Loving Treasures (11 page)

With no other excuse, Jemma rose and allowed Ian to escort her to the dance floor and guide her into the rhythm of the ballad. He was shorter than Philip, but much taller than she. To answer his probing questions, she had to tilt her head to look into his face. Ian seemed a man for details. He delved into everything, and Jemma found herself providing information she would have preferred to keep to herself.

When the music stopped, Ian led her back to the table, apparently satisfied with the information he’d gleaned.

The coffee had arrived, and when she sat and lifted her cup for a sip, waiters appeared from every direction with a rousing chorus of “Happy Birthday” and a cake with lighted candles.

Uncomfortable with the attention, Jemma covered her burning cheeks and, eager to get rid of the crowd, blew out her candles and volunteered to cut the cake. When the waiters had left, she looked from Philip to Claire, wondering which one had arranged for her embarrassment. “Which one of you—”

“It was Claire’s idea,” Philip said with a twinkle
in his eyes, “but if she hadn’t thought of it, I’m afraid I might have.”

Giving a wry grin, Jemma slid the cake plate and knife toward Claire. “You started it, you finish it. Cut the cake.”

During the quiet that accompanied Claire’s concentration on the task, music drifted from the bandstand, and Jemma held her breath hoping that Ian wouldn’t ask her to dance again. If he did, she’d tell him she didn’t want to drink cold coffee.

“Philip, it’s your turn,” Claire said, using the knife as a pointer. “Dance with the birthday girl.”

“Would you?” he asked, rising from his chair.

Cold coffee or not, Jemma didn’t care. She stood and accepted his hand, and he walked her to the floor.

Always handsome, Philip was breathtaking tonight in his dark pinstriped suit. He drew her into his arms, and this time she allowed her body to meld with his, so close she could imagine the beating of his heart. He smelled of citrus and spice, and the aroma lured her into her old fantasy of a Caribbean grove of lemon and nutmeg trees. She closed her eyes, swaying like the island palms on a breezy afternoon, sun-warmed and unburdened.

Philip nestled her closer, his cheek against her hair, his hand caressing her back. Heat smoldered, then burst inside her chest and radiated through her limbs. She longed to raise on tiptoes and kiss his tempting mouth, to run her hand along his jaw and feel the growing stubble of his whiskers.

The music faded.

Philip slowed to a stop. Yet his arms kept her close, and Jemma feared he could feel the pulse of her blood racing through her veins. She tilted her head upward. His eyes glowed, and the dim light touched the silver in his hair.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I love you,
her heart murmured in return, but her voice only whispered, “You’re welcome.”

Seventeen years meant nothing. Her heart thundered with conviction.

As if in slow motion, Philip guided her back to the table. Jemma nibbled on cake and sipped lukewarm coffee, her taste buds haunted by citrus trees and nutmeg.

When the bill was paid, they wandered back to Ian’s luxury car. Though Philip insisted she slide into the front seat while he joined Claire in the back, Jemma didn’t care. He was in her heart, no matter where she sat.

No one spoke until Ian stopped the car back at the marina.

Philip opened the door and spoke to her over the seat. “You can wait here while I get your things.”

Jemma wasn’t ready to say good-night. Her emotions cried for the night to go on forever. She flung open her door. “No, I’ll go. I have things scattered all over.” She gave a hurried look toward Ian. “Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”

She darted through the parking lot with Philip be
hind her, her high-heeled sandals smacking the boards of the pier.

“What’s the hurry?” Philip asked, grasping her arm.

She ignored him, afraid to look in his eyes, wanting to throw herself into his arms like a fool.

“Slow down before you get one of your heels caught between the planks. You’ll be flat on your face.”

She slowed.

Tenderly, Philip took her arm. When Ian’s car had vanished from their sight, Philip slid his hand through hers, weaving their fingers together.

Her knees weakened as longing twined through her. She loved him.

Reaching the boat, Philip released her hand and took her elbow. “Careful in those shoes.”

She stepped into the sailboat, slipped off her shoes and scurried down the steps into the cabin, hearing Philip behind her.

A hanging bag lay open on the bunk, and she opened the pockets and dropped her shorts and top inside, then went to the head for her wet bathing suit. Tugging it from the hook, she swung around—into Philip’s arms.

The bathing suit dropped to the floor.

Music of the night filled her head. Swept with emotion, Jemma reached on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around Philip’s strong neck, her mouth captur
ing his. Tenderly at first, he embraced her. Then his breath became gasps, and she felt him tremble.

