You’ll Find Out

Chapter 3 #2

“You get to stay overnight with Grammie tonight. What do you think about that?”

Mara asked, and poked a loving finger at the exposed belly button in the gap between Angie’s shirt and pants.

“Are you coming, too?”

Angie asked eagerly, and Angie’s cherubic face, aglow with anticipation, tugged at Mara’s heartstrings.

“Not this time, sweetheart,”

Mara admitted, and Angie’s animated face lost its smile. Mara hurried on. “But you’ll have to tell me all about it tomorrow. Grammie’s going to take you on a train ride in the park.”

“A train with a whistle?”

“I think so . . .”

Once again Angie’s impish face illuminated with expectation, and Mara gave the child a bear hug as she carried the little girl into the kitchen for dinner.

* * *

The grandfather clock in the living room chimed eight o’clock, and Mara could feel herself stiffen with each vibrating note. She thought about pouring herself a drink but discarded the idea, seeing it as a show of weakness. The big, old house was dark and cold ever since June had left with Angie, and the tightness in Mara’s stomach seemed to knot and twist with each passing minute.

It had been impossible not to think about Shane in the last half hour, and each time his image assailed her, Mara sensed the same old feelings that he had aroused in her in the past: intrigue, joy, contentment, and finally despair. Now, new and ugly sensations marred the beauty of the past as she felt the chill of betrayal and the heat of anger.

It had been over four years since Mara had called Shane’s father on the telephone and learned the devastating news that Shane had been killed in a terrorists’ attack in Northern Ireland. Mara had realized that as a television cameraman, Shane’s occupation could at times be dangerous. She knew that this particular assignment in Belfast would be difficult and risky. But when confronted with Mara’s fears for his safety, Shane had waved them off, emphasizing that the film, a frank documentary on the political battle in Northern Ireland, was important, not only for his personal career advancement but also for public awareness. It was his hope that the film would demonstrate the political unrest of a society torn by religious and economic strife.

Shane had downplayed the hazards and dangers of the assignment, and Mara had reluctantly accepted his careful explanations and ultimate decision to make the trip to the tiny island. Later she realized that it had been her own foolish attempt to hide behind a curtain of half-truths, because the knowledge of the bloodshed and risks that Shane might have had to encounter were too much for her to bear.

Mara hadn’t known that she was pregnant when Shane had left her alone in the airport terminal. Perhaps if she had realized that she was carrying a child, she could have convinced him to stay with her and the baby, and they could have been married, as she had hoped. But as it was, she never saw him again—until he walked into her office over four years later.

It was in the telephone call to Shane’s father that Mara had hoped to get in touch with the father of her child and let him in on the glad news. Shane had been gone for over six weeks, and in that long, lonely time, she had received only one badly connected telephone call and a hastily written card. Then, abruptly, nothing.

But the raspy voice of Shane’s father, and the heavy pause as she asked about Shane, heightened the dread that had been mounting. Before the old man could whisper the news to her, she understood that Shane was gone—forever. She managed to quell the scream of disbelief and bereavement in her throat and murmur her sympathies to the stranger on the other end of the line. She tried to hang up the phone, but didn’t, and the receiver dangled awkwardly in midair for the rest of the evening as she sat in stunned silence. She cried herself to sleep that night, and when slumber did finally come, it was fitful and shattered by the truth: Shane was dead.

For the rest of the week she cried intermittently, unable to piece together the fragments of her broken life. Her appetite disappeared with fatigue and nausea. When Peter Wilcox, an old high school friend, had dropped by to visit her, he had found Mara lying on the couch, disheveled, crying bitter tears and battling unsuccessfully with morning sickness. He had helped her to the bathroom, and the sight of her thin body, torn with uncontrollable retching as she hung her head over the basin, didn’t stop him from attempting to comfort and console her.

With strong and commanding movements, he had helped her get dressed and had listened compassionately when she had explained, through convulsive sobs, about Shane. And the child.

