by Lisa Jackson
Within minutes both her skirt and sweater were disposed of, dropped in a pool on the ground and Thorne was lying above her, kissing her, touching her, causing the blood in her veins to tingle and dance. When she opened her eyes, she looked into a face she’d once loved, a face etched by the years, a face of bladed angles and hard edges, yet in the depths of his eyes and the set of his mouth she saw regret—the tiniest hint of remorse.
The ice around her heart cracked and she blinked against the sting of sudden unwanted tears. Through their soft sheen she saw the moon above him, a bright, frigid disk surrounded by thousands of twinkling stars and she heard the soft babble of the creek.
“I never said I was sorry.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“Shh.” She placed a finger to his lips. “You don’t have to say—ooh.”
He drew her finger into the warmth of his mouth.
“Oh, no—”
But she didn’t pull away as his hot, wet tongue drew anxious circles on her skin as he sucked.
“Thorne—please—”
She intended to deny him but didn’t get that chance.
In a heartbeat he released her finger and kissed her hard. Any thoughts of refusal were suddenly stripped away. Her hands found the zipper of his jacket and the buttons of his wool shirt underneath. Her skin tingled, her blood was on fire.
They kissed and touched. Callused fingers caressed her bare skin and she, too, touched him intimately, kissing him and tugging at his clothes, touching him as his jacket and pants fell away. Her fingers traced the deep ridges of his muscles, thrilling to the hard, tight flesh beneath his skin. She kissed the thatch of springy hair upon his chest and was rewarded with the same heart-stopping sensuality as he traced the fragile bones at the hollow of her throat with his tongue, then lowered himself to her breasts where he caressed one button-hard nipple and suckled at the other.
“You’re more beautiful than I remembered,” he claimed, his breath cool against her hot flesh.
Don’t listen to this, don’t believe him.... But already she was lost.
Heat burned through her and her mind spun in delicious circles of lovemaking. Deep in the most private part of her she tingled and became moist. Desire thrummed in her blood and seemed to shimmer in the crisp winter air. His breathing was as heavy as her own, his skilled hands rubbing and touching and creating a maelstrom that caused her to gasp.
“I’ve dreamed of this,” he said, lowering his face and kissing her abdomen.
Deep inside she convulsed. Her fingers shot through his hair. Lower still he slid, his tongue rimming her navel. She bucked upward, then quivered with the want of him and bit her lower lip as he kissed the inside of her thigh. Her eyes were closed but as his fingers found the feminine folds of her womanhood and he touched the most sensitive spot within her, she groaned. His fingers were bold, his breath feather soft and seductive, his tongue quick. She arched again and cried out, her fingers digging into the cold, hard dirt as the first spasm hit. Her eyes flew open and the sky seemed to blur—stars and moon blending in pearlescent shards as sensation after sensation rocked her. She was dragging in each breath, spiraling downward, floating....
His fingers dug into her buttocks. He held her close and assailed her again and again, his tongue working exquisite magic, sending her soaring again and again until she was certain her heart and lungs would burst.
“Thorne…”
He came to her. While she was gasping, barely able to move, the sweat of her body drying in the cold night air, he moved upward, spreading her bare legs with his own, kissing her abdomen, her breasts, her throat.
“Now?” she whispered, her blood stirring again.
“Mmm.” He kissed her and she responded, felt the male hardness of him pressed against her mound.
“But—”
“Now. You can do it, Nikki.” His mouth cut off any further protest. With one quick thrust he claimed her. “We can do it.”
She stared up at him and as their gazes locked, he moved, slowly at first, taking his time as the fires within her stoked all over again. Her skin broke out with perspiration and liquid heat seared her. She heard a roaring in her ears, felt the pressure build again. Her mind spun in endless circles and she caught his rhythm, meeting each of his thrusts, opening to him, clinging to him.
Faster and faster. She closed her eyes, thought she was dreaming, cried out and heard his own answering scream as with one final stroke he fell against her, flattening her breasts, his face buried in the crook of her neck. “Oh, Nikki. Sweet, sweet Nikki.”
The old ache in her heart reopened at the sound of his breathless voice. She held tight to him, feeling afterglow seep through her bones.
Finally her heart slowed and she could breathe again.
She’d never felt like this—never with Paul, only with Thorne.
“Well, well, well,” he whispered. “That was—” he looked down at her “—worth the wait.”
“Oh, was it?” She cocked an insolent eyebrow and imagined that her eyes glowed with a wicked light. “Was it good for you—”
“Don’t!” He shook his head and laughed, the deep timbre of his voice ringing in the hills. “Just don’t, okay?”
“Just checking.”
“Or being a wise guy.” He kissed her on the lips then and rubbed her arms. “Cold?”
“Not yet.”
“You will be, but I’ve got something for that.” Without bothering with his clothes, he rolled off her, climbed to his feet and whistled to the horses. The General’s head shot up and he came close enough that Thorne loosened the saddlebag. From its depths he withdrew a thermos, a bottle and an insulated pack. “I’m afraid to ask what you’re doing.” Shivering a bit, Nicole slipped into her sweater and skirt.
“You’re getting dressed?”
“If you haven’t noticed, it’s subfreezing out here.” She glanced at the creek where ice glinted between the exposed roots of the trees at the water’s edge.
“You’re tough. You can take it.”
“You be the macho one, okay?”
“Always.” She tried not to stare at his nakedness, refused to notice the play of his shoulder muscles, or the expanse of his chest or the dark juncture of his legs. Instead she concentrated on his actions which included spreading a small tablecloth, handing her a foil-wrapped package and opening the thermos.
“What is this?”
