Chapter 13.

N ot since her father's death had Holly gotten close enough to any man to miss him when he was gone, but by Friday evening she couldn't deny she missed Tom. She'd picked up the phone a half-dozen times to call him, had even gone so far as to call Ross and get his cell phone number, but something had stopped her. Pride? Common sense? One last-ditch effort at self-protection? He would be back. He had to come back, and when he did, she would...

Greet him coolly as she always had before his birthday? Pretend the last few weeks hadn't happened? Apologize?

She didn't have a clue. But she would find out soon. It was eight o'clock , and according to Maggie, Tom was due back sometime after eight. She had a bottle of wine and two glasses in the library. The lights were turned low, a fire crackled in the fireplace, and her favorite CD was on the stereo. The scene was set for seduction-or romance. She didn't care which one.

Provided he was even speaking to her, she thought as she paced to the west window. He hadn't said one word to her since his last comment at the pond on Tuesday. I'd make you forget your name, she'd bragged to him, and he had quietly responded: Maybe. But I wouldn't forget yours.

Sometimes it seemed as if she'd been forgotten by everyone who mattered in her life. Her parents. Her boyfriends. She had wonderful friends, but there was no doubt she was less important in their lives than they were in hers. They all had husbands and families, and all of them but Melissa had or were having babies. That didn't change the way they felt about her. It was just that their priorities were different.

It was just that she was different.

She'd always been different. When she'd first realized it, back when she was six or seven years old, she'd tried to hide it. She'd pretended her life and family were as normal as everyone else's. Later, when she'd discovered eager adolescent boys and sex, she'd flaunted her differences. She'd played up her sexuality, used it and abused it, figuring that if she was open and up front, if she had no secrets, no one could hurt her.

Maybe it was time now to be normal.

"I would ask if you missed me, but I'm not sure my ego could take the answer."

Startled, she whirled around to find Tom standing in the doorway. His overcoat was folded over one arm, his briefcase gripped in one hand, and his dark hair sported the finger-combed look. He looked handsome and tired and ... Hell, purely incredible.

She summoned a cool smile but got one that was quavery. "I didn't hear you come in."

"You were lost in thought."

"Probably. How was Buffalo ?"

He took a few steps into the room and laid his briefcase and coat on a chair. "Busy. McKinney Industries now owns majority interest in Transglobal Shipping."

"Congratulations."

"We're rebuilding our Alabama factory. Construction starts as soon as the debris is cleared from the site."

"I'm sure your Alabama town is relieved."

"I'm sure they are. And I hired another assistant to help run the Buffalo office when I'm here."

"Is she incredibly beautiful?"

He looked genuinely blank. "I didn't notice."

Holly's smile blossomed as she started across the room. "Good answer. Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Yes, please."

She crossed to the tray on the table and poured wine. As she picked up the glasses, Tom reached from behind and laid a box on the tray. She handed him a glass, then sipped from hers as she studied the box. It was wrapped in heavy navy-blue paper and secured around the middle with translucent silver ribbon and a silver foul sticker. "What is this?"

He moved to the opposite side of the table. There he met her gaze, but he didn't answer. Clearly, he wanted her to open it without a lot of questions.

The box was the right size for jewelry. Ross McKinney had been big on giving jewelry, too. If she described the wrapping and the sticker to Maggie, no doubt she'd be able to tell her which very exclusive Buffalo store it had come from and just how serious such a gift was.

"It's too late for Christmas, and too early for my birthday. Valentine's Day is already past, and we don't have any anniversaries to celebrate... What's the occasion?"

"No occasion."

Finally she traded her glass for the box. One fingernail under the ribbon loosened the foul seal, and the ribbon curled away, leaving the paper to unfold slowly an inch or two. The box inside was dark green, and nestled on its green velvet lining was a stunning, dazzling, eye-popping necklace. Five rows of diamonds stretched from one end of the clasp to the other, each stone perfectly rounded, the even rows offset from the others by half a stone. It was a magnificent piece.

Holly swallowed hard as she lifted it from the velvet and let it dangle across her palm. Even in the dim room, the gems twinkled and sparkled like stars in the darkest sky. They captured all the light in the room and reflected it back brighter, warmer. She cleared her throat. "Oh, Tom, it's beautiful."

Some tension that she hadn't been aware of drained from him. Had he actually worried that she wouldn't like it? What woman wouldn't think it was fabulous?

Setting his drink aside, he reached for the necklace. "Let me put it on-"

She drew back. Part of her wanted to let him do it, if for no other reason than to feel his could warm behind hers, his fingers brushing her skin, his breath gently stirring her hair. The part of her that loved jewelry wanted to let him just to see how such a fabulous piece would look on her. But the part of her in charge of keeping the rest of her together refused. "I-I can't accept this, Tom."

The tension returned, underlaid by disappointment and confusion. "Why not?"

"It's too much."

"Too much what? Too dressy? Too showy?"

"Too extravagant. Too much money."

