Burke, the Kingpin (The Shamrock Trinity)

by Fayrene Preston

  Burke noted that her voice held no sadness, only reflection after so many years. Inexplicably, though, he found himself getting angry on her behalf. “It all seems rather cruel. Surely there was another way it could have been handled. You were just a child.”

  “I’m afraid it was beyond mother’s ability to understand my pain, but to be fair, she had her own problems to deal with. And she told me there’d be other horses. She was right. I’ve ridden lots of other horses since then.”

  “Ridden, but not owned?’

  “No. I’ve never owned another horse since Crackerjack. I haven’t wanted to.”

  “I’m sorry I was away at that time.”

  “Why on earth should you be sorry?” She laughed again, and he felt the same type of vibrations as before leave her body and enter his. His breath caught, and he was glad she was still talking so that she wouldn’t notice. “Whenever you came home on vacations, you always seemed such a distant figure. I was in awe of you.”

  He lowered his head to her and nearly stumbled when he realized he had brought his lips so close to hers. “You’re not in awe of me now, are you?”

  She tilted her head consideringly, and her silver-blond hair shimmered over her shoulder like a river of moonbeams. “No.”

  Just the one word. No explanation. No elaboration. It affected him as no word ever had. They were near the house, but he stopped. He wasn’t sure he was capable of taking another step, and he had to try to find something out. Angling his head so that their lips were no more than a breath apart, he whispered. “Why do I want to kiss you?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice as hushed as his. “Maybe because I want to kiss you too.”

  His already simmering blood began to boil. He had never known such instantaneous need. It wound through his body, coiling around his chest, restricting his breathing so that he had trouble getting his next words out. “Have you decided whether or not you’re going to stay?”

  She didn’t answer at first. Her eyes were on his mouth, as it had moved, forming the question. To him it seemed like an eternity before she raised her eyes to his. “I’ll stay. For tonight.”

  Slowly he lowered her feet to the ground. His arms never let her go, her body never lost contact with his. Her arms were still clasped around his neck. Carefully he slid his hand down her side, past her waist, to her hips, then around to her bottom. He pulled her into his hardness. He wanted to feel her. He wanted her to feel him. He heard her gasp at the contact, and then, with much less care, he crushed his mouth down on hers.

  He was like no man she had ever kissed, Cara thought. Her instinct told her he could be dangerous, her senses told her that his sexuality had a violent tinge to it. And even though she had never faced anything like it before, she wasn’t afraid. In fact, she wanted the experience of Burke Delaney. For this moment she wanted to know everything he had to give her.

  His hand was inside the back of her dress now, his fingers almost bruising. She didn’t mind. His urgency only heightened her excitement. His hand pushed across her skin to the very edge of the deeply scooped back of the dress. She heard her dress rip, then felt his hand slide around to her breast. Inhaling at the sharp pleasure, she marveled at how fast her body had begun to crave his.

  Dear heaven! Burke thought. She was fire in his arms. How could he handle this? What should he do? Questioning himself was totally alien to Burke. His life was filled with absolutes and action—especially where women were concerned. But Cara! He wanted her so. He had to have her. Now!

  Somewhere a door opened. Somewhere a dog barked. From a distance a voice called. “Cara! Cara!”

  No! It was a protest so deep inside himself, he wasn’t even sure what part it came from. He only knew that he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, let Cara go.

  But she stirred against him. “Burke, it’s Bridget. I’ve got to go up to her.”

  “I know.” His chest hurt as he rasped out the two words. His arms hurt, letting her go. Hell, even the ends of his hair hurt. “Give me a minute.”

  “No.” She drew in a deep breath, trying to steady her own ragged breathing. “I’ll go on up and talk to her. You can come when you’re ready.” She wheeled to go.

  “Wait,” he said sharply. She glanced over her shoulder and saw a disconcerted expression on his face.

  “I—I tore your dress.” She responded to his word with what could have been a smile, except for some strange reason he didn’t think it was.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Nothing lasts.”

  A deep frown creased his forehead as he watched her run up the yard to the house. Quicksilver!

  Her legs were so unsteady, they might as well have been made of jelly, Cara thought, but running from Burke Delaney was the first sensible thing she had done today. She should probably keep running right on back to Tucson, then catch the next plane out—to anywhere. But in a moment of weakness she had committed herself to stay the night, and she would. One night.

  The house of Killara was an incomparable, imposing, two-storied structure of many different styles and influences. It would have been exceptional in any locale, but it was especially so on an Arizona cattle ranch. Approached by a half-mile long winding drive, the house boasted two unique wings: one the original adobe homestead of Killara; the other, a twelfth-century Norman keep. A three-tiered Italian fountain sprayed its water in a courtyard in front of the thirty-foot entrance to the house, but as Cara skirted around it she barely noticed the dancing water whose colored lights made it glow with iridescent splendor.

  Bridget was waiting for her by the two massive hand-carved wooden front doors. “There you are!” she exclaimed. “I’ve been so worried. I just went up to Mr. Burke’s room to check on you and found you were gone, didn’t I now?”

