Almost Paradise Page 13

  —

  Roarke had half a mind to follow her. He opened his mouth to demand that she come back out or he’d have her job, but the anger drained from him, leaving him flustered and impatient. For a full minute he didn’t move. Finally, he wiped his hand across his face, shrugged, and headed toward his quarters, defeated and discouraged.

  —

  That night, Roarke lay in bed thinking. Sherry possessed more spirit than any woman he’d ever known. He would have loved to get a picture of the expression on her face once she realized she’d blasted him with that crazy weapon. But instead of laughing as they should have, the episode had ended in a shouting match. It seemed he did everything wrong with this woman. Maybe if he hadn’t kept his nose buried in a book most of his life he’d know more about dealing with the opposite sex. Fiona was so much like him that they’d drifted together for no other reason than that they shared several interests. As he lay in bed, Roarke wasn’t sure he could even remember what Fiona looked like.

  He’d never been a ladies’ man, although he wasn’t so naïve as to not realize that the opposite sex found him attractive. The scars of his youth went deep. Bookworm, Four Eyes, and all the other names he’d been taunted with echoed in the farthest corners of his mind. As an adult he’d avoided women, certain that they would find his intelligence and his dedication to the child genius a dead bore. He was thirty-six, but when it came to this unknown, unsettling realm of romance, he seemed to have all the social grace of a sixteen-year-old.

  —

  “Miss White,” Pamela called into the dark silence.

  “Yes?” Sherry sat upright and glanced at the bedside clock. Although it was well past midnight, she hadn’t been able to sleep. “Is something wrong, honey?”

  “No.”

  The direction of the small voice told Sherry that Pamela’s head hung low. “Come here, and we can talk without waking the others.” Sherry patted the flat space beside her and pulled back the covers so Pamela could join her in bed.

  The little girl found her way in the dark and climbed onto the bed. Sherry sat upright and leaned against the thick pillows, wrapping her arm around the nine-year-old’s shoulders.

  “It’s Ralph’s fault, isn’t it?” Pamela said in a tiny, indistinct voice.

  “What is?”

  “That Mr. Roarke yelled at you.”

  “Honey,” Sherry said with a sigh, “how can you possibly think that? I squirted Mr. Roarke with a submachine gun. He had every right to be upset.”

  “But you wouldn’t have shot him if it hadn’t been for Ralph. And then he got mad, and it’s all my fault because I smuggled Ralph on the airplane without anyone knowing.”

  “Mr. Roarke had his feathers ruffled is all. There isn’t anything to worry about.”

  Pamela raised her head and blinked. “Will he send you away?”

  Knowing that Roarke could still find out that she’d deceived him on the application form didn’t lend her confidence. “I don’t think so, and if he does it’d be for something a lot more serious than getting him wet.”

  Pamela shook her head. “My mom and dad shout at each other the way you and Mr. Roarke do.”

  “We don’t mean to raise our voices,” Sherry said, feeling depressed. “It just comes out that way. Things will be better tomorrow.” Although she tried to give them confidence, Sherry’s words fell decidedly flat.

  —

  Throughout the staff meeting the following morning, Sherry remained withdrawn and quiet. When Roarke didn’t seek her out when the session was dismissed, she returned to her cabin. The girls, too, were quiet, regarding her with anxious stares.

  “Well?” Gretchen finally demanded.

  “Well, what?” Sherry asked, pulling a sweatshirt over her head, then freeing her hair from the constricting collar. When she finished, she turned to find all seven of the girls studying her.

  “How did things go with Mr. Roarke?”

  “Is he still angry?”

  “Did he yell at you again?”

  Sherry raised her hands to stop them. “Everything went fine.”

  “Fine?” Seven thin voices echoed hers.

  “All right, it went great,” Sherry sputtered. “Okay, let’s move it—it’s breakfast time.”

  A chorus of anxious cries followed her announcement as the girls scrambled for their sweaters, books, and assorted necessities.

