by Diana Palmer
She wanted to protest. But her eyes went down to his lean fingers working the buttons with such deftness, and she couldn’t look away. He undid them slowly, and then drew the fabric back from her high, pink breasts with a leisurely expertise that hypnotized her.
Then his gaze was on her, looking at her with blatant possession. Winthrop was a man with an eye for beauty, and the expression in his dark eyes told her that he found her beautiful. Her nipples went hard under his scrutiny, and she was embarrassed and tried to cover them. But he stopped her, shaking his head gently.
“It isn’t sordid or shameful to let me see you,” he said quietly, his voice very slow and deep. “God never made anything more beautiful than a woman’s breasts.”
Her breath stopped in her throat at his words. She looked up at him, her gaze sharing secrets with him. Then he smiled, and it was like the sun coming out.
He touched her cheek, gently tracing it. “Come here and let me hold you, Nicole,” he breathed, drawing her. “Feel my body and let me feel yours. Let me teach you how beautiful it can be to touch skin against skin.”
She let him draw her close, feeling the sting of tears as she went into his arms. Her eyes closed at the first contact with his warm, hard body, and she cried out as her nipples stabbed into his skin, burying themselves in the damp, abrasive mat of hair that covered the hard muscles. “Winthrop,” she murmured.
“Yes.” His hands spread against her silken back, under the pajama top. He drew her very close, closing his own eyes as her soft body melted into him. He was aroused, and she knew it. He felt her stiffen as her legs came into contact with his.
“Don’t flinch away from me,” he murmured at her temple, coaxing her back against him. “This is natural, too, and good and sweet and right between a man and a woman. Don’t be afraid of it.”
“It’s so intimate,” she whispered shakily against his warm, broad chest. His skin tasted of cologne and soap. Masculine smells. Good smells.
“Intimate,” he agreed at her ear. “Yes, it’s that. It’s exquisitely sweet, having you close to me this way.” His arms tightened and trembled a little. So did his tall, fit body. “Nicky,” he breathed on a groan, bending his head over her. He began to rock her, fostering a new kind of intimacy between them, one that should have shocked her but was strangely familiar now. She clung to him, letting him hold her, yielding to his strength.
“Your leg …” she said a long minute later.
“What leg?” he murmured.
She drew in a long breath, and he shuddered as he felt her breasts swell against his skin.
“It’s scary, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Holding each other like this.”
“Scary enough,” he agreed on a bitter laugh. “You can’t possibly imagine the thoughts going through my mind.”
“I’ll bet I can, too,” she said. She nuzzled her cheek against him, loving the rough feeling of the hair over his chest. “Do you like that?”
“Can’t you feel how much I like it?” he asked with blatant mockery. “Give me your mouth.”
She lifted her lips to meet his, her hands sliding around him to his back, loving the feel of him, the vibrant masculinity of him. He kissed her slowly, warmly, and even that was intimate, his tongue probing softly in her mouth.
He shifted her a little so that his hand could find the soft curve of her breast and tease it into arching toward those tormenting fingers.
“Do you want me to keep going?” he whispered at her lips.
“Yes,” she whispered back, her voice breaking. She wasn’t old enough or sophisticated enough to hide her hunger.
“Like this?” he murmured, with a teasing touch around the nipple, his fingers faintly callused and deliciously abrasive on her soft skin. “Or like this?”
His thumb rubbed suddenly at the tiny hardness and she cried out, a whimper of sound that worked on him like a narcotic. His hand covered her breast and he lifted his head to look into her misty eyes while he caressed her.
“I’m on fire,” he whispered. “Burning.”
“So am I,” she moaned. “Winthrop …”
His head bent to her body, and as she watched, fascinated, he arched her and opened his mouth and put it completely over her breast.
She thought that as long as she lived, she’d never get over the sensation. It went on and on, tearing at her, shaking her, making her too weak to move, to breathe, to think. She was an instrument, and he was playing her with an expert touch, teaching her things about her own body that she’d never known.
