Stormy Vows/Tempest at Sea (23 page)

Dominic's brutal frankness was less than comforting when she realized his ruthless attitude was essentially the same as Donovan's. She shivered uncontrollably with the pain of the thought. Would Donovan some day feel the same distaste for her as he did his past mistresses? Was he, even now, trying to tell her, in this cruel and ruthless fashion that she must not count on any real permanency in their relationship?

“You're a good friend to Michael, Jake,” she said huskily, her brown eyes bright with unshed tears. “But I think it's you who isn't reading the situation correctly.”

“Hell!” Dominic said roughly, his black eyes worried. He covered one of her hands with his own. “Michael doesn't give a damn about Melanie,” he said earnestly. “Take it from one who knows. Before you came along women were just something to use and throw away to Michael. In fifteen years, I've never seen him act the way he does about you. The man's obviously crazy about you, you little fool.”

“That's comforting,” she said bitterly. “Maybe I'll last a few months longer than Melanie St. James.” She ran her hand through her hair wearily. “Jake, I know you're doing what you think is best, but all this discussion is tearing me to pieces.” Her lips quivered uncontrollably. “I couldn't possibly eat anything. Would you please take me home?”

Jake sighed, and his face was a picture of dissatisfaction as he took some bills from his wallet and threw them on the table. “I should have known better than to try to argue with a woman
where her emotions are concerned,” he said gloomily, as he rose. “Come along, little martyr. I'll take you home where you can sulk, and brood, and build up a really horrendous case against Michael by the time he gets home tonight.
Women!
”

Perhaps due to this last harsh condemnation of Jake's, Brenna tried to do exactly the opposite when Dominic had dropped her off. She kept herself feverishly busy all afternoon. Playing vigorously with Randy in the pool, then cleaning out and rearranging dresser drawers in her bedroom. She tried to read a script that Michael had left for her, but this was a lost cause. Her mind refused to take in one word of the dialogue.

Michael called three times that afternoon, but she refused to speak to him, giving a vague excuse each time to the puzzled and upset Mrs. Haskins. When he made his last call, he left a message that he wouldn't be home to dinner, a message that Mrs. Haskins delivered with barely concealed, righteous satisfaction. The housekeeper adored Donovan, and she obviously thought Brenna was mistreating her idol.

Brenna herself refused dinner, and returned to her room to settle down and wait for Donovan's return. She realized at once that this was a mistake as clouds of depression rolled over her horizon, making her as brooding and self-pitying as Dominic's accusation. She jumped up, and hurried to the bathroom, filling the aqua tub with steaming, bubbling water while she bundled her hair on top of her head. She dropped her clothes carelessly on the floor and stepped into the tub, reclining full length, her head resting on the plastic pillow affixed to one end of the tub. The water was warm and soothing and like liquid silk against her flesh. Suddenly she remembered that first day on the island, and Michael beside her in that Sybarite sunken bathtub that was built for lovemaking. She could feel her nipples harden, as her mind helplessly replayed the love scene, the first of many that had gradually bound her to Michael with golden chains. She
could feel the silent tears that she had fought all day long run down her cheeks in silent profusion, and she knew the time had finally come for self confrontation.

Jake had not truly realized why she had been so devastated by Michael's luncheon date with Melanie St. James. She was not foolish enough to think that Michael had finished with her yet: He was still too eager to possess her. Their lovemaking was too good for her to make that mistake. It may have been a perfectly innocent interlude as Jake had suggested. What had shaken her world to the foundation was her own reaction to that first agonizing suspicion that Donovan might be growing tired of her. The pain had been breathtaking, blacking out the joy of living as if it no longer existed. She had realized then how she had been deceiving herself.

