Sloane was not fooled by her diversionary tactic; his prolonged silence, following her enthusiastic declaration, told her that. For some reason, however, he did not challenge her. Yet, his follow-up statement nearly took her back to square one. “You could travel with me whenever you liked. I’d love having you along. I’ve even got a big project coming up in—”
“But what do you do forfun?” Justine cut in, as much in desperation as in curiosity. Once again he hit too close to home, and she wanted nothing to spoil the time they shared.
His breath was warm, fanning her forehead. “I ravish fair maidens,” he growled, disguising frustration in mischief.
“No, seriously, Sloane. You must have some hobby … do you play a sport…?”
“Handball. I play as often as I can.”
“Ah, that explains it, then….”
“Explains what?”
“Your muscles.” Rolling over onto him, she stretched to admire the subjects in question. “There had to be some work involved in building those … regular exercise, type-of-thing …”
Her eyes were as green as the new grass of spring beneath the sun’s sparkle. Suddenly, she found herself on her back and looking up at the handsome face which hovered close above. His hair was rich and full. On impulse, she threaded her fingers into its sterling sheen.
“Right now, I have a very different type of exercise in mind,” he drawled, a return of huskiness in his voice. Just as Justine’s senses came to life, however, he levered his taut-skinned form off her. “I believe I will take a jog. Into town. To pick up something to eat. I’m famished!”
His legs had already disappeared into his jeans, and he straightened to zip the fly. She could only stare at him in disbelief.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart”—he read her mind exactly, swooping down to retrieve his shirt and croon playfully to her—“we’ll have plenty of time later.”
With a blush she sat up and wrapped the thick padding of the sleeping bag around her. “And what am I supposed to do while you jog into town?” Disappointed, she watched as he buttoned his shirt, robbing her of the heady sight of his chest.
“Why don’t you jog with me?” he asked innocently.
“Because, in the first place, I don’t jog. And, in the second place”—she squirmed slowly then grimaced—“I seem to be a little sore. I think I could use a hot bath.”
The smile that lit his face was broad and hearty. “I suspected as much. And, you’re in luck. I’ve brought towels. Let me get them while you run the water. Try the master bath upstairs—it’s a sunken tub.” His voice trailed off as he disappeared up the stairs toward the front door and the car. Justine was already half-submerged in a steaming tub when he returned carrying an armload of thick terry towels. “If you finish before I get back”—he winked from the bathroom door after dropping the towels and heading back out—“you can wander around and get some ideas for decorating. You’ll have to earn your keep for the weekend somehow!”
Before she could find a suitable retort, he was gone.Somehow.A warm flush seeped slowly upward as her thoughts turned to thatsomehow.How misleading life could be at times, she mused. Having always thought of herself as a feminist of sorts, she should have been soundly offended by his parting shot.Earn her keep,she laughed, particularly recalling the none-too-subtle leer which had accompanied that poignantsomehow.Yet she felt no offense—none whatsoever. She had chosen freely to give herself to Sloane, and, in the process, had discovered that the giving was far from one-sided. Submission had never entered into their lovemaking. There had been giving and taking and sharing—all beautiful, all satisfying. Nothing would please her more than to spend the weekend in his arms!
As it happened, she did her share of amateur decorating as well. Much of Saturday was spent in this endeavor, as the two walked from room to room while Sloane noted her suggestions as to furniture, light fixtures, wall hangings and artwork, accessories, and floor treatment. “I would leave the windows as bare as possible”—she toyed with a concept that was totally out of the question in the city. “Privacy is not an issue here—you are surrounded by trees and ocean. Why not let it all in? Plants, perhaps—hang them there”—she pointed to the opposite ends of a wide window in the living room—“and there, but make sure that they complement the natural landscape rather than vie with it for attention.”
“And the bedrooms…?”
“There you’ll need something for darkening effect alone. If, that is, you hope to sleep late once in a while. Otherwise, the bright sun pouring in at six may be a bit disturbing.” She grinned, recalling how late they had slept this very morning, sun and all.
“We werebothexhausted, sweetheart,” he said, mirroring her memory. “For my part”—a strong forearm fell across her shoulders—“I don’t know whether it was work … or you.”
Justine curled her arms around his waist, closing her eyes and resting her cheek against his chest. She inhaled deeply of his manly scent, then sighed her contentment. The moment was so beautiful, she mused. No past, no future—just now.
“Okay, to work!” Sloane ordered good-naturedly, setting her back from him. “I picked up cleaning supplies with lunch. What will you take—windows or bathrooms?”
“Windows.” Given the choice of those particular two, Justine would do windows anyday!
“Coward,” he taunted under his breath, as he handed her a cloth and a large spray bottle then selected his own and was off. At intervals they checked up on one another, with Justine starting on windows which were nearest the particular bathroom he scrubbed at a given time. After several hours they took a rest, walking the beach with carefree ease, enjoying the presence of each other and the mild ocean breeze.
Dinner was, by mutual choice, a joint endeavor. They had stocked the refrigerator and the cupboards with the basics—after Justine had wiped down the cabinets, inside and out, with Sloane calling directions from the last of the three bathrooms. “Nothing exotic,” they had agreed, yet one thing had led to another, and, before they knew it, they sat down—in the bare middle of the shiny parquet of the dining room floor—to a dinner of London broil, baked stuffed potatoes, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, and peach melba. The irony of paper plates, plastic knives and forks, and the starkness of the empty room went by unnoticed. Hungry as they were, they ate. Romantic-minded as they were, they sipped fine wine from Dixie cups, grinning all the while. For Justine the dinner held as much elegance as any she had ever eaten.
Sloane lazed back on his elbow, stretched his legs their length and crossed them at the ankle as he watched her savor the last of her peach melba. “Do you have any idea,” he finally asked, when every drop had been irrevocably consumed, “how many calories you’ve just consumed?”
She cocked her head defensively. “I said that I splurged once in a while. This happens to be that once!”
“And pizza last night?” he ribbed her, rolling his eyes skyward in memory. “I seem to recall that you matched me, bite for bite.”
Tossing her head back at the unimportance of it, she grinned. “I daresay I’ve worked off every one of those calories.” Bounding up, she loaded her hands with empty plates. “I’ll have to see to that oven tomorrow. It badly needs a cleaning.”