She arched farther, her hands in his dark, cool hair, inciting him, begging him. His mouth slid from one breast to the other, and she moaned like a wounded thing, feeding on the sweet ardor of his mouth, living only through him.
Dazed, shuddering with sensation, she barely felt him move. And then she was on his lap in the chair, and he was holding her, cradling her while she cried. She hadn’t even been aware of the intensity of her emotions until she felt the tears like rain on her face.
“Shh,” he whispered gently, his mouth soothing her now, touching her hot cheeks, her wet eyelids and eyelashes, her nose and mouth and chin. “It’s all right. Hush, darling, it’s all right now.”
“Winthrop,” she whispered tearfully.
“Nicole,” he breathed, wrapping her up in his arms. He rocked her against him hungrily, laughing a little at her headlong response even now. “Wildcat! Never in my life, not ever … You damned near pushed me over the edge with those little cries you made.”
“I couldn’t help it,” she said, hot-faced. “It was what you were doing to me …”
“I couldn’t help that, either,” he murmured dryly. He kissed her gently. “You have exquisite breasts, Miss White,” he breathed huskily. “As soft as satin, as warm as velvet. I’d rather cut off my arm than cover them, but if I don’t, you and I are very likely to become lovers within the next few seconds, right here on the floor.”
And while she was getting over the shock from that statement, he sat her up on his lap like a big doll and proceeded to do up the buttons on her pajamas. When she was covered again, he drew her back down, holding her lazily while he pressed tender, undemanding kisses on her damp face.
“You’re very quiet,” he remarked finally. “Why? Are you shocked? Outraged? Embarrassed?”
“I don’t know,” she confessed, snuggling closer. “Not outraged or ashamed, although I suppose I should be embarrassed. I’m not in the habit of … behaving this way with men.”
“I know that.” He brushed the damp hair away from her cheeks. His dark eyes held hers. “Is this all new to you?”
It wouldn’t do to lie to him, she supposed. She searched his dark eyes. “Yes,” she said quietly. “My fiancé …” she said quietly. “He wanted me, but I could never give in to him. I … didn’t like it when he tried to touch me.” She lowered her eyes to his broad chest. “And when I found out what he really wanted, I felt used and cheap and ashamed. I don’t feel any of those things with you.” She lifted her eyes again, because it was important to make him understand. “It isn’t like a physical thing with you, however silly that sounds. It’s …” She searched for the right words. “It’s …”
“Beautiful,” he said for her. “Poignant. Profound.”
“Yes.” Her pale eyes lit up, making her beautiful.
He kissed her very tenderly. “Any other woman I’d have in bed by now,” he murmured. “But you aren’t the kind of woman who can play around with sex. Not even in the throes of an urgent need.”
“Nevertheless,” she said slowly, choosing her words, “I wouldn’t refuse you.”
“I know. That makes it worse. I can’t take the responsibility alone.” He touched her mouth with a gentle finger.
“Responsibility?” she whispered.
“I could make you pregnant,” he said gently.
Her body felt wildly hungry. Her lips parted and the look in her eyes made him want to throw back his head and scream.
“Do you want a son?” she asked in a husky, loving tone.
“Yes,” he bit off. “I want one with you….”
Her body shuddered. She looked into his eyes and knew that she was lost, that she couldn’t stop, that he couldn’t. In his eyes, she saw the coolness of white sheets and the outline of two bodies in the darkness….
And all at once, she was standing and he was five feet away from her with a burning cigarette in his hand.
She was so numb she could hardly feel. Her eyes traced him, saw the faint shudder of his long legs.
“Go to bed, sweetheart,” he said without looking at her.
“You aren’t angry?”
“No,” he said, his voice deep and slightly choked. “I’m not angry.”
She turned toward the door, only half understanding. She paused with her hand on the knob and glanced back. “Winthrop, are you all right?” she asked, her tone exquisitely gentle.
“Team sports and cold showers will save me,” he said on a husky laugh. “Go to bed.”
