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

natural autonomy of a brilliantly programmed robot.
She was also grateful for the years that had bred self-restraint. If she had had to depend on instinct, she would have run screaming into the night, hands clenched tightly to her head to drown out the clamoring emotions that pierced through the numbness that had claimed her.
Her heart bled for Pieter. And she hated Drake. Hated him for judging without knowing . . . hated him with even more vehemence, because she knew that by all outward appearances he had come to the only possible conclusions. . . .
Yet she hated him mostly because of her own sense of bewilderment and shame. When he looked at her, when his hands grazed over hers, when she inhaled the too-familiar drugging scent that exuded from his coiled frame, she wanted him again. Sensitivities that had lain dormant all those years had been reawakened by this man who now despised her, but God help her, despite his scorn, despite her honest but different love for Pieter, she couldn't stop her tormented mind from bringing her back to those cherished hours of curling against his magnificent naked form. . . .
Ronnie didn't attempt to meet Drake's eyes as she returned his fresh drink and once more took her chair. The conversation turned to the quality of various marble, and she found herself speaking occasionally, her tone deadened, but all her inflections in the right place.
This time her drink was almost straight Seagram's. She welcomed the choking heat that burned down her throat, blazing much-needed bravado through her system.
After dinner, she was going to lock herself in her room and get rip-roaring drunk. The next day's hangover would be a small price to pay for that night's solace.
Henri made one of his proper entrances to announce that dinner was served. Pieter and Drake both sprang to their feet to escort her graciously into the formal dining room. Despite the warmth of the liquor, Drake's touch on her arm was as hot as a branding iron; his sardonic grin as he towered above her as cutting as an unsheathed foil.
It was impossible for her to do anything more than pick at the excellent meal of stuffed grouse that she had planned for the evening. The crystals of the multifaceted chandelier swam together above her head, fogging the brilliant colors of the flowers she had cut with such complacency earlier in the day.
"Certainly," she suddenly heard Drake saying dryly. "A gem above all others."
Ronnie's eyes rose from absent concentration on her plate to glance quickly from man to man. They had been discussing her openly, and she hadn't heard a word that was said.
"An amazing talent," Drake continued, raising his wineglass a hair as he steadily returned her inadvertent glance. "Uniquely stunning; the most charming chatelaine. I'm sure all of her . . . ah . . . talents, are equally pleasing."
There was no way to prevent the rush of crimson that stained her face in a wild flush of fury. How could he be so insinuative with Pieter at the same table?
Because Pieter was blissfully unaware. The comment meant nothing to him. Only Ronnie knew the degrading implication. . . .
"Ronnie excels at nothing so well as being my model," Pieter was saying cheerfully, oblivious to the color of his wife's face as he studiously cut his food. "But you'll see what I mean tomorrow."
"What?" The squeaked question was out before Ronnie realized she had voiced it.
Pieter finally looked up, frowning. "I told you, Ronnie, Drake is also a sculptor. I intend to draw him into our work." His brooding gaze left her to travel to Drake with a hint of pride. "This young man could probably have far surpassed me in genius if his interests weren't so diversified. His hands war with his mind—art and business. But he has come to push me. I intend to push in return and involve him in our project."
Ronnie placed her fork down and reached for her water glass, dismayed by the trembling that assailed her fingers. She couldn't possibly model with Drake in the room.