  For most of the day Sherry stayed to herself, wanting to avoid another confrontation with Roarke. However, by late afternoon, she felt as if she was suffering from claustrophobia, avoiding contact with the outside world, ignoring the friends she’d made this summer. There had to be a better way!

  Most of the classes had been dismissed, and Sherry sat on the porch steps of her cabin, watching the children chasing one another about, laughing and joking. The sound of their amusement was sweet music to her ears. It hadn’t been so long ago that she’d wondered about these mini-geniuses, and she was pleased to discover they were learning to be children and have fun. Several of the youngsters were playing games she’d taught them.

  A breathless Gretchen soon joined Sherry, sitting on the step below hers. As was often the case when Sherry was within view of the children, she was soon joined by a handful of others.

  “Will you tell me the story about how the star got inside the apple again?” Gretchen asked. “I tried to tell Gloria, but I forgot part of it.”

  “Sure,” Sherry said with a grin and proceeded to do just that. Someone supplied her with an apple and a knife, and she took the fruit and cut it crosswise at the end of the story, holding it up to prove to the growing crowd of children that there was indeed a star in every apple.

  Fred Spencer approached as she was speaking, pursing his lips in open disapproval. Sherry did her best to ignore him. She didn’t understand what Fred had against her, but she was weary of the undercurrents of animosity she felt whenever he was near.

  “Shouldn’t these children be elsewhere?” he asked, his voice tight and slightly demanding.

  Sherry stood and met the glaring dislike in the other man’s eyes. “Okay, children, it’s time to return to your cabins.”

  The small group let out a chorus of groans, loudly voicing their protest. Reluctantly, they left Sherry’s side, dragging their feet.

  “Oh Miss White,” Gretchen murmured. “I forgot to give you this.” She withdrew an envelope from her pocket. The camp logo was stamped on the outside. “Mr. Roarke asked me to give this to you. I’m sorry, I forgot.”

  “No problem, sweetheart.” Sherry reached for the letter, her heart clamoring. Although she was dying to read what Roarke had written, Sherry held off, staring at her name neatly centered on the outside of the business-size envelope. Fleetingly, she wondered if Roarke had decided to fire her. Then she realized that he wouldn’t have asked Gretchen to deliver the notice; he had more honor than that.

  With trembling fingers and a pounding heart, she tore off the end of the envelope, blew inside to open it, and withdrew a single sheet. Carefully unfolding it, she read the neatly typed sentence in the middle of the page.

  Midnight at Clear Lake.

  Jeff Roarke.

  Sherry read the six-word message over and over again. Midnight at the lake? It didn’t make sense. Was he proposing that she meet him there? The two of them, alone? Surely there was some other hidden meaning that she was missing. After the incident with Buttercup, he had her so flustered she couldn’t think straight.

  During the evening, Sherry flirted with the idea of ignoring the note entirely, but as the sun set and dusk crept across the campgrounds, bathing the lush property in golden hues, she knew in her heart that no matter what happened she’d be at the lake as Jeff Roarke had requested.

  At five minutes to midnight, she checked her seven charges to be sure they were sleeping and woke Ginny long enough to tell her she was leaving. As silently as possible, Sherry slipped from the cabin. The moon was three-quarters full and cast a silken glow of light o
n the pathway that led to the lake’s edge.

  Hugging her arms, Sherry made her way along the well-defined walkway. Roarke’s message hadn’t been specific about where she was to meet him, although she’d read the note a hundred times. She pulled the letter from the hip pocket of her jeans and read the six words again.

  “Sherry.”

  Roarke’s voice startled her. Alarmed, Sherry slapped a hand over her heart.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “That’s all right,” she said, quick to reassure him. “I should have been listening for you.” He looked so tall and handsome in the moonlight, and her heart hammered at the sight of him. Loving him felt so right. A thousand times over the past few days she’d had doubts about caring so much for Roarke, but not now. Not tonight.

  “Shall we sit down?”

  “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” Sherry asked as she lowered herself onto the sandy beach. They used an old log to lean against and paused to gaze into the heavens. The lake lapped lazily a few yards from their feet, and a fresh cool breeze carried with it the sweet, distinctive scent of summer. The moment was serene, unchallenged by the churning problems that existed between them.