Clearly, her answer didn't enlighten him. Was he truly not aware of the sorts of gifts their relationship allowed versus the relationship that would justify a gift like this? Probably. The women he'd favored before her had been interested in his money and had welcomed, if not demanded, such amazing gifts.

"But it wasn't that much. And you said you liked jewelry. Would you prefer emeralds? Rubies? Sapphires?"

She supposed it wasn't that much with an income like his, but for the rest of the world, herself included, it was too much. "No, the diamonds are beautiful. They're incredible. But, Tom, we don't have that kind of relationship." Carefully she tugged the necklace from his loose grip and returned it to the box. She closed the box with a snap and pressed it into his hands. "This is the kind of gift you give someone special. Someone you have a serious relationship with."

He pressed the box back into her hands, then clasped his hands around hers so she couldn't let it go. "Then it belongs to you."

It was a roundabout way of saying she was special, but she appreciated it all the same. "Thank you for the sentiment," she said over the lump in her throat. "But I can't accept it."

"I want to marry you. How much more serious can things get?"

She forced a smile even though she felt more like crying. "But I don't want to marry you," she said gently, and for the first time, it felt like less than the honest truth. "I don't want to marry anyone."

"Why not?" he demanded.

"I told you the other day-"

"That you're easy. So what? I've been told I'm difficult. It'll balance out."

Holly forced her hands free, forced the jewelry box back into his hands. "Please don't do this. I don't want to fight with you. I-I-" She smiled ruefully. "I've waited too long for you to come back."

He stood motionless for a very long time, his head tilted to one side, studying her as if she were alien to his experience. After a time, he blinked, gave an impatient shake of his head, and tossed the box on top of his overcoat. "I can't figure you out."

"Join the crowd," she said with a smile that was unsteady.

"I've given other women jewelry, the more extravagant, the better."

"But I'm not other women. I'm certainly not like your other women." She sipped her wine, then returned it to the table. "Dance with me."

He took her into his arms without hesitation, and Holly rested her head on his shoulder, feeling the tension drain from her neck and shoulders. For the first time all week she felt peaceful, satisfied. All the world faded away, leaving just the two of them, the music, the comfort. She could stay alone with him like this forever, with no need of or concern for the inn, her guests, her friends, her mother. Just Tom and this closeness. That was all she wanted.

They were well into the fourth song when he quietly spoke. "If I can't give you diamonds, what can I give you?"

Eyes closed, she hid her smile in his suit coat. He was one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the country, and he truly didn't understand why she couldn't accept the necklace, truly didn't have a clue as to what kind of gift would be appropriate. "Flowers," she decided.

"What kind?"

"Roses. In any color. And orchids. I love orchids. Or chocolate would be appropriate."

"What kind do you prefer?"

"Anything from Hershey's Kisses to Godiva to the most incredible champagne truffles from a little shop on Madison Avenue. A book would be nice, or a CD." Anticipating his next question, she went on. "Anything with a happy ending and anything we can dance to." Then, lifting her head, she opened her eyes to find him watching her. "You," she whispered. "That would be most appropriate."

"Me?"

"All those women you've given extravagant jewelry to... You made love to them before giving them the gifts, right?"

"We had sex," he agreed guardedly.

Interesting that he would make that distinction. He'd told her he wasn't sentimental, and yet he wanted to make it clear that his relationships with Deborah and the others were purely physical. As opposed to the relationship he had with her, which was purely confusing. And sweet. Frustrating. Pleasing. Frightening. "So have sex with me, and maybe I'll consider keeping the necklace." She grinned wickedly. "At the very least, I'll wear it and nothing else while we're having sex."

For a moment he cradled her hips to his, rubbing the beginning swell of his arousal against her, but she didn't believe for an instant that his answer was going to be yes. Considering that it was his favorite word, he certainly didn't use it often.

"I'll make love to you," he replied evenly, "when the time is right."

"But only you get to decide when that is."

He gazed down at her for a long while before softly disagreeing. "No, darlin', only you get to make that decision."

And what went into making that decision? She had to admit they had a serious relationship. She had to admit that she wanted more than just sex, that she wanted him, in her life as well as in her bed. She had to admit she cared for him. She had to open herself to the possibilities. To commitment. To marriage. To getting her heart broken.

She wasn't ready for that. No matter how much she wanted an affair with him, she didn't want it enough-didn't want him enough-to lay her heart on the line ... did she?

"You're asking for the impossible, Tom."

"Nothing's impossible. I'm living proof of that." She couldn't argue with him. And it gave her an odd feeling in her chest to think she would be his first failure.

"Sex doesn't even mean anything to you," she said, returning her head to his chest. He slid one hand up to stroke her hair, his gentle touch encouraging her to close her eyes. Every breath she took smelled of his cologne, a scent that she would forever associate with power, sexuality, arousal ... and security. "It's a physical act that brings you pleasure, nothing more, nothing less. You do it with women you hardly know and care nothing about, and yet you won't do it with me. It's not fair."

"I won't do it with you because it does mean something to you. You use it as a way to keep men at a distance. If you keep busy having meaningless sex with every guy who comes along, then you don't have time to care about any of them. If I sleep with you, you're going to write me off just like all the rest. But I don't intend to be written off, Holly I intend to marry you."

