Read Online A Season for Love by Heather Graham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Heather Graham
Tags: Romance
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Pieter was carving the curves of her back into pink marble. Sitting for her husband was clinical. Sitting, clothed only in drapery, while the two chiseled and discussed human anatomy, using her like the marble beneath their hands, would be enough to drive her over the brink.
She would be like a fish out of water, exposed, totally vulnerable to whatever verbal attack Drake chose to make.
And he knew it. He raised his glass higher to her as a single brow quirked high in cynical amusement. "I shall be looking forward to tomorrow."
Ronnie drained the entire glass of water, only to find that the effort still did nothing to dampen her desert-dry throat.
There could be no tomorrow. She was determined and adamant. But now was not the time to argue with Pieter. They did not argue, or even "discuss," in front of others, but this was one time she would make an unrelenting stand against the man she strove to please in all other ways.
Drake must have sensed her plan to protest. "Please don't be distressed, Veronica," he told her glibly. "I assure you that I am a legitimate artist."
Pieter waved his hand in the air with dramatic dismissal. "Don't worry about Ronnie, Drake. She's a very professional lady."
"And one who needs a bit of air," Ronnie declared, unable to sit still any longer and be discussed as if she weren't present. Rising quickly, she murmured, "If you'll excuse me for a moment . . ."
Pieter might be shocked that she was walking out on company, but that too would have to be brought up later. She was getting out of the room.
Both men rose quickly. "Certainly, my dear," Pieter murmured in response, concern in his tone. But there was also anger. Ronnie didn't really care. Maybe it was time she stopped catering to him.
"I'll rejoin you shortly," she promised, surprised by the cool determination of her own voice, "back in the salon for brandy. . . ."
She was sailing regally out the door before either man could give further contemplation to her abrupt departure.
But she wasn't out of earshot quickly enough to miss Pieter's damning words as the two reseated themselves.
"I doubt if Veronica will be modeling much longer for me, which means my project must be completed soon. Her loyalty to me has been excessive, but I'd like to see her pursuing a few new interests. ..."
She was going to scream. Either that or bury herself beneath the fertile soil that harbored her cherished plants. . . .
But she did neither. She did flee to the garden, discarding her stately walk as soon as she had left the house behind. Her heels twisted in the dirt as she ran, wrenching her ankles, but she didn't care. She needed time desperately. Time to retrieve a measure of dignity.
She was panting when she reached the little tile paths that ran among her flowers and the fountains that played in the garden. Finding the wrought iron love seat wedged near the rear wall, she sank onto it, automatically straightening the tendrils of sleek auburn hair that had fallen loose in her reckless run.
Now, more than ever, she had to talk to Drake alone. Without giving away any of the truth, she had to somehow subtly convince this man who had torn into her life like a cyclone that he could endanger her husband's precarious health.
She never heard his footsteps. He came upon her as silently as a wraith, a shocking feat for a man of his size and robust vitality. Her first knowledge that he had come upon her was the result of his raw words.
"So—the 'Mrs.' that doesn't matter is Von Hurst. Tacky, madam. That name has mattered with incredible importance for almost twenty years."
"What are you doing out here?" Ronnie bit back sharply. She didn't need to feign civility out there.
"Pieter is concerned," Drake drawled mockingly, setting a polished shoe upon the love seat, his hands in his pockets, leaning toward her. "The poor man doesn't seem to know what's gotten into his precious wife. Actually, it seems there's a lot the poor man doesn't know about his wife."
Ronnie curled her
She would be like a fish out of water, exposed, totally vulnerable to whatever verbal attack Drake chose to make.
And he knew it. He raised his glass higher to her as a single brow quirked high in cynical amusement. "I shall be looking forward to tomorrow."
Ronnie drained the entire glass of water, only to find that the effort still did nothing to dampen her desert-dry throat.
There could be no tomorrow. She was determined and adamant. But now was not the time to argue with Pieter. They did not argue, or even "discuss," in front of others, but this was one time she would make an unrelenting stand against the man she strove to please in all other ways.
Drake must have sensed her plan to protest. "Please don't be distressed, Veronica," he told her glibly. "I assure you that I am a legitimate artist."
Pieter waved his hand in the air with dramatic dismissal. "Don't worry about Ronnie, Drake. She's a very professional lady."
"And one who needs a bit of air," Ronnie declared, unable to sit still any longer and be discussed as if she weren't present. Rising quickly, she murmured, "If you'll excuse me for a moment . . ."
Pieter might be shocked that she was walking out on company, but that too would have to be brought up later. She was getting out of the room.
Both men rose quickly. "Certainly, my dear," Pieter murmured in response, concern in his tone. But there was also anger. Ronnie didn't really care. Maybe it was time she stopped catering to him.
"I'll rejoin you shortly," she promised, surprised by the cool determination of her own voice, "back in the salon for brandy. . . ."
She was sailing regally out the door before either man could give further contemplation to her abrupt departure.
But she wasn't out of earshot quickly enough to miss Pieter's damning words as the two reseated themselves.
"I doubt if Veronica will be modeling much longer for me, which means my project must be completed soon. Her loyalty to me has been excessive, but I'd like to see her pursuing a few new interests. ..."
She was going to scream. Either that or bury herself beneath the fertile soil that harbored her cherished plants. . . .
But she did neither. She did flee to the garden, discarding her stately walk as soon as she had left the house behind. Her heels twisted in the dirt as she ran, wrenching her ankles, but she didn't care. She needed time desperately. Time to retrieve a measure of dignity.
She was panting when she reached the little tile paths that ran among her flowers and the fountains that played in the garden. Finding the wrought iron love seat wedged near the rear wall, she sank onto it, automatically straightening the tendrils of sleek auburn hair that had fallen loose in her reckless run.
Now, more than ever, she had to talk to Drake alone. Without giving away any of the truth, she had to somehow subtly convince this man who had torn into her life like a cyclone that he could endanger her husband's precarious health.
She never heard his footsteps. He came upon her as silently as a wraith, a shocking feat for a man of his size and robust vitality. Her first knowledge that he had come upon her was the result of his raw words.
"So—the 'Mrs.' that doesn't matter is Von Hurst. Tacky, madam. That name has mattered with incredible importance for almost twenty years."
"What are you doing out here?" Ronnie bit back sharply. She didn't need to feign civility out there.
"Pieter is concerned," Drake drawled mockingly, setting a polished shoe upon the love seat, his hands in his pockets, leaning toward her. "The poor man doesn't seem to know what's gotten into his precious wife. Actually, it seems there's a lot the poor man doesn't know about his wife."
Ronnie curled her
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