She flushed because that explained it all. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Really sorry.”
“For what?” He glanced at her finally, and she was shocked at how pale and drawn his face was. “Nicky, you were in as deep as I was. I’m a little shell-shocked, that’s all. But we can’t stay here. Things are getting out of hand. I don’t want anything to happen that we might regret.”
She smiled at him. “I wouldn’t regret anything.”
“I can’t be sure of that. It’s easy to lose sight of things in the darkness. I want you very badly. I know you want me just as much. But let’s stop and think before we commit ourselves that completely. I can’t take you to bed one night and walk away from you the next morning. At my age, sex is a commitment, not a toy.”
Her face colored. “I guess it is, when you start talking about making people pregnant,” she murmured dryly.
“That, Miss White, I would enjoy,” he said lazily, and his dark eyes glittered playfully. “And so would you; I’d make sure of it. So suppose you go up to bed and give it some thought. And tomorrow we’ll discuss terms.”
“What kind of terms?”
He smiled slowly. “That would be telling.”
She turned back to the door. “If it means I get to live with you, I’ll agree to most anything,” she said and ran for it. Behind her, she heard rich, thunderous laughter, and by the time she got to the top of the staircase, she was laughing, too. Life was sweet and Winthrop had to feel the same way she did, because he was hinting at a lot more than a brief affair.
If he trusted her that much, it must mean that he loved her. And God knew, she loved him with all her heart. She was so preoccupied dreaming about Winthrop’s arms holding her in the darkness, and little boys and never leaving this exquisite valley as long as she lived that it was hard to fall asleep.
For an instant, she had a twinge of guilt about not sharing her past with him. But there was still time, she told herself as she snuggled under the covers. Plenty of time, to explain why she’d kept it a secret, to show him that she loved him, that she’d never betray him. Yes, there was time.
CHAPTER SIX
When Nicole woke up the next morning, it was to an odd kind of silence. Although she was used to that particular stillness in winter, it was unfamiliar in autumn. But usually it meant snow.
She threw off the covers and ran to the window. Sure enough, the lacy white flakes were coming down like cotton out of the clouds, gently blanketing the trees and the grass. She sighed, vividly remembering last night and the newness of what she’d shared with Winthrop. Like a daydreaming child, she propped her elbows on the windowsill, put her face in her hands and mused about how it would be if she and Winthrop had been snowed in together, just the two of them.
Her daydreams were rudely shattered by the loud noise of an approaching vehicle—a four-wheel-drive vehicle, at that.
A huge Cherokee wagon came into view with Winthrop at the wheel, and several passengers. They must be the hunting party, she guessed. The group didn’t look too bad. There was a willowy redhead dressed from head to toe in white fur, followed by two older men, one in a wool plaid coat, the other in leather. And there was one more passenger, a big, white-headed man with an imposing nose, wearing tweeds….
Nicky came away from the window feeling sick. She’d go back to Chicago alone, right now. She’d pack her things and get out while she could. The memories came back hauntingly. The loud arguments, the fights that never seemed to end. Her father apologizing halfheartedly for his latest infidelity, her mother’s mocking laughter. She put her hands against her eyes, feeling all over again like the little girl who used to run into the kitchen and hide her face against Lalla’s ample bosom and cry her eyes out until the argument ended.
“Nicky!” came Gerald’s voice outside the door. “Nicky, come down! Guess who one of our visitors is? It’s your father!”
Along with that horror came a new one. She hadn’t told Winthrop who her father was, or that she’d renounced her inheritance. What was he going to think?
“I’ll be right down,” Nicky called back.
She got dressed in a daze, pulling on her gray slacks and white sweater, the ones Mary had miraculously cleaned. She’d been wearing them the day she’d helped Winthrop deliver the colt. Perhaps that memory, if her clothing triggered it, would make the next hours easier.
