Part 7 (1/2)

His face hardened. ”I know he hit you at least once,” he said tersely. ”Only a blind man could have missed the bruises. I told you, that's why I stayed away. Jean swore you were pa.s.sionately in love with him. I know all too well how women can delude themselves about men they care for.”

She didn't know how to handle it. He had a totally wrong idea about her loyalty to Ben, but there was no way she could correct it without telling him things she didn't dare. While she hesitated, she sipped the brandy and the silence between them began to lengthen. Across from her, Ryder sipped from his own snifter, his long legs stretched out over the coffee table. He looked worn. Probably he was, because he lived at twice the pace a normal man did.

Ivy sighed. The taste of the brandy wasn't unpleasant, but she wasn't used to alcohol and she didn't really like the effect. Her head started swimming in no time and she felt all too relaxed.

”What if you hadn't stayed away, Ryder?” she asked, lifting her eyes to his.

His face went taut. He emptied the brandy snifter. ”If you think you can sleep now, we'd better call it a night,” he said, rising.

She got up, too, weaving a little as the alcohol worked on her. He was much taller when she wasn't wearing shoes. She paused just in front of him and stared up, entranced by the sheer impact of his masculinity in his state of undress.

”Ben was all white without his clothes,” she said dizzily.

His jaw tautened. ”I spend a good deal of my time in the field.”

”So did he,” she pointed out.

”Ben was fair. I'm not. I tan easily. Ivy...”

She touched his chest, hesitantly. Her fingers were cool, but they burned his skin like a brand. He felt his body going rigid and his fingers went to her hand to pull it away from his aching body. But he couldn't quite manage to drag it loose. The scent of her drifted up into his nostrils, a clean, flowery scent that was hers alone.

”Don't,” he said quietly. ”Not like this, when you're three sheets in the wind.”

She drew in a slow breath. ”Just like old times,” she said huskily. ”You accuse me of trying to get away from you, when you're the one who pushes me away.” She felt the pain of his rejection keenly in her intoxicated state, and tears choked her. She flattened her hand over his hair-covered breastbone, feeling the hard slam of his heart under the warm muscle of it. ”Why?” she whispered.

”Because it's never the right time or the right place,” he said angrily. He caught her hand and pushed it over one hard male nipple and a furious heartbeat, trapping it there. ”Feel me,” he whispered roughly, while his free hand grasped her long hair and pulled her head back so that her eyes met his. ”Feel what you do to me. I've never known a woman who could knock me off balance the way you do.”

”Is that all it is?” she asked sadly. ”Just...desire?”

His eyes were blazing and he was rapidly losing control. He had to get her out of here while there was still time. ”You know how I feel about commitment, don't you?” he hedged.

”You don't want it,” she said. ”You never have.” She let her eyes fall and pulled her hand away from his body. ”I'm sorry. I think I'm a little tipsy.”

”You're a lot tipsy,” he corrected. ”And it's time you went to bed.”

”Not as stoic as you look?” she chided gently.

His eyes darkened as he stared down at her. ”Not stoic at all,” he said. ”But I won't take advantage of you.”

”My legs feel funny,” she murmured on a stifled giggle.

”No wonder.”

She took a deep breath and felt the world vanish around her.

Ryder caught her before she fell and carried her into the bedroom. She was a soft weight in his arms and as he laid her down on the sheets he had to fight his conscience every step of the way. He put her under the sheet and coverlet and drew them up over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She looked like an angel lying there, her black hair haloed around her gentle face, her eyes closed and her long lashes resting on her creamy cheeks. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever known, and he loved her desperately. But she was still hung up on her late husband, and he was no match for a ghost. With a vicious curse, he turned and left the room.

He overslept the next morning for the first time in years. He hadn't managed to get to sleep until late, aching with his need for Ivy. When he got into the suite's living room, she'd already ordered breakfast, which had apparently just been delivered because the coffee she'd poured into her cup was steaming.

”Oh,” she said self-consciously. ”I was just about to call you.”

She'd hoped she wouldn't have to. She had embarra.s.sing memories of the night before. Her hands went to smooth her oyster blouse down over her dark slacks in an unconsciously nervous gesture.

