by Meryl Sawyer
“You promised you’d let me—”
He put a finger on her lips, silencing her. “No, Claire. I never promised. You tried to tell me. What you don’t understand is that men like Stegner respond only to power. Why do you think he made up the story about chukes? He wants everyone to believe it takes a whole gang to get the best of him. Otherwise, he loses face—and power.”
She gazed into his eyes, not knowing how she truly felt. Part of her was grateful—and touched—that he’d gone to so much trouble for her. On another level, she was disturbed. This meant that she owed him something, and she was dead certain what he’d want in return.
“Thanks,” she finally said, hoping her voice concealed her mixed emotions. “I’m truly grateful.”
The band was just finishing a song, the final notes obliterated by a round of applause from the crowd. The band wasn’t very good, but it didn’t seem to matter. The townspeople loved a good time and the tourists had fallen under the spell of a blue corn moon in an extraordinary village that hadn’t changed much since the days of the Conquistadors.
The band began to play again, soft, lilting sounds, which were a sharp contrast to their earlier songs. A slow number, Claire realized as Zach pulled her to him, his arms encircling her.
His powerful body was hard and warm against hers, and she was disturbingly aware of every masculine contour. Earlier that evening, his badge had felt warm to her touch. Now it was positively hot as it pressed against her breast. Suddenly, her mouth was as dry as sandpaper, her throat just as rough.
She knew better than to relax her body, the way his strong arms were demanding. She kept her spine rigid as his hand roved across the small of her back. He was moving to the slow cadence of the music, his thighs brushing intimately against hers. She concentrated on staring over his shoulder at the other dancers, attempting to forget she was in his arms.
Impossible.
Zach Coulter had a virility that beckoned every female, she reasoned. Claire, for all her resolve, wasn’t as immune to sexual magnetism as she had believed. To keep herself from wantonly pressing against his to-die-for body, she tried talking.
“Who taught you how to dance?” The words came out with a croak.
He disarmed her with an even more adorable grin than he’d given her at the gallery. “My mother taught me. She was a wonderful person … when she wasn’t drinking.”
Claire managed what she hoped was an approving smile. Despite all the shame his mother had caused him, Zach had loved her. Claire could still remember him trying to raise the money for a decent funeral. His loyalty and love left her unexpectedly touched.
She should have had the guts to shove her father aside when he had blocked her from giving Zach the twenty-dollar bill she had clutched in her hand. That day had been so long ago that it seemed like another person who had stood at the bank’s door staring at Zach as he walked through the blizzard into total darkness. She should have run down the street after him.
But she couldn’t. She had been afraid, frightened to hurt the only parent she had left. And some part of her had been angry with Zach for not telling her about their parents’ affair. She’d been wrong; she could see that now with the vision possible only when you were an adult.
But she couldn’t change the past. Nothing could.
She glanced over Zach’s shoulder at the couples dancing around them. The area was so packed that it was almost impossible to move, but Zach swayed to the beat, one leg flexing slightly, nudging between hers. Goose bumps prickled across the back of her arms and languid heat spread through her body.
She took a deep breath, but it didn’t help. Inhaling merely filled her lungs with the citrus scent of his aftershave. He placed her hand on his badge, its heat instantly warming her palm. His hand now free, he lightly fluffed her hair aside and touched the back of her neck.
His thumb slowly traced across her bare skin, forcing her to relax a bit. Beneath the silver star, she felt the solid, steady thump-thump of his heart. She was thankful for his superior height. She didn’t have to look him in the eye so he could see how attracted she was to him—despite everything.
“Who taught you how to dance?” Zach asked, his warm breath stirring wisps of hair along her cheek.
“My father,” she said without looking up at him.
“Really? That’s interesting.”
She felt his voice vibrate against the badge pressing into her palm. She looked up at him, and the warm glow she’d been fighting suddenly flared into something more when she met his gaze. His smoldering blue eyes bore into her with breathtaking intensity.
They were barely moving now, not even pretending to dance as the crowd tried to dance to the slow song. Nothing can happen here. We’re surrounded by people, she told herself as he continued to stare at her. Thankfully they all seemed to be tourists, and weren’t paying any attention to them.
His large hand rested for a moment on the small of her back. Then, it edged lower and lower and shockingly lower still. Claire noted the sheen making his eyes even more intense and the enlarged pupils as his hand cupped her bottom. She lowered her gaze to the sensual outline of his lips, so inviting, so dangerously close.
Don’t let him kiss you, she warned herself. And whatever you do, don’t you kiss him first.
She put her head on his shoulder to avoid temptation. Before she knew it, the hand cradling her buttocks pressed her closer and slightly upward until she was flush against his hard, jutting shaft. Oh, my.
She spoke, telling him to let go, but no sound came from her lips. Heat flooded her, pooling where he had so intimately joined their bodies. She tried to resist, she honestly did, but the urge to move against him was too strong.
She rotated her hips just a little. He felt so-o-o good. A little more. And more. Mindless, shuddering passion coursed through her as she brushed her yearning body against his. A depth charge of desire shot through her with knee-weakening intensity.