Peter had the strength to make the decisions that Mara couldn’t. He understood her grief for Shane, and then forced her admission into a local hospital insisting that it was necessary for her health and that of the baby. The one consoling thought throughout Mara’s turbulent period of anguish was the knowledge that she was carrying Shane’s child.

Slowly she regained her strength, and though never nonexistent, the pain of her grief eased. Peter helped her through her deepest depression. His words were comforting, his arms were strong, and above all else, he was kind to Mara rather than critical or judgmental. It was as if he had taken it upon himself to see that she was cared for. And as the days passed, Mara could sense that Peter was falling in love with her. Although she never returned the depth of his feelings, it seemed only reasonable that she should marry him. She had a child to care for and Shane was dead—or so she believed.

The first arguments in the marriage didn’t begin until after Angie was born. It seemed to Mara that once the baby arrived, and the physical evidence of Mara’s passion for another man existed, Peter and she became alienated. Although Angie bore the Wilcox name and the secret of her parentage was never discussed, all of the attention that Mara lavished upon the child seemed to annoy Peter and add to his resentment of the blond little girl.

Mara and Peter would quarrel, bitterly at times. Then he would leave her, sometimes for days. She had heard the gossip about his supposed affairs, but she ignored it and refused to forget the kindness he had shown her when she needed it most. And then came the sudden shock of his illness and the steady deterioration of a young and once healthy man.

The grandfather clock struck the quarter hour, and Mara was jarred back to reality. Headlights flashed through the windows and a car engine died in the driveway. It had to be Shane. Mara felt a shiver of anticipation—or was it dread—as the doorbell announced Shane’s arrival.

When Mara opened the door, she braced herself and tried to cool the race of her pulse that gave evidence to her tangled emotions. But as the doorway widened and the warm interior lights spilled into the night, Mara suddenly realized how vain her attempts at composure were. Shane was too much the same as he was when she had been so mindlessly in love with him. She could sense the return of familiar seductive feelings, and she wanted to be propelled backward in time to a familiar setting that was carefree and loving.

A smile touched the corners of the hard line of Shane’s mouth, and his eyes seemed to come alive as he looked down at her. His gaze poured over her, and even fully dressed in a rose-colored crepe gown, she felt naked. Shane loosened his tie and raked his fingers through his ebony hair in a gesture of indecision. “You . . . look . . . gorgeous,”

he murmured with a frown, as if the thought were a traitorous admission. “But then, you always manage to look elegant, don’t you?”

His voice was a seductive potion to her, and she felt a need to break his disarming spell. “Shane . . . I—”

He interrupted. “Aren’t you going to invite me into your home?”

A black, somewhat disdainful eyebrow cocked.

“I thought we were going out.”

“We are. But we have to talk a few things over first. Don’t you agree?”

There was an urgency to his words, as if four years was too long a time to bridge the widening abyss that separated them.

Mara drew in a long, unsteady breath as she realized that she hadn’t moved out of the doorway, as if her small body would somehow discourage him from entering her home.

She didn’t know quite why, but she understood that she couldn’t let him into the house, into her privacy, into her heart.

Not again.

“Can’t we talk in the restaurant?”

she asked, still forming a weak barrier to her home.

“Would you feel safer in a crowd?”

“No . . . yes . . . oh, Shane so much has happened in the last four years. Perhaps we’re making a big mistake. I’m not really sure that I want to—”

“Of course you do,”

he coaxed. “As much as I do.”

His dark eyes held hers for an instant, and without consciously thinking about it she stepped away from the door. By her movements she invited him inside.

In a scarcely audible voice she managed to pull together her poise and her graciousness. “Excuse my manners, please come in,”

she whispered. “Could I get you a drink?”

The tightness of his jawline seemed to slacken a little. “Yes—thanks. Bourbon, if you have it.”

“I remember,”

Mara murmured, and led him through the tiled foyer and into the drawing room.

As she walked she sensed his eyes roving over the interior of the house, probing into the most intimate reaches of her life.

Although he said nothing, there was an air of disapproval in his stance.

His dark eyes skimmed the elegant drawing room with its expensive furnishings.