”Let's eat something,” he said. ”Then we might go sight-seeing down to St. Augustine.”

”To the Castillo de San Marcos?” she asked hopefully.

”There.” He nodded. ”And to the Ripley Believe it or Not Museum as well, if you like.”

She poured him a cup of coffee and pushed it across the table to him, her eyes lingering on the blue checked open-neck s.h.i.+rt he was wearing with his slacks. The color complemented his pale eyes, and s.e.xy glimpses of his chest were visible in the opening. She remembered touching him there, and felt self-conscious all over again. Would she never learn to stop throwing herself at him?

She sipped coffee slowly. ”I'm sorry about last night.”

”I'll bet you are,” he replied, his voice deep and curt. ”Head hurt?”

She grimaced. ”A little. I took a couple of aspirin.”

”The sea air may help some. Try to eat something.”

She managed the toast, but nothing else. Eating wasn't easy with a hangover, as she was learning the hard way.

”I didn't mean I was sorry I got tipsy,” she began.

”If you're going to start making apologies for anything else, forget it,” he said, without looking at her. ”Finish your coffee and we'll go.”

That wasn't a promising start, but she supposed it was just as well not to dwell on her behavior.

He drove them down the long, seaside stretch of U.S. 1 to St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city. The magnificent old fort took Ivy's breath away. It was located on a stretch of land facing the Matanzas Bay, five miles from the Atlantic Ocean. Made of stone, the structure was gray and worn smooth with age. A moat surrounded it, with a wooden bridge that allowed tourists to enter.

It had a long and proud history, belonging alternately to Spain, France and Great Britain, and then to America. It was, in fact, the oldest fort in the United States, dating to 1672. Ivy had read a tourist brochure on the way down from Jacksonville and learned a little about the old city. Ponce de Leon had landed here in 1513. He claimed the land for Spain, but in 1564 the French claimed it and established a settlement there. That settlement was destroyed by Spain the following year, and they founded the city of St. Augustine.

The basic fortress of the present Castillo de San Marcos was completed in 1695, although the ground breaking for it was some twenty-three years earlier in 1672. Several protective earthworks were built as time pa.s.sed. In 1825, however, the fort's name was changed to Fort Marion and remained so until 1942, when the original name was reinstated. The fort had withstood attack after attack. One siege against the Spanish fortress was launched by Carolinians in 1702. It lasted for fifty days and resulted in the destruction of the entire city-all of it, that is, except for the Castillo, which was the only structure still standing afterward.

One thing Ivy had discovered from some other reading was that back in the late 1800s, the proud Chiricahua Apache tribe had been housed here after Geronimo's disastrous defeat. As they walked around the ancient structure, Ivy tried to imagine how the desert-dwelling Apaches would have felt in its damp confines. Except for the small green courtyard, surrounded on all sides by the walls, there was only the sky above to look at. She closed her eyes, picturing Spaniards in their armor tramping to and fro, followed by the early Americans who'd defended this place. The sense of history was strong here, and if there were ghosts, then surely the fort had them. So many memories, she thought.

She s.h.i.+vered, both because of the atmosphere and the cool mist. She hadn't brought a coat, but Ryder suddenly shrugged out of his nylon jacket and gently put it around her shoulders, holding it there by the lapels.

”It's getting chilly,” he remarked. ”I hadn't thought it would be this cool.”

”I'm all right,” she said softly. ”But you'll get chilled without your jacket,” she protested, looking up at him with liquid dark eyes.

”My G.o.d, don't look at me like that when we're surrounded by people,” he groaned. His hands were still on the lapels of the jacket, keeping it close around her, and behind them was a group of senior citizens following a tour guide over the gray stone fortifications.

Ivy was thrilled by the effect she had on him. The power to arouse him was heady and sweet, and she couldn't resist exercising it. She moved just enough to bring his knuckles against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She expected him to turn the jacket loose then.

But he didn't. His pale eyes held her dark ones in thrall while the wind blew and the fog misted and the tour guide's low voice droned on. Ryder's gaze fell to the jacket and his hands moved, deliberately caressing down to her taut nipples and back up again in a soft sensual tracing that made her knees go weak.