She made a rueful face. "I used to say that I liked a man who knew what he wanted. Now I'm not so sure."

His low laughter tickled her ear and sent a shiver down her spine. "Sex is easy, darlin'. But having sex with someone you care about ... That scares you to death, doesn't it?"

Lifting her chin, she stopped dancing and met his gaze. "Not at all," she lied. "I've done it before and I survived."

"When?"

"The first boy I had sex with," she said airily, as if the memories had no power to hurt, "and the next and the next. They kissed me and held me and told me they loved me, and when I gave them what they wanted, they walked away No big deal. I survived."

He rubbed his hands up and down her arms, sending a slow, lazy heat through her. She wanted to arch against him like a cat, to lean in to him so he could reach other parts of her could, but she held herself still. "And if I have sex with you, that's what you'll expect from me," he said quietly. "That I'll walk out of your life and leave you alone. But it's not going to happen, Holly. One time with you isn't going to be enough. A hundred times won't be. And having sex with you, knowing I'm no different from every other man who's been there before... That's not going to happen, either."

He sounded so sure of himself, so absolutely convinced of what he wanted, that Holly envied him. She had tremendous faith in her sexuality, but very little in herself. Maybe that was because she'd spent half her life cultivating the sexuality and all of it hiding herself. She'd been hurt too many times, had been disappointed too many times.

After refilling her wineglass, she sat down in one corner of the overstuffed sofa, kicking off her shoes, drawing her feet beneath her. "Why marriage, Tom?"

"I told you-"

"That you'd accomplished all the goals you'd set for yourself so now it's time to find a wife. But that's not a reason to get married."

"Then what is?" he asked as he settled at the other end of the sofa.

"Frankly, I can't think of any reason besides children. If you're going to have kids, then you should be married. Other than that..." She shrugged. "And since we've already established that neither of us wants kids..." After a moment, purely out of curiosity, she asked, "Why don't you? Want kids, I mean."

Tom gazed at his wine, watching it respond to the slightest movement he made, and considered her question. For years his answer to such personal questions had been simple and true-no time. He'd been too busy fulfilling his goals to waste one moment on relationships he couldn't sustain or pursuits that did nothing to further his success. He couldn't recall ever making a conscious decision not to marry or not to have children. They were just things that he'd known instinctively weren't going to happen. Of course, he'd changed his mind about getting married. But he wasn't changing his mind about kids. The only kids he could relate to were ones like he used to be, and he neither needed nor wanted that kind of headache.

"Raising children should be left to those whose lives wouldn't be complete without them," he said. "Like Ross and Maggie, the Bishops, and the Graysons. I never wanted a daughter to worry about or a son to carry on my name. I never wanted to be that unselfish. From the time I was sixteen, I had a plan for my life, and it didn't include the sort of sacrifices children require." Listening to his own words, he smiled faintly. "I sound like a self-centered bastard, don't I?"

"Not at all. I think my parents felt the same. They just didn't realize it until I was already here." She smiled, too, as if it didn't bother her in the least, but underneath the cool disregard was a hint of wistfulness. Somewhere inside, he suspected, there was a part of her that still craved her mother's love. Why else would the woman she claimed to dislike so thoroughly still be in residence?

"I feel the same," she went on. "I don't have a maternal bone in my could. I enjoy my friends' kids from time to time, but I have zero tolerance for crankiness, tears, messy diapers, sticky hands, sibling rivalry, or temper tantrums-unless they're mine, of course. I feel no desire to pass on some part of myself to some poor, unsuspecting child. I don't need a legacy other than the inn."

They fell silent for a time. Tom finished his wine and set the glass on the table, then studied her. She was dressed in ivory this evening, wool slacks and a sweater that fell below her hips. With her matching pumps and her auburn hair sleekly styled, she'd looked elegant. With the shoes off and her hair mussed where he'd stroked it, she looked vulnerable. Appealing. Innocent.

"What about love?" he asked without thinking about it. "Is that a reason to get married?"

"Love is a fantasy."

"And some fantasies come true."

"Some people fall in love, and it's the real thing. Some people fall in love, and it isn't. Others never fall."

"Or maybe it just takes them a long time because they're too stubborn to recognize what they feel."

Her smile was broad, her voice edged with mockery. "And how does love feel, Mr. Screw-'em-and-leave-'em? For twenty-four years you've devoted every single bit of your passion and energy to building a power base and earning a fortune. You haven't had a serious relationship in your life. You use women to satisfy your sexual urges and pay them well before discarding them. You have one friend-one-and that's more a testament to Ross's ability to offer friendship than your ability to inspire it. You've never been in love with anyone, and no one's ever been in love with you. So tell me, Tom, what do you know about love?"

He knew that if he didn't feel something for her, he wouldn't listen to her talk like that and keep coming back for more. He wouldn't feel that odd, empty pang in his gut. He wouldn't be so sensitive to her words, or so susceptible to her contempt.