Since she had first discovered her love for Michael, she had convinced herself that an emotion that beautiful could only enrich her, and make her stronger in the years to come. She had not realized that Michael had painted the canvas of her life with his own bright hues, and without him, all the exuberant vitality would vanish as if it had never been. Her love for him had grown with each passing day. Heaven knows what stage of dependency she would reach if she remained with him any longer. If she left now, it would be like losing a limb but she would survive. If she waited until she was discarded, as Michael had left her with no doubt she eventually would be, she was not at all sure that it wouldn't destroy her. It had been that realization that had so stunned her and left her bereft—the knowledge that she must leave Michael, and that it must be accomplished soon for self-preservation's sake. She must break her word to Michael, because she knew he was not ready to let her go yet.

The tears continued to flow and she brushed them aside impatiently. She had always had to be strong and independent. She would get over this stupid pain and weakness and emerge stronger than ever. She would leave, and never see that strongwilled
Irishman again. She would make a life for herself and Randy, and it would be a good life. She closed her eyes and the maddening tears continued to flow. She would do all these things, she assured herself sadly, but first she would take one final night for herself. She would say a last “good-bye” to her love, Michael Donovan.

She got out of the tub, drying quickly, powdering liberally with her lavender-scented talc, before donning her favorite negligee set. It was a wonderfully romantic gown. Its white silk background was sprinkled with minute pink roses. The tiny sleeves, low rounded elasticized neckline, and empire waistline lent a Regency air to the ensemble. The matching peignoir was a loose drift of white chiffon with long loose sleeves. She slipped into a pair of white satin mules, and brushed her hair into a bright shining cape. She looked with bittersweet approval into the long oval mirror on the closet door. Yes, this was the image of her that she wanted Michael to hold in his memory when she was gone. She turned off the bedroom light, and left the room to go downstairs to wait for Michael.

She was curled up in one corner of the couch in the living room, idly leafing through a magazine, a little over an hour later when the front door was thrown open explosively. She could hear Donovan's rapid footsteps in the hall.

He came through the living room door like a small hurricane. He had discarded his suit jacket and was dressed in black slacks and a white shirt opened carelessly at the throat. His hair glowed brilliantly under the overhead light, and, as usual, he seemed to draw all the radiance in the room to himself. His face was taut and angry, as he crossed to the couch and pulled her roughly to her feet. “Dammit! I could beat you,” he said furiously. “What the hell do you mean by refusing my phone calls? You know damn well I was tied up with appointments and
couldn't come to you. I've gone through hell all afternoon, since Jake called and told me what an asinine snit you'd gotten yourself into.
Women!
” he finished disgustedly.

A little smile curved Brenna's lips. “That's what Jake said,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling.

He paid no attention. His jaw was set belligerently as he continued harshly. “You're going to shut up and listen to what I have to say, dammit. I had a damn good reason for taking Melanie to lunch, and if you weren't so stubborn, I would have told you what it was when I called.”

“Have you had anything to eat?” she asked quietly, her eyes running lovingly over the blunt, rough features.

“What?” he asked, caught off balance for once, blue eyes surprised.

“Did you have any dinner?” she asked.

“No, I didn't take the time,” he said impatiently. “Look, Brenna, we've got to get this straightened out.”

“I'll fix you an omelet,” she interrupted, smiling. “You can tell me all about it while I'm cooking. The coffee is already prepared.”

She wriggled out of his grasp and preceded him down the hall and into the kitchen. He followed her closely, almost as if he suspected her of trying to escape him. She gestured to the breakfast bar. “It won't be a minute,” she said serenely. She poured him a cup of coffee, added the small dollop of cream he used, and stirred it briskly. She carried it carefully to the bar and set it before him.

His hand closed on hers as she released the cup, and she looked up to meet eyes that were bright with suspicion. “What game is this you're playing, Brenna?” he asked. “Jake said you were more upset than he'd ever seen you this afternoon. Yet now you're as cool as a cucumber. Don't you want to hear about Melanie?”

She returned his gaze steadily. “If you want to tell me,” she said quietly, “but it's not really necessary. Jake was right; I over-reacted.”

She could feel the tension gradually leaving Donovan's body. “I'm glad you realize that,” he said lightly. “I had visions of having to chase after you and drag you back by your hair.”