She ran a brush through her hair and smoothed on some lipstick. She looked pale and haunted, but that couldn’t be helped. Why did it have to be her father? she wondered miserably. Of all the sportsmen in the world, why him? She’d suspected it, of course, when Winthrop had mentioned that he’d been to Kentucky and knew Rockhampton Farms. Since her father was a well-known sportsman, it wasn’t farfetched to imagine that he might enjoy hunting in Montana.
There were voices in the living room when she went downstairs, but the only face she saw immediately was Winthrop’s. The tender lover of last night might have been a dream. His expression was hard, ice-cold. He barely looked at her before he turned back to his guests, a cup of coffee in one lean hand.
“Here she is,” Gerald said with a grin, coming to meet her. His hand on her arm gave her the strength to walk into the room. “Look who’s here,” he added, pulling her toward the big white-haired man in tweed.
“Hello, Nicky,” her father said coldly. “Long time, no see.”
“Not long enough,” she replied, and the bitterness of the past was in her eyes.
Winthrop frowned. It wasn’t the reunion he’d expected to see at all.
Dominic White stood up, but he didn’t approach her. His careless green eyes swept over her wan face and dismissed it. “This is Carol Murdock,” he said, introducing the willowy, very young redhead in ski pants and a mohair sweater under all the fur. “She’s visiting with me for a while.”
“Hi,” Carol said breathily. She beamed up at Dominic, who was at least fifteen years her senior, probably more like twenty. “Your dad sure is a lot of fun. He’s going to show me how to shoot a moose.”
“Oh, you’ll enjoy that, I’m sure,” Nicky told her. “It’s easy. You just load the gun and point it and pull the trigger.”
“I taught Nicky to shoot when she was twelve,” Dominic told the group. “She could match any man on the place with a rifle. Even won trophies at it.”
Winthrop, quietly smoking a cigarette, studied her curiously. “A girl of unusual talents.”
“An unusual girl altogether,” her father replied. He laughed shortly. “We haven’t spoken in two years, have we, Nicky? I’m in disgrace, you see. I made the unforgivable error of falling out of love with her mother. Nicky holds me responsible for Brianna’s death. And for cutting her off without a dime after the funeral,” he added with killing precisión. “She’s been living by her wits ever since, haven’t you, darling? Which one of these rich Christophers have you set yo
ur cap for?”
Just like old times, Nicky thought, feeling panicky. Her father was turning everything around, taking the blame off himself and throwing it at others. Winthrop’s expression told her that he believed her father, and it grew even harder.
“I’m Gerald’s secretary,” she said with what little pride she had left. “And I’m not chasing anyone.”
“You mean you’ve learned to love being without those Dior gowns you fancied and having to make do with the same fur several years running?” her father persisted. He looked like some middle-aged playboy even in his hunting clothes, and Nicky wanted to scream at him. All her life he’d made her feel inferior, and now he was destroying her one chance at happiness. He was convincing a once-betrayed man that he was being betrayed all over again. How would she ever make Winthrop listen to her?
Nicky’s fists clenched by her sides. Her father had always enjoyed creating scenes. He should have been an actor, she thought bitterly.
“Let me introduce you to the other guests,” Winthrop interrupted, wondering even as he did it why in hell he should bother to save her any discomfort after the way she’d deceived him. She’d pay for that, he promised himself. “Ben Harris—” he nodded toward the man in leather “—and Jack, his brother.” He indicated the other, thinner man, in the plaid. “They come up every year looking for a good rack to go on their walls back in Kentucky. This year Dominic decided to come with them.”
“I don’t suppose you knew I was here, of course,” Nicky asked her father with some of his own flair of stealing the advantage.
“I haven’t known where you were in two years,” he replied shortly. His eyes, so like her own, searched her face. “I haven’t cared,” he added with a mocking smile. “There’s been a noticeable financial difference since you moved out, honey. I can balance the checkbook these days.”
“Stop it,” she whispered, near tears of enraged helplessness. “You know that’s not true.”
He simply turned away from her, refusing to take any notice of her embarrassment.