  Cara smiled at the tall, raw-boned woman. Even as a child, Cara had found endearing the habit Bridget had of speaking in questions. Now she found it even more so, because it was one thing from her childhood that had remained the same. Something else that hadn’t changed was Bridget’s hair. A fiery red, it was her pride, and she still wore it as she always had, pulled away from her face and into a French twist.

  Patting it to make sure it was properly in place, Bridget waited for an answer.

  “I’m sorry Bridget. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just so excited about being back on Killara after all these years, I decided I’d take a ride.”

  “A ride you say? And in that dress!” She ran an expert eye over it. “It’s probably ruined, and isn’t it quite the prettiest dress I’ve ever seen too?”

  “Why, Bridget.” A low, mocking voice sounded behind Cara. “I didn’t know you followed fashion.”

  “Mr. Burke! I heard the helicopter, but then thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow evening, didn’t I?”

  Still standing behind Cara, Burke discreetly reached for the piece of flame-colored fabric he had torn and pulled it into place. As he did, the back of his fingers brushed her skin, and he felt her shiver. Desire tightened in his loins. Damn! “I was able to get away a little earlier than I expected.”

  Bridget folded her hands across her flat stomach. “Well, now, isn’t that good? I’m sure you could use the rest.” Her gaze switched to Cara. “And you met up with Cara?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. And she’s decided to stay the night.”

  “Well, of course! She’s one of Killara’s own, isn’t she? Where else would she be staying?”

  “Why don’t you give us a chance to clean up?” Burke suggested. “Then we’ll be into dinner.”

  While they talked, they had moved into a stately hall. Beneath their feet, an Italian marble floor gleamed: overhead a Waterford chandelier showered them with light. Against a curved wall a magnificent stairway swept downward from the top floor like the train of a woman’s dress. On the walls were priceless Gobelin tapestries.

  As a child, Cara had never had an occasion to be in the house except for the kitchen, and earlier this aftern
oon she hadn’t had time to really take everything in. At any other time she would have welcomed the opportunity to view it. But now jet lag—complicated by her extraordinary encounter with Burke—was catching up to her. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll skip dinner.” she said.

  “Skip dinner!” Bridget was shocked. “Now, I’m asking you, isn’t that the surest way of getting sick that I know of?”

  “I never get sick, Bridget.” Cara smiled to temper her firm words. She didn’t want to sound ungracious, but she wasn’t used to anyone fussing over her, and she didn’t quite know how to handle it. “And I think a long hot bath and then bed would be much better for me.”

  “Mr. Burke?” Bridget appealed, reasoning that everyone knew he had the final word. His response surprised her.

  “If that’s what she wants to do, Bridget, then that’s what she should do. She’s come a long way today. What room did you put her in?”

  “The housegirl made up the guest room at the end of the hall for Cara, now didn’t she?” Bridget’s tone was stiff, but nevertheless respectful.

  “Thank you. Ill take a tray in my office later.” He put his hand on Cara’s back, concealing the tear, and guided her up the stairs.

  Bridget watched their ascent with interest, and as she did, her rigid spine gradually relaxed. She had sharp blue eyes that could spot a speck of dust at fifty feet, and there was no way she could miss the tear in Cara’s dress or the almost possessive way Mr. Burke’s hand was touching her back. So that was the way things lay, did they? Well, and wasn’t it about time?

  * * *

  Almost asleep, Cara luxuriated in the fragrant hot water that filled the big marble tub. Scented steam rose from the water. She had poured in a whole packet of the special bath oil that was concocted for her by a nice little man who owned a perfumery on a side street in London.

  Through half-closed eyes she viewed her surroundings. Both the bathroom and the bedroom she had been given were done in Art Deco style and were exceedingly luxurious. She remembered the elegant beauty of the bedroom with the flowing lines of furniture lacquered a smoky pearl color.

  In here the pedestal sink and the tub were black marble, the fixtures golden swans. Platinum-colored bathmats covered the black-and-white tiled floor and matched both the thick Turkish towels that hung on heated rods and the satin sheets on her bed. The wall beside her had a lighted rectangular recess in which stood a tall silver statue of a woman, her hands holding a crystal bowl.

  Stirring, Cara felt the moisturizing water slide over her skin. Regretfully she decided that she should get out since, as usual, she had lost track of time.

  She never worried about time unless she was catching a plane, and she had already caught her quota of planes for the day. As far as she could see, time passed with or without her permission anyway, so she had learned to enjoy whatever the particular moment brought—until it passed onto the next moment. The other thing she had learned was that you could never tell how long a moment would last.

  As if to prove her point, a knock at the door startled her out of her drowsy reverie. “Cara. it’s Burke.”

  Of course, it was Burke, she thought, both irritated and amused. Was there anyone else whose voice would have the power to send chills up her spine when she was lying in a tub full of hot water? “Just a minute,” she called.