He missed nothing: the gracious mint-green brocade of the draperies, the peach-colored linen and velvet that highlighted the Chippendale chairs, the ornate and lavish antique tables that had been part of the Wilcox home for generations, the walls covered in linen and proudly displaying past members of the Wilcox family, even the plush pile of the authentic Persian carpet.

Nothing escaped his gaze, from the French doors near the garden to the hand-sculpted Italian marble fireplace, Shane stood with one hand in the pocket of his chocolate-colored slacks, his tweed jacket pushed away from his body, and Mara could tell that he was tense, tightly coiled.

When she handed him his drink, she was careful not to let her fingers brush against his, for fear that the passion that had smoldered within her for so long would suddenly be ignited.

Shane’s studious gaze traveled to the fireplace, and Mara froze.

The glass of wine that she held in her hand remained motionless in the air, suspended halfway to her lips.

Upon the Italian marble of the mantel stood a picture of Angie as an innocent two-year-old.

The portrait captured Shane’s attention, and he strode meaningfully over to the fireplace for a closer look at the child.

Mara’s breath constricted in her throat as she watched him.

Dear God, would he know? Could he guess? Should she tell him—could she? “She’s your daughter, Shane! Your own flesh and blood.”

Mara wanted to shout the words but was unable. She raised the trembling glass of wine to her lips and let the cool liquid slide down her suddenly parched throat.

“Is this your little girl?”

Shane asked, studying the portrait carefully.

“Yes . . . yes it is. It . . . I mean, the picture was taken almost two years ago . . .”

Mara whispered. Again she swallowed the wine. Tell him! Tell him! her insistent mind commanded. No matter what has happened in the past, he has the right to know about his child! No pain or anguish that you have suffered at his hand gives you the right to withhold the fact that he fathered Angie. It’s his right! Tell him the truth! Tell him NOW!

“She’s very pretty,”

Shane observed, “just like her mother.”

He fingered the portrait as if drawn to the beguiling child’s face, and Mara knew that if she didn’t steady herself, she would faint. If only she had the courage to tell him the truth. A faint shadow hardened Shane’s features. He must know, Mara thought.

“Are you all right? Mara?”

Shane asked the question, suddenly aware that Mara’s face had blanched. His voice seemed distant. “Is something wrong?”

Concern flooded his features, and he let his hand drop from the picture frame as he half-ran across the room to Mara’s side. His arm captured her waist just as she felt her knees give way and the glass in her fingers slid to the carpet.

“There’s so much to explain,”

she whispered against his jacket.

“I know, I know, baby,”

he murmured, and kissed the top of her head as he persuaded her to sit on the stiff Victorian sofa. “Don’t try to explain anything now. Are you all right, or do you need a doctor? Where are the servants tonight?”

His dark eyes darted to the hallway. He started to get up, but Mara placed a staying hand on his sleeve.

“I don’t have any servants,”

she said softly. The faint feeling had passed and color returned to her cheeks.

“No servants? In a house this size?”

“No live-ins. I . . . do have a woman who comes in once a week to help me with the cleaning. The same for the gardener. But that’s it. I cook my own meals, and June watches over Angie.”

“June? A governess? Where is she?”

Mara’s throat tightened again. “No, June’s not a governess. Actually, she’s Angie’s gr- . . . Peter’s mother. Angie’s with her this evening.”

“I see,”

he retorted, and took a long swallow of his drink. He pulled uncomfortably at his tie and gave Mara a reassessing look. “She must have been the woman who threw me out of here on the day of the funeral!”

“So you were the stranger! Dena guessed as much!”

Mara gasped. “Why were you here that day?”

Her large, liquid eyes looked directly at him, and he remembered a younger, more innocent time. He found it impossible to fight the urge any longer. An unsteady finger reached out and traced the delicate outline of Mara’s refined jaw. Tenderly he persuaded a wisp of tawny hair back into place behind her ear. She felt herself shudder at his touch. He sighed deeply and shook his head.