Philip eased back, his lips moist and eager, and his eyes searched her face. He lowered his lips again, embracing her fully, lifting her. Mouth to mouth, yearning, joy beat through their veins.

He clung to her, and she to him—like swimmers drowning. Then, he eased her to the floor, and when she opened her eyes, his gaze looked misty and sad. “This isn’t right, Jemma.”

“What?” The word flew from her mouth. “This is beautiful, Philip. The day, the evening, and this.”

“Beautiful, but…”

His reaction struck her like a slap. Why was it wrong? She’d already told him how she felt. Age meant nothing. She didn’t understand. Humiliated, she backed away, grasped the bag and pushed past him toward the steps.

“Jemma, please, wait.”

Maneuvering the bag through the narrow hatch, she bounded to the deck and onto the dock.

“Thank you for everything,” she called over her shoulder.

“Jemma, please…”

Philip’s voice faded with distance as her bare feet pounded against the pier.

She’d left her shoes—and her heart—behind.

P
hilip watched her go, not knowing what to do to stop her. God knew he loved her, but he couldn’t let go of his fear. How could he tell her he didn’t want people to scorn her because of his age.

Cradle robber. He’d heard other men called that. Men who squired younger women. Married younger women. Jemma said seventeen years was nothing, but she was wrong. And he’d been a poor husband at thirty-three. Why would he be a better husband now?

Jemma needed a man with a future, and he’d told her so long ago that he was a man with an empty past. His life was in a horrible rut. Even before Susan died, he’d been there. One foot in the rut and the other on that banana peel?

He paused, his thoughts riddled with converging ideas. Could that banana peel be Jemma? Whenever
she was near—even the thought sent longing coursing through him—he felt himself slipping. Out of control. Or was it only his heart?

Tonight when he’d watched her dancing with Ian, envy had torn through him. All day he’d been filled with longing. He’d avoided being too close to her, but Claire’s suggestion that they dance left him little choice. How could he not dance with Jemma on her birthday? But once she was in his arms, he’d lost his grip—lost his senses. He’d felt himself slipping, sliding, falling…in love.

He’d fought it too long. Why should he care what others thought? If God had led him to Jemma, who was he to oppose the Lord’s will. Tonight he’d allowed himself to face the truth. He’d fallen in love. And as much as he wished it didn’t, it felt wonderful.

For three days Jemma dodged around corners at the resort and at home, avoided answering her telephone, fearful of seeing or talking with Philip. What would she do? He’d confused her beyond any hope of understanding. His kiss had been as rapturous as her own. Yet he had apologized. He’d said it was wrong. Why?

She’d been a widow for two years. He’d been a widower much longer. What would make a kiss wrong for two consenting adults? Or had she been the only one willing?

Reliving the moment, she remembered her arms around his neck, her lips moving against his. She’d
been the first to embrace him, but he hadn’t backed away. Instead, he’d swept her off the floor in his powerful arms. He’d felt what she had—she was sure of it. What would make that wrong?

In the back of her mind, she remembered something Philip had said that troubled her. What was it? She delved into the corners of her memory.
My Lady.
That was it.

A shiver had run down her back when he’d looked into her eyes and said that he figured after his wife’s death the sailboat would be the only other “she” in his life. He’d even laughed at her. Was he that determined to remain alone? She didn’t understand.

Jemma longed to talk with Claire, but she couldn’t. Claire would get too involved, and she knew Jemma too well. When Jemma had returned to the car that night, Claire had seen her face and later wanted to know what was wrong. She’d pried for the past two days, but Jemma was determined to keep her feelings private. She wanted answers, but she needed time to struggle with the situation. Time to be alone.

Jemma stepped back from the polished table and scrutinized the flowers she’d placed in the pastel vase. She shifted a stem of daisies and eyed the mixed bouquet again, admiring how fresh and perky they looked. So full of life.

When she was with Philip, she felt like fresh flowers. New and promising. But today, she was as wilted as the dying blossoms she’d tossed into her trash bag. Cheerless.

A blast of air escaped her lungs. Today she had dragged herself through the guest rooms, time dragging along with her. She glanced at her wristwatch. “On to the next.” Her voice sounded strange in the empty room. She grabbed the cart handle and swung toward the door. She came to an abrupt stop. “Philip.”