  “It’s a beautiful evening,” he answered after a moment. He drew his knees up, crossed his legs, and sighed expressively. “I’m pleased you did this, Sherry. I felt bad about the episode with the squirt gun.”

  “You’re pleased I did this?” she returned. “What do you mean?”

  “The note.”

  “What note? I didn’t send you any note, but I did receive yours.”

  “Mine!” He turned then to study her, his gaze wide and challenging.

  “I have it right here.” Agilely, she raised her hips and slipped the paper from her pocket. It had been folded several times over, and her fingers fumbled with impatience as she opened it to hand to him.

  Roarke’s gaze quickly scanned the few words. “I didn’t write this.”

  “Of course you did.” He couldn’t deny it now. The stationery and envelope were both stamped with the Camp Gitche Gumee logo.

  “Sherry, I’m telling you I didn’t write that note, but I did receive yours.”

  “And I’m telling you I didn’t send you one.”

  “Then who did?”

  She shrugged and gestured with her hand. She had a fair idea who was responsible. Her wizards! All seven of them! They’d plotted this romantic rendezvous down to the last detail, and both Roarke and Sherry had been gullible enough to fall for it. It would have angered Sherry but for the realization that Roarke had wanted these few stolen moments badly enough to believe even the most improbable circumstances.

  —

  Roarke cleared his throat. He could feel Sherry’s mounting agitation and sought a way to reassure her. He wasn’t so naïve as not to recognize that her girls must be responsible for this arrangement. The fact was, he didn’t care. She was sitting at his side in the moonlight, and it felt so good to have her with him that he didn’t want anything to ruin it.

  “It seems to me,” he said slowly, measuring his words, “that this is Longfellow’s doing.”

  “Longfellow?” Sherry repeated. Then she relaxed, a smile growing until she felt the relief and amusement surge up within her. “Yes, it must be him.”

  “Camp Gitche Gumee’s own personal ghost—Longfellow,” Roarke repeated softly. He paused, lifted his arm, and cupped her shoulder, bringing her closer into his embrace.

  —

  Sherry let her head rest against the solid strength of his shoulder. Briefly she closed her eyes to the swelling tide of emotion that enveloped her. Roarke beside her, so close she could smell his aftershave and the manly scent that was his alone. He was even closer in spirit, so that it was almost as if the words to communicate were completely unnecessary.

  Silence reigned for the moment, a refreshing reprieve to the anger that had so often unexpectedly erupted between them. This was a rare time, and Sherry doubted that either would have allowed anyone or anything to destroy it.

  “We do seem to find ways to clash, don’t we?” Sherry said, after a long moment. They’d made a point of not talking about life at camp when they’d had dinner, but tonight it was necessary. “Roarke, I want you to know I’ve never intentionally gone out of my way to irritate you.”

  “I had to believe that,” he said softly, gently riffling his fingers through her soft dark hair. “Otherwise I would have gone a little crazy. But maybe I did anyway,” he added as an afterthought.

  “It just seems that everything I do…is wrong.”

  “Not wrong,” he corrected, his voice raised slightly. “Just different. Some of your ideas have been excellent, but a few of the other counselors…”

  “Fred Spencer.” Roarke didn’t need to mention names for her to recognize her most outspoken opponent. Almost from the day of her arrival, Fred had criticized her efforts with the children and challenged her ideas.

  “Yes, Fred,” Roarke admitted.

  “Why?”

  “He’s been with the camp for as long as we’ve been operating, dedicating his summers to the children. It’s been difficult for him to accept your popularity. The kids love you.”

  “But I don’t want to compete with him.”

  “He’ll learn that soon enough. You’ve shown admirable restraint, Sherry. The others admire you for the way you’ve dealt with Fred.” He turned his head just enough so that his lips grazed her temple as he spoke. “The others nothing; I’ve admired you.”

  “Oh Roarke.”