“I was there that day simply because I couldn’t stay away from you any longer. Peter’s death was an easy excuse; I wanted to see you. But for some reason your mother-in-law balked, wouldn’t let me near you. It was as if she suspected me of something . . . sinister. I could read it in her eyes. I explained that I was an old friend, gave her my card, but she absolutely refused . . .”

His voice trailed off, and Mara could sense the restraint that he forced upon himself. The finger stopped its seductive motion. With a scowl he pulled his hand away from her face.

“Then it wasn’t business,”

she whispered.

“Not at all.”

He walked away from her and buried his fists into his pockets. Satisfied that the distance between them was sufficient, he leaned against the fireplace and surveyed her. Involuntarily, his jaw tightened.

“And now, Shane?”

she demanded, hoping that her voice wouldn’t give her ragged emotions away. “What about now? Is it business that brings you back here?”

“Yes and no.”

The expression on his face was as enigmatic as his words. There was a kindness in his features, and yet a different, steely hardness stormed in his eyes. For a moment he hesitated, and Mara was aware of a breakdown in his reserve, but it was quickly reconstructed.

“Did you say that you gave June your card?”

Mara inquired, puzzled.

“Yes—but she wouldn’t have anything to do with me. Did she give it to you?”

he asked, and read the negative answer in her eyes. “I didn’t think so. I know it sounds absurd, but that woman holds something against me.”

“That’s impossible. She doesn’t even know you.”

Shane shrugged his broad shoulders. “That’s the impression that she left with me. But it really doesn’t matter.”

“She was just upset—it was the day of Peter’s funeral, you know.”

“Like I said, it doesn’t matter. I think we should get going,”

he suggested, curtly. “We’re already late for our reservation.”

“I thought you wanted to talk . . .”

“I do and we will. But you look like you could use a good meal, and so could I. We have lots of catching up to do.”

Mara regarded him with interest. “What about the proposition about Imagination?”

“That, too.”

The evening was dark and still, and the silence was a thick, heavy cloud that separated Mara from Shane as they rode together in the sports car. Neither spoke, afraid to shatter the tranquility of the evening. Each was surrounded by the cloak of his own private thoughts. As Mara cast a surreptitious glance at Shane, she noted the thick black hair blowing softly in the wind, the slightly arrogant straight nose, and the deepset darkness of his eyes. In the car, with only inches separating their bodies, she was acutely aware of him and his brooding masculinity, just as she had been on the first night that they had met. It had been nearly five years ago, but she could remember that night as clearly as if it were yesterday.

* * *

Mara hadn’t wanted to attend the surprise birthday party that one of the girls in the office was throwing for the boss. But the hostess had been insistent, and Mara succumbed to the pressure. She didn’t want to be the only employee who couldn’t make it to Mr. Black’s fiftieth birthday party. Against her better judgment she agreed to attend.

That night Mara toyed with the drink in her hand, already forming a plausible excuse to leave the festivities early. The music was loud, the guests even louder, and she seemed distinctly out of place. She looked around the room to find Sandy, the hostess, in order to excuse herself and make a hasty exit.

The dark-eyed stranger must have arrived late because Mara hadn’t noticed him earlier. But when she finally did see him, she found him staring intently at her from across the room. His black eyes were friendly, beguiling, and although there must have been over twenty people in the room, in the one suspended instant, when her eyes touched his, Mara felt that she was alone with him. Her breath caught in her throat as he advanced toward her, but she was unable to tear her eyes away from his face.

His was an interesting profile, contoured in smooth angles and planes. His eyes were deepset and very black, the color of midnight. His jaw was strong and square, with the slight trace of a dimple cleaving it, and his nose was extra straight. There was the beginning of laugh lines around his eyes and lips, and an amused twinkle in his eye sparkled as he sauntered over to Mara.

For a hushed moment there was an awkward silence between them, and finally, out of embarrassment, Mara dragged her eyes away from his. She swirled the untouched drink in her hand and gazed at the small whirlpool she created, hoping that she didn’t appear as nervous and out of place as she felt.

The man leaned against the counter that separated kitchen from family room and startled Mara by uttering a curse under his breath. “God, I hate these kinds of parties, don’t you?”

he asked, studying her and taking a long swallow from his drink.