Without realizing she’d moved, she discovered both her arms were linked around his neck. His arms were loosely circling her waist. Oh, mercy! She was the one who was wantonly rubbing against him. Not that he seemed to mind.
His breath was hot and fast against her ear. The unmistakable gleam of desire glistening in his eyes, evident even beneath slightly lowered lids.
“Claire, baby, I hate to tell you this, but the dance is over.”
She should have been angry at his teasing tone, but she wasn’t. He made no move to release her, and she didn’t let go of him either. The crowd milled around them, talking and waiting for the next song.
“Claire, over here,” she heard a familiar voice calling. She pulled away from Zach and saw Maude Pfister elbowing her way through the crowd. Immediately, Claire knew something terrible had happened to her father.
Eighteen
Angela gazed across the table at Paul Winfrey. They’d been at Tortilla Flats for over two hours having dinner, and now they were finished. She’d tried to get him to talk about himself, but he had little to say. Apparently he’d led a dull life, drifting from town to town and living off odd jobs.
Boring. Positively boring.
That’s how she would normally view a man of his age who hadn’t been to the Galapagos Islands or gone to Nepal to view the total eclipse of the sun—or done something equally unusual. Young studmuffins were an exception, of course. She never expected them to be interesting.
But Paul Winfrey fascinated her. Everything about him intrigued her from his rangy cowboy’s body to the quiet way he spoke. There was a power and depth to him that she found intriguing.
She was excited, truly thrilled for the first time in years. She wanted to help him have a stellar career. He had to be what? Forty-something. Her age or even older. He’d almost squandered his talent.
“What made you take up art?” she asked.
Across the table, he took a sip of his coffee before saying, “Quentin Reynolds gave a one-day workshop. I didn’t have anything better to do t
han take it. He encouraged me to paint … seriously paint.”
“Really? I know Quentin well. I mean, I knew him when he was managing the Buck Head Gallery in Aspen. I bought several paintings from him. They’re in my home in Scottsdale.”
She struggled to conceal her excitement. They’d been talking all this time, and Paul hadn’t mentioned Quentin Reynolds. Before becoming a hopeless alcoholic unable to hold down a steady job, Quentin had been one of the leading authorities on Southwestern art. He knew a winner when he saw one.
“Quentin scraped the paint off two old canvases he had and gave them to me,” Paul said. “That’s why I only did two paintings.”
His brown eyes were serious, charged with some inner emotion she couldn’t quite read. She assumed he now knew he had talent and wanted to paint from dawn to dusk.
The waiter arrived with the check and Angela plunked down her American Express Platinum card. Paul’s eyes narrowed slightly, and she realized he was a bit old-fashioned. Unlike the young studs who expected her to pay, Paul was embarrassed by it.
“I’ve been exposed to Southwestern art my whole life. My father was a well-known collector. After his death, I continued to collect. Now I have one of the best collections in this country.” Actually, she was downplaying it. She had the best private collection, a fact few would argue. “You have tremendous talent. I want to help you. I can take care of things for you, so you won’t have to do anything but paint.”
“What’s in it for you?” he asked.
“I’ll have the thrill of seeing your work and knowing I helped,” she said as the waiter returned with the bill. She added a hefty tip, then scribbled her name. “I’ll want the right to buy any paintings I like, of course.”
His dark eyes roved over her face, the way they had all evening. Each time they lingered longer on her lips. A prickle of awareness, of sexual tension ignited. It had been there all along, she decided, but her elation over his art had relegated it to a subtle undercurrent.
He put both elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “Do you get a kick out of buying people?”
“I don’t buy—” She gazed into his eyes and saw he was baffled by her offer. He continued staring at her, and she was forced to admit that she did indeed buy men. She craved young hunks with hard bodies. But this was different; this was about art, not sex.
“I just want to help,” she assured him.
He rose slowly from the table and pulled out her chair. None of her studmuffins would have been as gentlemanly. They left the crowded restaurant in silence with him guiding her, his hand firm against the small of her back.
Outside the night was cool and laced with the sweetish scent of smoke from piñon grills, the way it often was in the mountains in the summer, but there was a softness to the air that she had never noticed before. The band was playing a disgustingly bad version of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” She ought to know. Carleton Cole played it all the time.
“I like that song,” Paul said. “My daddy could fiddle like that. Truth to tell, he was a hell of a fiddler.”
“You loved him very much, didn’t you?” She had already questioned him about his family and had discovered his parents were dead. He had no one except distant cousins that he’d lost track of. In many ways they were alike. She had no family except for a great-aunt who had Alzheimer’s.
“Both my parents were great,” he told her with his usual sincerity. “I wish they could see me now.”
“You’re going to be even more of a success when I help you.”
They stepped around the corner, then down the dark alley where Angela had been forced to park her convertible because of the crowds. The top was down and the Mercedes silver hood glistened in the moonlight.
“I don’t want that kind of pressure.”
She stopped, thinking at first he was joking. His earnest expression said he meant every word. “I want to help you, so you’re free to paint. That’s not pressure.”
“I don’t intend to paint yet,” he informed her in a tone that told her he’d given this a good deal of thought and knew what he wanted. “I want to live a little. Get a first-class mare to ride. I don’t want some rich woman riding herd on me, telling me to paint.”