“I found you,” he said, standing at the threshold. He pushed the door closed behind him and headed toward her, his steps muffled by the carpet.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m wrong,” he said. “I came to apologize.”

“It’s not necessary.”

He caught her hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you, Jemma. You’re the dearest friend I have…and I don’t want to lose you. I need to explain.”

“You owe me nothing. I made a mistake.” She tried to look into his eyes, but her focus remained on the floor.

He slipped his finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. “I made the mistake, not you.”

She shook her head, unable to make sense out of what he was saying. “I don’t understand.”

“Let’s be friends, Jemma.”

Friends.
Was that it? Philip truly thought of her as a friend.
Dear friends.
Nothing more? He could say it all he wanted; she didn’t believe it. But even if he never realized how he felt, she’d never beg him to love her.

Philip glanced over his shoulder toward the door.
“We can’t talk here,” he said, swinging back to face her. “I’ll pick you up tonight so we can sort things out. What do you say?”

As far as Jemma was concerned, they could sort things out until kingdom come and he’d still make no sense. What was wrong with loving, when your heart told you it was right?

“What do you say?” he repeated.

“I have plans tonight, Philip.” She’d told him a barefaced lie. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Look. Time’s fleeting. These flowers will be dead if you don’t let me get them into vases.”

“So be it. They’ll die. You’re more important.”

His comment shocked and pleased her.

He captured her arm and pulled her close. “Forget your plans, please. Just say yes.”

She looked in his desperate eyes and her heart ached. “All right.”

He brushed her cheek with his fingers. “Thank you, Jemma.” He took a step backward. “I’ll pick you up around seven.”

Before she could respond, he’d vanished through the doorway.

Philip bristled with determination. He refused to let things get out of hand tonight. Being in a restaurant would hopefully temper Jemma’s irritation, and he could speak from his heart.

When he picked her up she seemed tense, but by the time they’d pulled into Bil-Mar’s parking lot,
she’d begun to relax. Inside, the hostess seated them on the open porch overlooking the lake.

“This is lovely,” Jemma said, looking toward the diamond-studded ripples. “Must have cost you to get this table.”

He grinned. “I told them that it was for you. I had no problem.”

A soft flush highlighted her cheeks, and his spirit sparkled like the sun-speckled water.

The waiter arrived and took their order. They talked about many things, but nothing of importance. When the excellent meal had ended and coffee had been poured, Philip took Jemma’s hand.

“Ready to talk?”

“Sure.”

Her voice sounded tentative, and she lowered her eyes. With her free hand, she fiddled with her water glass, leaving damp rings on the tablecloth as she turned it. When she looked up, he saw concern in her eyes.

Philip shifted the tumbler aside and clasped both of her hands in his. “I know I upset you the other night when I said that our kiss was wrong.”

She nodded.

“You asked why it was wrong. How could a kiss…so wonderful…be wrong?”

Her jaw tensed as she listened.

“The kiss wasn’t wrong, but…I felt that I was wrong…for you.”

“You’re wrong for me?” Her face became distorted. “What are you telling me?”

From the look on her face, the conversation wasn’t going as he wanted, but it was too late to turn back. “I’m not the best man for you, Jemma.”

“You’re telling me what’s good for me?” Her back straightened as rigid as a post.

He squeezed her hands. “I know what you’ve said about age. But…we’re talking about seventeen years. You’re a young woman. When you’re fifty, I’ll be sixty-seven. Can’t you understand that? I want you to have a wonderful life with a younger man—” he began to panic “—who’ll give you children and won’t die before they’re out of high school.”

She pulled her hands from his grasp and pressed them against the linen cloth. Clasping the table edge, Jemma lifted herself upward and jutted her face closer to his. “It’s what
I
want, Philip, not what you want. Don’t you understand?” Looking defeated, she sank back into the seat. “You can’t decide my life for me.”

Had he done it again—tried to force his ideas on her? He closed his eyes, hoping to calm his throbbing heart.

“Besides, I think you have that wrong. Are you talking about love and marriage?” she asked.

His eyelids snapped open, but she continued before he could find a response.

“I didn’t ask you to love me…or marry me. A kiss is only a kiss.”

“It was more than that to me,” Philip murmured.

Jemma shook her head. “It’s not a life commitment.”

Her comment shocked him, and he scrambled to express his feelings. “But maybe it should be.”

She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed. “Under whose rules?”