  His arm around her tightened, and Sherry held her breath. The magic was potent, so very potent. His breath fanned her cheek, searing her flushed skin. Without being aware that she was rotating her head toward him, Sherry turned, silently seeking his kiss.

  Roarke’s hand touched her chin and tipped her face toward him. Sherry stared up at him, hardly able to believe what she saw in his eyes and felt in her heart. His gaze was full of warmth and tenderness. and he was smiling with such sweet understanding. It seemed that Roarke was telling her with his eyes how important she was to him, how much he enjoyed her wit, her creativity. Her.

  Slowly he bent his head to her. Sherry slid her hands up his shoulders and tilted her head to meet him halfway. He groaned her name, and his lips came down to caress hers in a long, undemanding, tender kiss that robbed her lungs of breath.

  The kiss deepened as Roarke sensually shaped and molded her lips to his. Sherry gave herself over to him, holding back nothing. He kissed her again and again, unable to get enough of the delicious taste of her. She was honey and wine. Unbelievably sweet. Sunshine and love. He kissed her again, then lifted his head to tenderly cup her face between his large hands and gaze into her melting brown eyes.

  “Roarke?” She said his name, not knowing herself what she would ask. It was in her to beg him not to stop, for fear that something would pull them apart as it had so often in the past.

  “You’re so sweet,” he whispered, unable to look away. His mouth unerringly found hers, the kiss lingering, slow and compelling, so that by the time he raised his head Sherry was swimming in a sea of sensual awareness.

  “Roarke, why do we argue?” Her hands roamed through his hair, luxuriating in the thick feel of it between her fingers. “I hate it when we do.”

  “Me, too, love. Me, too.” His tongue flickered over the seam of her lips, teasing them at first, then urging them apart. “Sherry, love,” he whispered, and inhaled deeply. “We have to stop.”

  “I know,” she answered and nodded.

  But neither loosened the embrace. Neither was willing to forsake the moment or relinquish this special closeness growing between them.

  Roarke rubbed his moist mouth sensuously against hers. Back and forth, until Sherry thought she would faint with wanting him. When she could tolerate it no longer, she parted her lips and once again they were tossed into the roiling sea of sensual awareness.

  Without warning, Roark
e stopped.

  Kissed into senselessness, Sherry could do nothing to protest. Breathing had taken on an extraordinary effort, and she pressed her forehead to his chest while she gathered her composure.

  “Roarke,” she whispered.

  “In a minute.”

  She raised her gaze enough to view the naked turmoil that played so vividly across his contorted features.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him. “So sorry for what happened with Lynn and Peter that day. Sorry for so many things. I can’t have you believing that I’d use you like that. I couldn’t…I just couldn’t.”

  His smile was so gentle that Sherry felt stinging tears gather in her eyes.

  “I know,” he said softly. “That’s in the past and best forgotten.”

  “But, Roarke, I…”

  He placed his index finger across her lips, stopping her. “Whatever it is doesn’t matter.”

  Sherry’s wide-eyed gaze studied him. She dreaded the moment he learned the whole truth about her. “But I want to be honest.”

  “You can’t lie,” he said as his hands lovingly caressed the sides of her face. “I’ve noticed that about you.”

  “But I have.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, Sherry. Not now.” Unable to resist her for a moment longer, he bent low and thoroughly kissed her again.

  Any argument, any desire for Sherry to tell him about the falsified references, was tossed aside as unimportant and inconsequential. Within a few weeks the camp session would be over, and if he hadn’t discovered the truth by then, she would simply trust that he never would. Later, much later, she’d tell him, and they could laugh about it; her deception would be a source of amusement.

  Roarke stood, offering Sherry his hand to help her to her feet. She took it and pulled herself up, then paused momentarily to brush the sand from her backside and look out over the calm lake. This summer with Roarke would always be remembered as special, but she didn’t want it to end. The weeks had flown past, and she couldn’t imagine ever being without him now.

  With a sigh of regret to be leaving the tranquil scene, Roarke draped his arm over her shoulders and guided her back to the main campgrounds.