“Birthday parties?”

she repeated, thinking the question strange. She shrugged dismissively. “No . . . they’re all right, I guess.”

His lips formed a grim sort of smile and his eyes reached out for hers. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t have anything against a birthday celebration—usually.”

Mara was clearly confused, and her bewilderment showed on her delicate face. She shook her head negatively, and her blond hair brushed against her neck. “You’re right, I don’t understand.”

“You really don’t, do you?”

he inquired, obviously amazed. Her subtle innocence intrigued him.

“If you would just tell me what you’re talking about,”

she suggested, a bit sarcastically, and feeling as if he was playing some sort of private game with her.

“Don’t you get it? Look around you. Do you notice anything different about us?”

He waved his hand expansively, including the rest of the guests in the room.

“About us?”

she echoed as her eyes glanced toward the other people in the room. Suddenly it dawned on her, and she felt herself blush. “Oh, I see,”

she mumbled, and discovered that she couldn’t meet his dark, probing gaze.

“Damn that Bob Brandon and his wife! They’re always trying to get me matched up with somebody!”

His jaw clenched and Mara felt an uncontrollable urge to run. She could see as plainly as he that she had been set up as the only single woman to naturally balance the one odd man out. That explained why Sandra Brandon had been so insistent that she attend the party. When Mara had attempted to make excuses yesterday at the office, Sandra had become positively demanding that Mara attend. It was evident now why Sandra had been so insistent. Sandra liked everything in life even, and in her mind there was no such thing as an unattached male.

Shane finished his drink with a flourish and placed the empty glass on the counter. Mara could see that he was trying to control his irritation with the uncomfortable situation. At first she imagined that he was disappointed that she was his date, but his next statement changed her opinion.

“Well, if Bob and Sandy think that I need their assistance in my love life, who am I to argue?”

He smiled mockingly. “How about a dance?”

Mara was embarrassed, uncomfortable, and angry with Sandra. She didn’t need any man thinking that he had to keep her entertained for the evening. She tried vainly to get out of the dance. “You don’t have to . . . I mean I . . .”

“You mean ‘yes,’ don’t you?”

His dark eyes brooked no argument and he pushed her carefully into the center of the room. The music was soft, barely discernable over the din of the party, and Mara felt stupidly self-conscious, as if she were trying to draw attention to herself. But the moment that the tall man with the strangely appealing eyes wrapped his arms over her and held her intimately against him, she forgot the rest of the guests. It was as if all of her senses were immediately electrified, and the soft, sultry music filtered over the slightly boisterous noise of the crowd to encompass her and the powerful man who held her.

At first her movements were stiff, but as Shane pressed more closely to her, she felt herself begin to relax and mold to the warmth of his long, lean body. His hand at the small of her back guided her. Her head rested lightly against the soft fabric of his shirt, and she closed her eyes to listen to the beating of his heart. She heard a controlled, rhythmic beat, unlike the pulsating drumming in her rib cage.

When her eyes fluttered open for an instant, she noticed Sandy Brandon smiling smugly at the sight of her wrapped in Shane’s strong arms. Color darkened Mara’s cheeks, but she couldn’t help but feel totally at ease with the stranger. They danced together, their bodies swaying with the music, for what seemed both an instant and an eternity. When the tempo of the songs quickened, Shane pulled Mara by the wrist toward the door.

“Let’s find a spot that’s not so crowded,”

he decided with a husky voice.

“What do you mean?”

she inquired cautiously, and her breath seemed too tight for her throat.

A smile blazed across his tanned face. “I’m suggesting that we leave.”

“Together?”

she blurted incredulously.

“Of course together,”

he whispered. “Otherwise our plan wouldn’t work, would it?”

“What plan?”

“Well,”

he drawled, eyeing the crowd with apparent disdain, “I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of Sandy Brandon playing the role of matchmaker in my life.”

“I don’t see how you can hope to change her. She’s an incurable romantic who adores fixing people up.”

“Doesn’t she, though,”

he observed dryly. “Maybe we can change all that, at least in our case.”

