A Season for Love by Heather Graham Page B

to harm such an illustrious idol.
Ronnie's slender fingers wound into tense fists, her nails tearing into her own flesh. She pounded against the mattress with venom and despair, striking the thick padding until she wore herself out.
It was impossible! she kept railing in whispered curses to whatever deity lurked above. Incredible, impossible.
But it was happening.
And somehow she was going to have to not only live through it but carry the entire thing off without the hint of a hitch. She couldn't afford the luxury of more tears or hysteria.
She had to prepare herself to walk down the staircase with all the effortless poise of the irreproachably elegant Mrs. Pieter von Hurst.

Chapter Three
Ronnie had probably never taken more care to dress in her life. But her clothes that night would be like a knight's shield of heavy armor, They would protect her from searing dark eyes that could thrust daggers into her soul.
Her hair, clean and fragrantly scented, was piled on her head in burnished waves of gleaming sable, Delicate diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes, catching and reflecting the deep midnight blue of her silk cocktail sheath. Loathe to play the coward, she had chosen the backless dress on purpose, knowing it displayed the shapely contours Pieter found so fascinating for his sculpture.
At five o'clock she was standing beside her husband in the elegant entry hall, her hand resting lightly on Pieter's velvet-clad arm, evidencing none of the turmoil that raged through her.
Pieter looked well that night. Despite his gauntness, he was a tall man and, with the shoulders of his tailored suit well padded, he enhanced the illusion of a delicate form of health—one that befitted a dedicated artist.
Ronnie's hand tightened in an involuntary shudder as Henri opened the doors. It was the first time in their married life that she had leaned upon Pieter. But her face remained impassive. Even as Drake O'Hara moved into the hallway, towering in the shadow of the encroaching dusk, she stood immobile, a polite smile of greeting frozen on her placid face.
"Drake!" Pieter moved forward to shake the enthusiastically outstretched hand of the younger, more robust man, and Ronnie blinked once as she realized the two men had met at some previous time.
"Pieter," Drake returned, a smile warming the sinister male darkness of his angular features. "You're looking good, damn good."
It was then that his eyes flickered with glittering anticipation to Ronnie, and then froze, locked, and turned to pits of the deepest dark hell.
Ronnie wasn't breathing. She waited, too numb to pray.
But though his telltale eyes burned her heart to quaking cinders, Drake's face registered no change, unless it was a wry lift to one corner of his mustache-covered lip.
She, after all, had been prepared. He hadn't.
"Forgive me, Pieter, for staring," Drake said, his cool smile deepening for Pieter's benefit. "Your wife"—he inclined his head to Ronnie—"has an uncanny beauty."
"Ah, yes." Pieter was pleased by Drake's statement, noticing nothing amiss. "Come here, my dear, and meet a longtime friend and comrade, Drake O'Hara. Drake, my wife, Veronica."
It took every ounce of willpower Ronnie had to raise her hand and have it engulfed by Drake's powerful, punishing one. "Mr. O'Hara," she managed coolly, "welcome to our home."
"Thank you," he replied, refusing to lift his burning gaze from hers. "Please, call me Drake. I believe the circumstances warrant a first-name basis."
Smiling wanly, Ronnie delicately withdrew her hand, tugging slightly. He released her with a casual finesse.
"Pieter." Ronnie turned to her husband. "Shall we adjourn to the salon for drinks?" Damn, she needed a drink. She was grateful that Drake had seen fit to hold his silence, and mercifully control his recognition, but still, if she was to endure the condemnation in his hell-fire eyes, she needed a drink. Probably several.
"Yes, by all means." Pieter was actually sounding jovial. He clapped his hand