and greeted
him. Then he'd move, catlike, until he was in front of her, the blue eyes full
of the memories of that morning on the boat as they raked her or caressed her.
She was never sure which to expect.
He made no move to re-create the intimacy he had
precipitated before but he didn't need to, she acknowledged ruefully. She felt
it every time he looked at her.
At night, when she visited the inn with Jeremy or by
herself, Holt danced with her, his hold possessive. He wanted her to know of
his desire, she decided, but he fully intended to restrain himself. With a
secret smile she told herself it was probably because his feelings toward her
were as ambivalent as hers were toward him. He didn't approve of her goals and
she didn't appreciate his poorly concealed disapproval. His lapses into
outright criticism were frequent and she reacted to them with teasing laughter.
"What do you think about out here early in the
morning?" he asked one day, hunkering down beside her in his running
shorts and shoes, his eyes curious and intent.
"What do you think about when you run?" she
countered with a small smile.
He hesitated. "Nothing in particular. Whatever comes
to mind, I suppose. It's more a process of. . . of my mind floating along with
my body. I just absorb the feelings and sensations. I don't try to concentrate."
He looked at her sharply to see if she understood.
"That's how it is for me," Lacey said quietly.
"I simply sit here and let my mind compose itself for the day."
"Did you start this regimen back in Iowa?" He
chuckled.
"Don't be ridiculous! They would have put me away in a
padded cell!" But she knew he understood what she got out of her morning
period of quiet, just as she sensed what his running meant to him.
On the occasions when she left the lounge with Jeremy late
at night, Lacey could feel the brooding, disquieting impact of Holt's stare as
he watched them go. She knew without being told that he wanted to yank her away
from the younger man and escort her back to the cottage himself. His restraint
intrigued her.
Holt's dancing took on increasingly intimate overtones and
on two occasions during which he had held her in an almost loverlike embrace,
she had sensed the anger in him when she'd freed herself at the conclusion of
the music to go back to Jeremy or rejoin whatever group of guests she had been
with.
It was Holt who came and found her lazing beside the indoor
pool, chatting with new friends and idly thumbing through a batch of letters
from potential employers the day her mother phoned.
"The office just got a call for you, Lacey," he
told her, nodding to the others around her. "I told George I thought I'd
seen you heading this way."
Lacey leaped to her feet, her expression animated.
"Did he say where the call was from?" George Barton, Holt's
assistant, was a pleasant man in his mid-fifties who had taken an active
interest in Lacey's job hunting. He always had her stack of mail ready for her
every morning.
"Iowa, I'm afraid." He grinned wickedly as her
face fell. "Expecting something more interesting?"
He watched as she flung on a short, jewel-toned
bathing-suit cover-up over her sleek, sapphire-blue maillot She waved the
letter in her hand at him.
"Hawaii," she stated succinctly, starting for the
bank of house phones at the edge of the pool. Holt followed more slowly,
stopping en route for an exchange of greetings with several guests.
"What do you mean, Hawaii?" he hissed, reaching
her just as she picked up the phone.
She held the formal business letter out to him as she spoke
into the receiver. He frowned, scanning the page as she greeted her mother.
"Hi, mom! Of course I'm fine. Didn't you get my
letters? Yes, it's lovely out here."
She paused, listening politely to the expected litany from
the other end of the line. "No," Lacey finally said gently. "I'm
not coming back to Iowa. I like it here. You and dad should come out and see
these islands. Green as far as the eye can see. Not a cornfield
him. Then he'd move, catlike, until he was in front of her, the blue eyes full
of the memories of that morning on the boat as they raked her or caressed her.
She was never sure which to expect.
He made no move to re-create the intimacy he had
precipitated before but he didn't need to, she acknowledged ruefully. She felt
it every time he looked at her.
At night, when she visited the inn with Jeremy or by
herself, Holt danced with her, his hold possessive. He wanted her to know of
his desire, she decided, but he fully intended to restrain himself. With a
secret smile she told herself it was probably because his feelings toward her
were as ambivalent as hers were toward him. He didn't approve of her goals and
she didn't appreciate his poorly concealed disapproval. His lapses into
outright criticism were frequent and she reacted to them with teasing laughter.
"What do you think about out here early in the
morning?" he asked one day, hunkering down beside her in his running
shorts and shoes, his eyes curious and intent.
"What do you think about when you run?" she
countered with a small smile.
He hesitated. "Nothing in particular. Whatever comes
to mind, I suppose. It's more a process of. . . of my mind floating along with
my body. I just absorb the feelings and sensations. I don't try to concentrate."
He looked at her sharply to see if she understood.
"That's how it is for me," Lacey said quietly.
"I simply sit here and let my mind compose itself for the day."
"Did you start this regimen back in Iowa?" He
chuckled.
"Don't be ridiculous! They would have put me away in a
padded cell!" But she knew he understood what she got out of her morning
period of quiet, just as she sensed what his running meant to him.
On the occasions when she left the lounge with Jeremy late
at night, Lacey could feel the brooding, disquieting impact of Holt's stare as
he watched them go. She knew without being told that he wanted to yank her away
from the younger man and escort her back to the cottage himself. His restraint
intrigued her.
Holt's dancing took on increasingly intimate overtones and
on two occasions during which he had held her in an almost loverlike embrace,
she had sensed the anger in him when she'd freed herself at the conclusion of
the music to go back to Jeremy or rejoin whatever group of guests she had been
with.
It was Holt who came and found her lazing beside the indoor
pool, chatting with new friends and idly thumbing through a batch of letters
from potential employers the day her mother phoned.
"The office just got a call for you, Lacey," he
told her, nodding to the others around her. "I told George I thought I'd
seen you heading this way."
Lacey leaped to her feet, her expression animated.
"Did he say where the call was from?" George Barton, Holt's
assistant, was a pleasant man in his mid-fifties who had taken an active
interest in Lacey's job hunting. He always had her stack of mail ready for her
every morning.
"Iowa, I'm afraid." He grinned wickedly as her
face fell. "Expecting something more interesting?"
He watched as she flung on a short, jewel-toned
bathing-suit cover-up over her sleek, sapphire-blue maillot She waved the
letter in her hand at him.
"Hawaii," she stated succinctly, starting for the
bank of house phones at the edge of the pool. Holt followed more slowly,
stopping en route for an exchange of greetings with several guests.
"What do you mean, Hawaii?" he hissed, reaching
her just as she picked up the phone.
She held the formal business letter out to him as she spoke
into the receiver. He frowned, scanning the page as she greeted her mother.
"Hi, mom! Of course I'm fine. Didn't you get my
letters? Yes, it's lovely out here."
She paused, listening politely to the expected litany from
the other end of the line. "No," Lacey finally said gently. "I'm
not coming back to Iowa. I like it here. You and dad should come out and see
these islands. Green as far as the eye can see. Not a cornfield
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