Riding herd? Dammit. Dammit all the way to hell. No wonder Paul Winfrey had drifted around. He was one of those flitty types who had God-given talent, but was too lazy to use it. Obviously, he needed her. She mustn’t overreact or she’d frighten him away.
“All right,” she said, her tone smooth as if he hadn’t just insulted her. “I won’t press you to produce, I swear. I just want to help. Let me take care of things.”
He moved closer, staring hard at her now, and her breath quickened. She felt alive, really alive. She did not want to lose this man. She could make him a household name. She was dead certain of it.
“Don’t mention me painting again, promise?”
Agreeing to this was like stabbing herself in the heart, but if she wanted to direct his career, she had no alternative. Later, she was positive that she could change his mind. “I promise.”
A slow smile spread across his face, and her body responded with a thrill of pleasure. She longed to see him happy, to have him be a shining star among artists.
He closed the distance between them, saying, “I’ll let you take care of me. Here’s what I need.”
With amazing swiftness, he pulled her into his arms, his lips came down on hers. His kiss was gentle, almost tentative, as if he hadn’t kissed many women and wasn’t sure of himself. After all the cocky studs she’d been around, this kiss was refreshingly sweet. It took only a second for him to gain confidence. She parted her lips and his tongue nudged its way inside.
Paul’s body was surprisingly strong, she thought as she slipped her arms around him. He didn’t have the muscles the young hunks did, but then he didn’t work out six hours a day. Her hands explored the curve of his back as she returned his kiss.
She was unexpectedly breathless, her pulse racing. How long had it been since she’d reacted this way to what was a very simple, no-frills kiss? She leaned against the hood of the car, her knees no longer willing to support her.
He pulled back a fraction of an inch. “I wanted to do that when I first saw you outside of the gallery.”
“Really?”
“I didn’t think I could make it through dinner.”
He kissed her again with such simplicity and heart-wrenching tenderness that she felt the sting of tears. They were banished in a second when she realized he was fully, awesomely aroused.
With just a kiss or two.
She edged her hand between them, then closed it around his penis. A low growl of pleasure rumbled from deep in his chest. She wriggled her hand into his jeans and beneath his underwear. His shaft was hard and pulsing with heat. She ran the tip of her finger over the smooth, rounded tip, detecting a hint of moisture.
She was damp herself, she realized, more than a little stunned at the discovery. Her whole body was on fire for this man. It usually took much longer—and lots of kinky sex—to arouse her. Lately, nothing had worked.
He would have kept kissing her all night if she’d let him. She unbuckled his belt and was working on his pants. “Let’s do it on the hood of my Mercedes. I’ve had sex in a car, but never on a car.”
He gazed at her with an odd expression. Apparently, he didn’t see how erotic the high gloss hood of her car was.
“No, Angela.” He ran his hand up the slope of her waist to her breast, then caressed the raised nipple with the wide pad of his thumb. “You’re going to take care of me, remember? I want a big bed with crisp white sheets.” He gently squeezed her breast, lifting it slightly as he planted a tender kiss just under her ear. “I want soft pillows and music on the stereo. I want to make love to you over and over and over, but I’m not cheapening you by doing it on the hood of a car.”
Zach checked his watch and saw it was just past midnight. Claire had left him to go to the emerg
ency room to be with her father a little over an hour ago. Zach had called to check on him, but the doctor hadn’t decided just what was wrong with him. Don’t let it be anything serious, Zach thought, imagining how much it would upset Claire. Not that he gave a rat’s ass about the old coot, but he knew Claire truly loved him.
“You know what puzzles me about this case” Brad Yeager said, interrupting his thoughts.
They were sitting in Zach’s Bronco in the parking lot of the rodeo arena watching the cowboys mill around. No one was drunk enough yet to warrant an arrest. Okay, so many were way over a breath-analyzer limit, but as long as they didn’t get into a fight or attempt to drive, Zach refused to arrest them. Drunk cowboys at rodeos were a given.
“Why did Duncan Morrell go to The Hideaway for sex?” Yeager asked. “He had a great house, and it was empty. His wife says she left him because he had flipped over some bimbo and wouldn’t give her up.”
A spurt of excitement jolted Zach. “Really? I didn’t know that. Who is it?”
“Thelma Morrell doesn’t know. Her husband said he’d met the love of his life, and she could just take a hike. Apparently, he’d had numerous affairs over the years, but this one was important enough for Duncan to leave his wife and risk splitting their assets.”
The flare of hope faded. This wasn’t the break in the case he’d been hoping for. “Morrell was the ultimate con artist. Women went for him big time. Even after he fleeced them, they still loved him. But if he’d suddenly met someone who rang his bell, why go to The Hideaway for a night of hot sex?”
“It had to have been unplanned,” Yeager said. “Vanessa Trent was supposed to meet him, but she missed her plane.”
“And she’d invested heavily in Morrell’s phony lithos. You don’t suppose she was having an affair with him?”
“Nah, she’s hot and heavy with some producer. I went out there a while ago to check her security. Know what she wants? To screw someone with a badge.”