do something."
"There is nothing that anyone can do," Ronnie said flatly, sighing as the horses strained at their bits. She raised her eyes imperiously. "I thank you for being so quick to assure Pieter. ..." Then anger suddenly overtook her cool resolve. "What in the hell possessed you to sculpt—to sculpt—"
"More than met the eye?" Drake provided laconically. "I didn't do it on purpose, I promise you. I just knew, and my hands—"
"You sound like Pieter," Ronnie said with unintentional bitterness. "The hands of the artist just move."
Drake shrugged. "Something like that." His voice went hard and grim. "But I told you once I would never intentionally cause Pieter any pain. Whether you want to admit it to me or not, the man is dying. That is why I find it so terribly difficult to understand you."
"I don't remember asking you to understand me," Ronnie replied smoothly.
"No," Drake responded critically, adding in curt reminder, "but you are asking other things of me."
"Could you let go of my horse's reins, please?" Ronnie asked, preferring to ignore his statement. "I think we should take the beach path."
He had barely released his grip before she hugged her knees tightly to Scheherazade's ribs. The animal, attuned to her mistress's lightest touch, broke immediately into a smooth canter.
The black stallion was not far behind.
"Ronnie!"
Ignoring Drake's demanding shout, Ronnie continued on. She had no intention of enduring a question-and-answer period.
There was little else she could say to Drake; no way to redeem herself in his eyes.
The wind drove against her face, giving her a wonderful sensation of wild, abandoned freedom. Scheherazade moved beneath her with powerful magic. It was possible to believe she could race forever, away from the turmoil of her life, away from the man who now relentlessly pursued her.
"Ronnie!" he shouted again imperiously.
She glanced behind her quickly to see him scowling darkly. He was still shouting, but she couldn't make out the words. She didn't want to hear them anyway. The pounding of Scheherazade's sure hooves was tempestuous music to her ears. Breaking out of the trail through the foliage and onto the beach, she gave her horse full rein. Scheherazade, as exuberant for freedom as she, tore gladly into a thundering gallop.
Drake was still shouting. The mare was a powerful animal, but no match for the stallion. Ronnie was forced from her world of wind and speed to glance at Drake as Black Satan pounded abreast of the mare.
"Damn it, Ronnie—"
She turned back around. Racing along the beach, she thought with irritation, and he was still determined to give her the third degree!
Impossible. He was still talking, but she couldn't make out the words. Scheherazade could hold her own. Ronnie was not going to give in to Drake; she would run until both she and the bay had tired, and Drake could go hang.
Racing was one of her great pleasures. Either on Scheherazade, or in the Boston Whaler, she loved the feel of wind and sea in her face. Riding on the beach was almost like combining the two. She could feel and hear the wonderful, vibrant gallop of the horse; she could feel and hear the infinite rolling of the surf; salt spray sailed into her face, and sand flew behind her. . . .
And Drake was still shouting for her to stop. He was telling her something, but she had closed off. Purposely.
The great black stallion pulled alongside of her again. "Ronnie!"
Still she ignored him. It was a contest of wills. It was one that she could win—they were on her turf.
He was furious, and she knew it. She loved it. She had enough of Pieter maneuvering her to his will, she'd be damned if she would find Drake anything more than mere annoyance.
She glanced to her right to give him a grim smile, but perplexity furrowed her brow instead. Something in his tone began to crack through the wall of of sound with which she had cocooned herself. "The gir—"
She lost the rest of his word, but she then noticed more than anger in
"There is nothing that anyone can do," Ronnie said flatly, sighing as the horses strained at their bits. She raised her eyes imperiously. "I thank you for being so quick to assure Pieter. ..." Then anger suddenly overtook her cool resolve. "What in the hell possessed you to sculpt—to sculpt—"
"More than met the eye?" Drake provided laconically. "I didn't do it on purpose, I promise you. I just knew, and my hands—"
"You sound like Pieter," Ronnie said with unintentional bitterness. "The hands of the artist just move."
Drake shrugged. "Something like that." His voice went hard and grim. "But I told you once I would never intentionally cause Pieter any pain. Whether you want to admit it to me or not, the man is dying. That is why I find it so terribly difficult to understand you."
"I don't remember asking you to understand me," Ronnie replied smoothly.
"No," Drake responded critically, adding in curt reminder, "but you are asking other things of me."
"Could you let go of my horse's reins, please?" Ronnie asked, preferring to ignore his statement. "I think we should take the beach path."
He had barely released his grip before she hugged her knees tightly to Scheherazade's ribs. The animal, attuned to her mistress's lightest touch, broke immediately into a smooth canter.
The black stallion was not far behind.
"Ronnie!"
Ignoring Drake's demanding shout, Ronnie continued on. She had no intention of enduring a question-and-answer period.
There was little else she could say to Drake; no way to redeem herself in his eyes.
The wind drove against her face, giving her a wonderful sensation of wild, abandoned freedom. Scheherazade moved beneath her with powerful magic. It was possible to believe she could race forever, away from the turmoil of her life, away from the man who now relentlessly pursued her.
"Ronnie!" he shouted again imperiously.
She glanced behind her quickly to see him scowling darkly. He was still shouting, but she couldn't make out the words. She didn't want to hear them anyway. The pounding of Scheherazade's sure hooves was tempestuous music to her ears. Breaking out of the trail through the foliage and onto the beach, she gave her horse full rein. Scheherazade, as exuberant for freedom as she, tore gladly into a thundering gallop.
Drake was still shouting. The mare was a powerful animal, but no match for the stallion. Ronnie was forced from her world of wind and speed to glance at Drake as Black Satan pounded abreast of the mare.
"Damn it, Ronnie—"
She turned back around. Racing along the beach, she thought with irritation, and he was still determined to give her the third degree!
Impossible. He was still talking, but she couldn't make out the words. Scheherazade could hold her own. Ronnie was not going to give in to Drake; she would run until both she and the bay had tired, and Drake could go hang.
Racing was one of her great pleasures. Either on Scheherazade, or in the Boston Whaler, she loved the feel of wind and sea in her face. Riding on the beach was almost like combining the two. She could feel and hear the wonderful, vibrant gallop of the horse; she could feel and hear the infinite rolling of the surf; salt spray sailed into her face, and sand flew behind her. . . .
And Drake was still shouting for her to stop. He was telling her something, but she had closed off. Purposely.
The great black stallion pulled alongside of her again. "Ronnie!"
Still she ignored him. It was a contest of wills. It was one that she could win—they were on her turf.
He was furious, and she knew it. She loved it. She had enough of Pieter maneuvering her to his will, she'd be damned if she would find Drake anything more than mere annoyance.
She glanced to her right to give him a grim smile, but perplexity furrowed her brow instead. Something in his tone began to crack through the wall of of sound with which she had cocooned herself. "The gir—"
She lost the rest of his word, but she then noticed more than anger in
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