Philip opened his mouth, then closed it, wondering if again he was pushing his dogma on her. Like his father and Andrew, a fight to the finish. The comparison shot through him. But this was very different. Didn’t Jemma hold the same beliefs that he did?

“You see. You have no answer. It’s only how you see it.”

A response tumbled from his mouth. “My rules…and God’s.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think God wants people to play with emotions. It’s temptation.”

“My kiss? Temptation? I’m luring you to sin?”

Her whisper hissed across the table, and he had no idea what to do or what to say. “I’m not accusing you. I’m blaming myself. I’m not perfect.”

“You’ve made too much out of it, Philip.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kiss was a thank-you…for your friendship and kindness. For my birthday surprise. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” He remembered every detail, the sensations he’d felt, the look in her eyes. He fell
back against the chair and peered at her. “No, Jemma, you’re avoiding the truth.”

Jemma looked at his face, the hurt in his eyes. She had not been honest—just as he’d said. Her argument was dashed to the ground. “Yes, I’m avoiding the truth.” Her heart fluttered at her admission, but she felt calmer telling the truth.

The tension drained from his face and his mouth curved to a hesitant grin. “You’re not saying that to make me happy, are you?”

She grinned and felt her spirit rise for the first time since they’d begun the conversation. His words from the past filled her mind. “You don’t need me to make you happy. I’m sure happiness finds you.”

His amused chuckle filled the air. “I deserved that,” he said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Let’s get out of here.”

She agreed. What they had to talk about needed to be finished in a different atmosphere.

Philip flagged the waiter and settled the bill, then rose and held her chair. She stood and followed him through the restaurant and back outside into the evening breeze.

“Come with me,” he said, taking her hand as they passed through the parking lot and guiding her to the beach.

Sand filled her shoes and Jemma slipped them off, dropping them near the grass. In stockinged feet, she ran toward the water, letting the waves roll over her toes and drag the shifting earth back into the lake.

Philip caught her hand and drew her to his side. His eyes sparkled in the dusky light, and she longed to kiss him as she had done the night on the boat. He broke the mood by sliding his arm around her shoulder and moving along the shoreline.

With slow steps, they walked in silence along the sand, ignoring the water that spattered his pant legs and the hem of her dress.

When they’d wandered beyond the view of the restaurant porch, he stopped and faced her.

Jemma waited, her heart skipping like that of a child at recess. But she didn’t move. Didn’t give an inch.

His face filled with emotion—hunger, desire, pain, grief. A mixture Jemma didn’t understand. His eyes captured hers while he slid his hand up her shoulder, along her jaw to her cheek. His fingers caressed her skin, then tilted her chin upward, and she watched his lips part as he eased his mouth onto hers.

She held her breath, enjoying the gentle touch, the eagerness of his mouth, his rapid breathing that filled her ears, louder than the rolling waves.

She caught her own breath as he pressed her against his trembling chest, exploring her back and arms with gentle caresses.

With a moan, Jemma yielded to his kiss, tossing her concerns aside and allowing her spirit to soar into the night sky.

When his shoulders relaxed and he drew away with tiny kisses to each lip, she opened her eyes. His
smile weakened her knees, and she clung to him for support.

“This is right, Jemma. For all my fears and concerns, this must be right.”

His last words melted to a sigh, and he kissed her and sent her heavenward again, her feet washed by the waves, her heart bathed in love, and her mind flooded with hope.

Philip stood outside the door, watching Jemma fill the new morning baskets. She lifted a checked gingham napkin and tucked it inside, slid in today’s newspaper, two empty juice bottles, then stopped.

He grinned when she pulled everything out and started again. She was practicing, he knew, for the baskets’ debut, and he was touched by her serious approach to the task.

Having made his decision after days of mental strain, Philip decided to test the waters of gossip. Always in the past, he’d avoided contact with Jemma at the resort, other than in the safety of his office. Only once, a few days ago in desperation, had he approached her as she worked.

But the time had come. He’d protected her long enough from rumors and disdainful looks. Since admitting to her and to himself how he felt, he had to be open—candid with the resort staff.

His explanation bothered him, and he wondered if he had been protecting more than Jemma. Had he feared the community’s reaction to his December-
May romance? Was his pride and reputation holding him back from admitting how he felt?

The answer, in part, was yes. But now, he didn’t care what anyone said. God was on his side, and if Jemma loved him, he wanted nothing more than to spend his life with her.