  She stepped out of the tub and reached for a towel. The only clothes she had brought into the bathroom were the peach silk camisole and bikini panties she had intended to sleep in. Hurriedly she put them on, then looked down at herself, only to see that she hadn’t gotten herself as dry as she had hoped. Her nipples jutted wetly against the silk, and the top of the camisole barely met the edge of the panties. With any movement, her navel would be revealed. The whole ensemble was entirely too bare. It would never do.

  “Cara!” Burke hammered impatiently on the door. “I’ve brought antiseptic to treat your cuts.”

  “Just a minute.” Grabbing up a dry towel, she wrapped it around herself and secured it firmly by tucking one of the ends between her breasts. It was the best she could manage, she decided, and it was considerably better than the alternative. She went to open the door and immediately caught her breath. Evidently Burke had taken a shower, because his black hair was slightly damp, and he had changed into a pair of thigh-hugging jeans, teaming them with a light green shirt whose sleeves had been turned back against his dark forearms.

  “What took you so long?” He stepped in and shut the door behind him in order to trap the warmth.

  “Sorry.” She leaned over from the waist and pulled the plug from the tub, allowing her bath water to drain and unknowingly giving him a glimpse of peach silk and an enticingly rounded bottom.

  His jaw clenched. To his already aroused senses the whole bathroom seemed saturated with her wildly feminine presence. The steam enhanced the sensuality that was floating in the air, opening his pores and entering his skin. His restraint was slipping fast. He needed to get out as soon as possible, but first he had to tend to her feet. “How many cuts do you have?”

  “Not many. Really,” she added, as she saw his dubious look. “There are just a few, and I’m sure the bath cleaned them out pretty well.”

  “I don’t want to take any chances. Sit down.” He motioned toward the lidded commode.

  Cara did as he asked. “By the way. I won’t need a tetanus shot. I always carry my shot record with me, along with my passport, and I checked. All my shots are up to date.”

  “You must travel a lot,” he remarked neutrally.

  “A fair amount.”

  He knelt before her, placing a bowl on the floor in front of him and a bottle of antiseptic beside it, then he held out his hand. Without protest she placed one foot into it. Looking down at the daintily painted toenails, he carefully turned the foot so that he could examine the sole. His mouth tightened, and his forest-green eyes cut accusingly to her.

  “They’ll heal quickly.”

  She had spoken softly, he noticed, as if she, too, were aware of the intimacy of the small room they were in. Without comment he placed her foot in the bowl and began pouring the antiseptic over the cuts. He heard the tiny hiss of pain that escaped her lips.

  “Hey,” she said quietly, and he looked up. She ran the pad of her index finger across the ridged lines in his forehead. “You shouldn’t frown so much.”

  He was shocked—at her concern, at her insight. But most of all, he was shocked by the intense need that had such a shallow burial inside him that it seemed to spring from somewhere just under his skin and wash over his entire body. With her, control could not be counted on.

  “Give me your other foot,” he said, his voice husky. She did, and he repeated the procedure. This time he felt her tense, but she didn’t make a sound. He finished, put the bowl and antiseptic aside, and reached for a towel. “That should take care of it.” Carefully he lay the towel across his thigh, placed one of her feet on it, then drew up the edges and began to dry it.

  “You don’t have to do that.” she protested and tried to pull her foot away. Her nervous system was already close to coming unraveled. She didn’t need Burke Delaney kneeling at her feet to complete the process.

  The pressure of his fingers around her ankle increased. “Be still.”

  His command, spoken just above a whisper, barely moved the mist-shrouded air of the bathroom. Her blood felt as though it had thickened and slowed, but her pulses were pounding at an alarming pace.

  Through the softness of the towel, he pressed his thumbs into the ball of her foot, gently massaging every part, soothing sensitive nerve endings, until she was sure there was not a tense muscle left in her entire body. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the pleasure that pulsated from every point he touched. Then he took the other foot and did the same, only this time, when he had finished drying the foot, his magical hands went higher, past her ankle, to her calf, to the back of her knee. Funny. Cara had never known that she possessed nerve endings in th
ose particular places.

  “What do you have on underneath that towel?”

  “What?” Her eyelids flew up.

  Slowly he straightened so that his eyes were level with hers, and she could see clearly the deep forest-green color of them. He pointed to the tiny straps of her camisole that she had forgotten were showing above the platinum-colored towel. “I know you have something on, and I asked you what it was.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Casually his fingers went to the edge of the towel tucked between her breasts and pulled it loose. “But I want to see what it is.” With a maddening inchmeal pace the towel fell away, revealing the peach silk and lace underclothes. “My God.” he whispered. His gaze roved over her to the strip of lace that crossed her breasts just above their pointed tips, to the lace-banded waist that almost, but not quite, met the bikini panties, to the ribboned elastic that stretched over the top of her thighs and disappeared between her legs.

  Slowly, as if in a daze, he lowered his head and placed his mouth over her navel. He heard her moan and flicked his tongue into the indentation, tasting the sweetness that seemed such an integral part of her. Then he looked up at her, and his eyes told her more than words how much he wanted her. She shook her head helplessly, curiously unable to deny him. With an unhurried deliberation that threatened to turn her bones to liquid, he parted her knees and pulled her to him, until her thighs were on either side of his waist.