“How?”

Mara asked, bewildered.

“You’ll see,”

he stated enigmatically. “Do you have a coat?”

Mara couldn’t resist the intrigue of the moment. And the look on Sandy Brandon’s surprised face as she spied Mara leaving with Shane was worth the gamble of leaving with a complete stranger.

Shane and Mara left together in the flash and roar of his sports car. At the time Mara told herself that she was being careless and throwing caution to the wind—acting completely out of her usually shy and reserved character. All for the sake of a practical joke, or so she tried to convince herself. If she had been honest with herself, she would have had to confess to falling prey to an attraction that she had never before experienced. The dark-eyed stranger was bewitching.

They drove for over an hour in the convertible, at first quietly, as if each might have suddenly regretted the impulsive dash away from the party. But as the black night sped by, and the minutes ticked forward, Shane began to talk and draw Mara out of her silence. Mara was entranced by the romance of it all—riding into the night with a virile, handsome stranger and casting aside all consideration for time or reality. She felt as free as the wind that caught her honeyed hair and brushed it in tangled waves away from her face. His words were serious and kind, and when he favored her with a smile that touched his eyes, the sound of her laughter was caught in the night wind and left in the darkness.

It was nearly midnight when Shane stopped the car. They were far from the city—light-years away from the real world—parked in the solitude by a wooded river. The moon cast a rippling slash of silver on the water and the stars dotted the sky. A light, midsummer breeze played with her hair and the faint fragrance of honeysuckle hung in the air.

Shane held her hand as they walked along the shore of the river. She leaned on him often as the heel of her sandals would slip against the rocks at the river’s edge. They spoke hesitantly and softly, as if the silence of the night were a fragile spell that they dare not break. He paused underneath the protective, needled limbs of a large pine tree, and in the darkness his hand pulled her more intimately to him. In the night, with eyes wide and searching, Mara read the silent passion in Shane’s features. His lips found hers in a tentative, gentle kiss, and she felt herself respond to the warm, enticing pressure of his mouth. The faint taste of brandy wet her lips, and she let herself lean against him as the hot burst of womanhood exploded in her body. The kiss, which started so tenderly, deepened in passion, and a dizzying, unreal sensation swept over her. Mara sighed deeply against Shane’s lips, yielding to the warm, liquid mouth that was enveloping her.

Suddenly he froze, and as he dragged his lips from her, he swore at himself under his breath. He rotated his head from hers, as if by gazing out into the distance, he could assuage the hunger of desire that ripped through his body.

Mara listened to her own ragged breathing, and she could almost see his body stiffen as she noted with a welling sense of disappointment that he was trying to escape from her and the yearnings of his body by putting a distance between them.

“Oh, God,”

Shane groaned to himself and looked heavenward. “What am I doing?”

He glanced at her with eyes full of smoldering passion and put a protective arm across her slim shoulders. Tenderly he led her to the base of the pine tree, on a bed of soft boughs, and helped her into a sitting position against the trunk. He sat with his back braced by the tree. She sat, half-laid, in the warm cradle of his strong arms. Her pulse was running wild with surging heat through her body, and she leaned against him. Her heart pounded loudly in the silent, starry evening, destroying the peace of the night.

Time and rational thought had ceased. Mara was mesmerized by the soft night and the warm touch of the man who held her so intimately. His breath fanned her hair, and a musky scent invaded her nostrils. The whisper-soft kisses that he rained against the back of her neck teased her skin and heated her blood. Her pulse, already on fire, blazed through her veins.

“Mara,”

his throaty voice murmured against her hair. “I want you . . .”

It was an unnecessary admission, a fact as true as the night itself.

“I know”

was the only response that would pass her lips. His hands on her shoulders were enticing, inviting. The evening was warm and seductive, and the pine tree hung over them, guarding them in its heavy, needled branches. Only a slight breeze disturbed the serenity of the nightfall by mildly moving the boughs.

