
freely.

Finally the sobs stilled and the tears ceased. Peter
reached in his pocket for a handkerchief and dabbed at her brimming
violet eyes. "We're not going to cry anymore over the past, Gina," he
said softly. "From now on we'll direct all our energy toward making a
bright and happy future."

The corners of her mouth twitched in the beginnings of a
smile and he bent his head and kissed her gently. Her hands stroked the
back of his neck and he shivered and deepened the kiss, parting her
lips and caressing them with his tongue. All of Gina's resistance had
dissolved with her tears and she savored the taste and the feel and the
scent of him.

He licked the moisture from her cheeks and brushed her
closed eyelids with his lips as his hand cupped her breast through the
silky material of her blouse. He tipped his head back and smiled at
her. "You never used to wear a bra."

She smiled back. "I filled out as I got older."

"I'd noticed," he murmured as he stroked the taut fullness
he cradled. "At eighteen you were a tantalizing adolescent with the
promise of great beauty. You've fulfilled that promise, you're
exquisite, but you've also matured into a woman of charm and passion. A
woman I want for my own."

Like a valuable art object that you can brag
about and show off to your friends
, she thought bitterly as
she undraped her arms from around his neck and placed her hands, palm
up, against his chest to hold him away. "I don't want to be your woman,
Peter," she said, and almost added,
I want to be your love
,
but bit the words off in time.

He kissed the tip of her nose. "We'll see," he promised
and released her. "Now go wash your face and put on a little make-up so
people won't think I've been beating you and we'll go to lunch. I have
something I want to show you."

They drove up Main Street and headed south on the coast
highway. As they passed the small communities of Little River and
Albion, Gina began to wonder where they were, going since from there on
the tiny towns were few and far between. She was just about to ask
Peter when they came to the bottom of a gradual dip in the highway and
he turned off onto a narrow road that led through the grove of pines
and eucalyptus trees to a white sandy beach. Just before they drove out
of the trees and onto the beach he turned again, this time into a long
driveway that led to a rambling two story redwood home.

Peter stopped the car in front of the house and Gina
turned to look at him. "Where are we? This is a private home, surely
we're not having lunch here."

"Oh but we are," he said as he opened the door and got out.

He came around and took her hand as she stepped out of the
car. The house was even larger than she'd first thought, and the forest
setting with its smell of pine and cedar, its ground cover of
low-growing fern and vines, and its towering trees was peaceful in its
natural beauty.

Peter continued to hold her hand as they walked up the
path strewn with pine needles and wood chips to the five wooden steps
that led up to the covered porch which stretched halfway across the
front of the building. Gina stood by speechless as he selected a key
from his key ring and inserted it in the lock on the heavy oak door. It
swung open without protest to reveal a brown-, tan- and gold- tiled
entry hall.

She finally found her voice. "Peter, what are you doing?"
she cried. "Whose house is this? You mustn't just walk in."

He grinned and once more took her by the hand and pulled
her inside. "Not to worry, love. Hasn't it occurred to you that since I
have a key I must also have a right to entry?"

She was too busy gaping to answer. To her right was a
library with floor-to-ceiling books lining its walls, to her left was a
spacious kitchen with sparkling maple cabinets and sunny yellow
appliances. Both rooms opened wide onto the entryway but could be
closed off with hidden sliding doors. Straight ahead of her was a
green-carpeted living room with a wall of glass that looked out over
the blue ocean with its foaming whitecaps that washed up on the vast
expanse of silvery beach.

Gina walked over to the wall and gasped. Directly outside
was a redwood deck that was accessible through a sliding glass door.
There were deeply padded lounges, a large round umbrella table with
four white wrought-iron chairs, and an electric barbecue grill built
into a brick fireplace. There was plenty of room for more furniture
should the need arise.

Peter came up behind her and put his arms around her
waist. "Do you like it?" There was a note of urgency in his voice, as
if her answer was most important.

"Oh, I love it!" she exclaimed. "That panoramic view of
the ocean and the beach is magnificent! Who is the lucky person who has
the incredible good fortune to own this place?"

He pulled her back against him and rubbed his cheek in her
hair. "We do," he said simply.

Gina felt as though an electric current had run through
her and she stiffened. "I beg your pardon?" she choked out.

"We own It, Gina, you and I together."

She pulled out of his embrace and walked a few steps away
before turning to face him. "That's not possible," she muttered.
"There's no way I could ever buy half interest in this property."

He gestured impatiently. "Don't be dense, I bought it and
had it put in both our names. It's our home, yours and mine, and I want
you to live here with me."

"Aren't you assuming a great deal?" she said angrily. "You
had no right—"

"I'm not assuming anything and I have every right," he
interrupted. "Are you forgetting that we're married? According to
California's community property laws the house would be half yours
whether I registered it that way or not. So is everything else I've
bought in the past seven years."

"But we've never—" Gina began.

"I'm uncomfortably aware of what we've never done," Peter
snapped, "and I intend to remedy that little oversight just as soon as
I can persuade you to cooperate, but meanwhile our lack of cohabitation
doesn't affect your rights as my wife."

He sighed and ran his hand through his thick blond hair.
"Let's not quarrel, honey," he said softly. "I don't expect you to move
in immediately. I'll give you time to consider it, and there's
something else you should know. If our marriage is ever dissolved the
house will be all yours, no strings attached."