Brenna's gaze dropped to their interlocked hands. “I'm still here,” she said evasively. “Now, if you'll release me, I'll make that omelet.”

His grip reluctantly relaxed, and he leaned back on the stool and idly watched her as she bustled around the kitchen, beating the eggs, adding the milk, and heating the omelet pan, before pouring in the mixture. He didn't attempt to speak until she set the savory omelet before him, poured herself a cup of coffee and perched on the stool opposite him.

He took a bite of the omelet and looked up at her. “I needed Melanie to do a favor for me,” he said abruptly. His mouth twisted cynically. “Not that Melanie ever did anything for anyone without suitable compensation. This was no exception. I had to write her a very hefty check for her trouble.” He was eating steadily, his eyes watching Brenna's serene face alertly for signs of distress or suspicion. “I persuaded her to try to charm someone I want to join my organization. The old man is a great fan of hers, and I thought introducing her to him might conceivably tip the scales my way.”

“Daniel Thomas?” Brenna guessed.

Donovan nodded. “That's right. He joined us for lunch today.”

“Did it work?” Brenna asked, sipping her coffee slowly, and idly studying the way his thick, crisp hair clung to his head like a molten cap.

Donovan shrugged. “It's too early to tell. If it doesn't, I'll try something else.”

He had finished, and he pushed his plate away. He took a swallow of coffee, and his hand reached out once more to clasp hers.

“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” he said quietly. “I even called Phillips and told him to report to me if you left the house.”

“Poor Bob. What a skittery female he must think me,” she said lightly. She returned the pressure of his hand affectionately, and then rose and reached for his plate and utensils. “I'll just rinse these and put them in the drain.”

“No, leave them,” he said thickly. He drew her gently around the bar, to stand before him, his eyes running over her with a look that was a long embrace. “You grow more beautiful every day, do you know that?” he said hoarsely. He reached beneath the misty robe to pull the elasticized neckline down to bare her shoulders, before putting his lips to the pulse beat in the hollow of her throat. It leapt, as it always did, at the light touch of his tongue. Her breath almost stopped, as his hands closed on her breasts and thumbed the nipples through the light silk of her gown. He, too, was breathing quickly as his lips closed on hers in a long kiss that left them both languid and hot with need.

“You'd better be upstairs and in bed in two minutes,” he said raggedly, as their lips parted. “Unless you want to explore how erotic making love in a kitchen can be.”

She grinned and kissed him gently. “Some other time,” she promised lightly. She turned away quickly, as a swift jolt of pain went through her. There would be no other time after tonight.

She was waiting for him when he came into their bedroom a few minutes later, sitting quietly on the bed, her feet tucked beneath her. She had removed the robe and slippers, and had an air of childlike docility as he approached her.

His eyes were warm and intent on her as he started to un-button his shirt.

“No!” she reached up and stopped him. She knelt on the
bed, and her fingers replaced him at the task. “Please, I want to do it,” she whispered, her doe eyes wide and pleading. “I want to do everything for you tonight. Show me how to make you happy.”

She slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and slipped it from his massive shoulders, placing little gentle kisses on his chest and throat as she did so. She had spoken only the truth when she said she wanted to make him happy. Not only did she want to capture a very special memory for herself, but she wanted to give Michael the same joyous gift. Her arms slipped around his strong throat, and she kissed him gently, tenderly, with all the love she possessed for this difficult, exciting man. “Show me,” she entreated quietly.

In the hours that followed he did show her what she desired. She memorized every muscle of his body as he had once done to her. She learned with lips and hands how to raise him to the height of desire and satisfaction, and in doing so, reached her own rapture. They came together not once, but many times that night. Donovan was as indefatigable and insatiable as she, as if half comprehending the desperation that drove her to pour forth her love in this the only way Michael would accept. It was shortly before dawn when Donovan fell asleep, his arm still cradling the warmth of her body.

But Brenna remained wide awake, her strained desperate eyes on the gradually lightening sky seen through the bedroom window. She knew, with a wrench that threatened to tear her soul apart, that it was time for her to go.

eleven