“You’re beautiful,”

Shane coaxed, and his fingers tickled her neck. “I know this is crazy—I don’t know how to describe it—but I need you, Mara. Not because you’re a woman, but because you’re unique . . . special. . . captivating. You’re you, and I want the most intimate part of you.”

“You don’t even know me,”

she protested feebly, knowing that she was succumbing to the magic of the seductive night.

“But I do,”

he whispered hoarsely, and she believed him. She believed the persuasive touch of his fingers against her skin. She believed the warm enticement of the night. And she believed the ragged sound of longing in his voice as it was torn from his throat in an admission of surrender.

His fingers found the buttons of her blouse, and she didn’t stop the tender exploration of his lips against her burning skin.

She knew only that she wanted him and needed him, and she let him guide her into a new feeling of awareness.

He taught her of a need so great that it was a consuming, unquenched ache that burned within her.

They discovered each other, and Mara found for the first time in her twenty-four years the bittersweet yearnings and fulfillment of love.

She found a satisfaction so strong that it dissolved the pain and replaced the ache with rapture.

It was a night lost in the stars.

The quiet lights of Asheville winked in the far-off distance while Mara experienced a night ridden with flaming desire and warm, molten surrender.

Dawn awakened her with its rosy warming rays, and Mara realized in the filtered sunlight that she could never love another man. Shane Kennedy, a virtual stranger, but most intimate lover, possessed her body and soul. The memory of the passion that they shared beneath the pine tree overpowered her with its intensity.

When she stirred, Shane opened a lazy eye and squinted against the filtered glare of the morning as it passed through the soft curtain of pine needles. A pleasant, enticing grin stole over his features as he watched with unashamed interest when Mara tried to conceal and cover her nudity. Embarrassment welled within her and she held the scanty protection of her blue chiffon blouse over her exposed breasts.

His dark eyes became serious. “Don’t!”

he commanded.

“Don’t what?”

she asked, feigning innocence.

“Don’t ever hide from me.”

He tugged at the blouse and slowly pulled it out of her fingers. His eyes slid restlessly over her breasts and the directness of his gaze mingled with the cool morning air forced her nipples to harden into taut rosy buttons.

“I’m not . . . trying to hide,”

she murmured, but her voice cracked with emotion and she lowered her head, letting the gilded curtain of her hair shelter her face.

With a groan, he hauled himself up to sit beside her. His face was close to hers, and his fingers cupped her chin in order that she meet his inquiring gaze. “What’s wrong?”

he asked and she could feel his black probing eyes.

“I’m not used . . . to being . . . naked with a man,”

she admitted huskily before closing her eyes and letting the flush of scarlet that burned on her cheeks speak for her.

“Well,”

he mused, encircling her with his arms and giving her a bear hug. “I think that you should get used to it . . .”

She shook her head and feared that the tears gathering in her eyes would spill. “I can’t,”

she whispered.

“Sure you can. You have a beautiful body, and you should be proud of it. You’re not ashamed, are you?”

She answered mutely with only her eyes, and bit her lip in order to choke back the sobs that were threatening to explode within her. Her head was rested on her knees for support, as she tried to fight back the storm of tears that threatened to overcome her.

“Mara.”

His voice was firm. “Please look at me. Don’t push me away from you. Not now. Not ever! You mean too much to me.”

“You . . . don’t have to say . . .”

“Shh. I’m only saying what I mean,”

he admitted solemnly.

Her eyes found his and she could feel herself begin to drown in the warmth and kindness that she saw in his face, a face that was virile and masculine yet softened with the innocence of recent sleep. His words were spoken slowly and deliberately, as if he had weighed their importance all night.

“I want you to come and live with me.”

Mara felt a frown distort her features, and the tears that were promising to fall began to slide unchecked down her cheeks. “Live with you?”

she repeated hoarsely, and turned her face away from him. “I . . . I don’t know if I can live with you—or any man for that matter, without being married.”

“Don’t you think that we should get to know each other a little better before we talk about marriage?”

he asked realistically, and gave her an affectionate shake.

“I don’t know what to think,”

she admitted.

“Then just trust me, Mara. Trust me . . .”

And she did.