Gina opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a
silencing hand. "It's all arranged, I couldn't change it if I wanted to
so don't argue."

Gina was stunned. Why was Peter doing this? He'd been so
sure that she'd only married him for his money, now he was forcing this
valuable property on her. It must be worth hundreds of thousands of
dollars, possibly even more on today's market. He was making her
financially independent even if she divorced him without ever having
lived with him.

She cleared her throat but even so her voice sounded
raspy. "I don't want expensive gifts from you."

"Then we'll call it a settlement. You've been my wife for
a long time now and never once have you asked me for money, so let's
say I owe it to you." He made a tentative effort to smile. "Now, do you
want to see the rest of your house or shall I have Mrs. Webster serve
lunch first?"

Gina was surprised. "You mean you have a housekeeper out
here?"

Peter's smile was brighter this time. "Sure, and a
caretaker too. Margaret and Bud Webster. They live in an apartment on
the other side of the kitchen. Look, why don't you make yourself
comfortable and I'll go tell her we're ready to eat. We can tour the
house afterwards."

Gina nodded and walked toward a cream-colored velvet sofa.
"Do you have a bar?" she asked. "I think I need a drink."

"You can have anything you want, sweetheart," Peter
answered. "All you have to do is ask. I'll get it for you as soon as I
talk to Mrs. Webster."

Gina settled herself on the long comfortable sofa and
looked around her. The room was an enormous rectangle with a natural
stone fireplace at one end. The other end was furnished as a dining
room with a solid oak table, chairs and china cabinet while in between
were two separate furniture groupings of sofas, upholstered chairs,
coffee tables, lamps, etc. The walls were paneled with exposed beam
ceilings. She was awed by the size and the opulence.

Peter was back almost immediately. "Mrs. Webster says
lunch will be served in a few minutes. She has everything ready, it
only needs warming," he said as he walked toward her.

He stopped in front of her and reached out for her hand.
"Come, I'll show you where the bar is."

They walked hand in hand into a hall and entered another
wide, open doorway to the left into another sitting room, this one
smaller and more intimate. It shared the rustic stone fireplace with
the living room, but on this side it was smaller, cozier. A large
picture window overlooked the ocean and the furniture was less formal,
more inviting. Gina loved it on sight and Peter told her it was called
the family room.

He walked to the bar and poured them each a Scotch and
soda. She accepted her drink and sat down on the burgundy velour sofa
facing the unlit fireplace. He followed and sat down beside her as she
turned to him and asked, "Peter, how did you find this house? Surely
you didn't have it built?"

He took a swallow of his whiskey before he answered. "No,
I didn't build it, but it's only a couple of years old. The man who
built it was an actor who had the lead in a brand new television
series. Unfortunately it was cancelled after the first year and he
hasn't worked steady since. He couldn't meet the mortgage payments so
he put it on the market. I was looking for a place to buy up here
so—"

"Why?" asked Gina.

Peter quirked one dark brown eyebrow. "Why? You know why.
Because I knew I'd never entice you into leaving that gallery of yours
and moving back to San Francisco. This way you're only a fifteen-minute
drive from Mendocino and I can move my base of operations up here. I'll
have to spend some time in San Francisco but—"

"Peter, stop that! I told you—"

He leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth,
effectively cutting off her indignant tirade.

Margaret Webster was a middle-aged woman with bright hazel
eyes and a warm smile. She was medium height with a matronly figure and
long brown hair streaked with gray which she wore braided and wrapped
around her head. Peter introduced Gina as his wife and if Mrs. Webster
was surprised she didn't show it.

Lunch was served on the deck overlooking the beach and the
ocean. The sun had come out and since they were situated in a hollow
the breeze went right over them and it was warm and pleasant in the
fresh sea air. They ate chunky homemade vegetable soup, shrimp salad
and hot yeast rolls to the accompaniment of the swishing sound of waves
rolling gently onto the sand.

Gina pushed her empty salad plate away and sighed with
contentment. "Margaret Webster is a jewel of a cook," she told Peter.
"Don't ever let her get away from you."

Peter leaned back in his chair and grinned lazily. "No
chance of that. The pay and working conditions are too good."

He frowned as she stood and started stacking the dirty
dishes. "There's no need for you to do that," he insisted. "Mrs.
Webster's working conditions are good but not that good. She
is
expected to clear off the table after meals."

Gina laughed as she picked up a tray from the serving
counter and began putting the dishes on it. "You may be used to being
waited on, but I'm not. There's no reason for her to come out here to
get these when I can just as well take them in."

She picked up the tray and walked inside with it, leaving
Peter sputtering behind her.

Mrs. Webster was as indignant as Peter at the idea of Gina
bringing the dirty dishes into the kitchen. "It's my job, ma'am,
there's no need for you to trouble yourself," she scolded gently.

Gina thanked her for the delicious meal and asked
directions to the bathroom where she combed her hair and repaired her
lipstick before rejoining Peter on the deck.

He had moved from his seat at the table and was sprawled
out on one of the wide redwood loungers that was padded with thick foam
rubber covered in heavy apple green toweling.

He watched her as she walked across the living room and
out the sliding glass door, closing it behind her. He looked relaxed
and content, and she almost expected to hear him purr. Instead he held
out his hand to her. "Come here," he invited.