“Juanita’s speciality. Soft tacos and Spanish coffee.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
“You keep bringing up my sanity, but believe me, I’m as sane as you are. Eat.” He sat on the bare ground and she shifted her eyes away from his long, muscular thighs to accept a speckled enamel cup with steaming coffee laced with alcohol.
“I don’t believe this.” She unwrapped her soft taco and took a bite. A delicious blend of flavors exploded in her mouth. She sipped from her cup and felt the hot liquid slide down her throat. “Tell me this isn’t how you treat all the women in your life.”
“Nope. Only one.” He stared at her for a long minute and she, avoiding looking into his eyes, buried her nose in her cup and drank a long sip.
“So I guess I’m special?” she teased.
“Very.” He was still looking at her.
Another long swallow and bite. She wanted to believe him with all the naivete of her lost youth, but didn’t dare. “So special it took eighteen years and a tragedy to force you to face me again?”
He was about to take a drink, but stopped short, his cup halfway to his lips. Somewhere nearby one of the horses snorted. “Maybe I didn’t make myself clear earlier,” he said. “I started to apologize for the past, but you stopped me.”
“I know, you don’t have to—”
“Sure I do, Nikki. I’ve got a lot of excuses, but that�
�s all they are and not very good ones at that. This is the here and now. I would hope that you would take me at face value.”
“Well that’s damned hard to do when you’re sitting there naked as a jaybird and I’m having one devil of a time concentrating on your face, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly,” he said, setting his cup aside. Her heart stopped for she knew what was coming. In a split second, he’d grabbed her again, kissed her as if he never intended to stop and, stripping her of her clothes, made love to her all over again.
Nikki, the romantic young girl who still resided deep in the most hidden parts of her, was in heaven at the thought of a love affair with Thorne McCafferty.
But Nicole, the grown woman, knew she’d just crossed a threshold into certain emotional hell.
Chapter 9
“Barring any unforeseen complications, the baby’s going to pull through.” Dr. Arnold’s voice was a balm but Thorne, in his relief, wanted to jump right through the ceiling of the den where he’d taken the call. For hours he’d been trying to concentrate on alterations to a contract he’d been faxed by Eloise, or playing phone tag with his real estate agent and tax attorney, but all the while he’d been worried about his sister and the baby.
Then there was Nicole. Always at the edges of his mind. It had been two days since their first night together by the creek and he’d had to rein himself in rather than chase her down, but he had too much to think about to rush headlong into a passionate love affair.
“…so as long as he continues to improve, I would guess that he can come home in about three days. Since your sister isn’t ready to be moved yet, I assume that you’ve made arrangements for his care.”
“Absolutely,” Thorne said, though the truth of the matter was that he hadn’t made much headway in finding a suitable nanny and the upstairs room that he planned to become the nursery was a long way from being ready for a newborn.
“Well, if you have any questions, give me a call. I’ll be checking in on the baby every few hours, just to make sure that he’s turned the corner and the nursing staff will notify me of any change.”
“Thanks,” Thorne said and felt as if a weight as heavy as any he’d ever felt in his life had been lifted from his shoulders. “Thank God,” he whispered and leaned his head on the desk. He couldn’t imagine what would have happened if little J.R. hadn’t survived; he’d never allowed his thoughts to wander down that dark and painful path.
Maybe things were finally turning around. He shoved his paperwork aside and walked in stocking feet out of the den. In the past week he’d changed his habits, giving up the strict regimen he’d adhered to in Denver and loosening up. Randi’s condition and the baby’s tenuous hold on life had turned his thoughts away from corporate takeovers, mergers, land deals and developments. He’d had less interest in oil leases and start-up software companies than he’d had on this ranch—the land he’d once disdained.
What about Nicole? Isn’t she one of the reasons you’ve found life here idyllic?
Rubbing his jaw, he realized that he hadn’t shaved this morning and that it didn’t bother him. As he walked down the hall to the kitchen he wondered if he was getting soft or getting smart.
“I tell you I don’t want any strangers in this house!” Juanita’s voice was firm.
“Thorne’s interviewing nannies…they’re all referred by an agency I think.”
“One that only wants to make money. And what does he know about taking care of babies?”
“Good point.”
“My ears are burning,” Thorne said as he strode into the kitchen and caught Slade’s eye.
Juanita was elbow deep in flour, throwing her weight into a rolling pin that was stretching a disk of dough. Every once in a while she stopped to sprinkle the dough with cornmeal or flour and her expression was thunderous. “That baby, he needs his mother and Señorita Randi—she would not want someone she does not know or trust taking care of her son!” Juanita took off a few seconds and made the sign of the cross. “I have told you this before.”
“I haven’t hired anyone yet.”
“Good.” Juanita rattled off a stream of rapid-fire Spanish that Thorne was grateful he didn’t understand.
Slade chuckled and shook his head. He reached into the pocket of his shirt and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Larry Todd’s signed on,” he said. “I’m goin’ to meet him in about—” he checked his watch “—half an hour.”
“Good.”
“Later this afternoon Kurt Striker is gonna pay us a visit. Will you be around?”
Thorne’s head snapped up. “You bet I will. Has he found out anything else?”
“Nothing that I know of, but we’ll see.” Slade wandered to the back door where his boots were waiting. Nearby Harold, their father’s half-crippled dog, lay on a rag rug. Harold thumped his tail and Slade rewarded him by scratching him behind the ears while Juanita slid a warning glance toward dog and man.
“I just washed the floors.”
“I know, I know.”
Harold, suitably abashed, rested his head between his paws and stared up at her with sorrowful eyes.
“Stay.” Juanita pointed at the dog with her rolling pin.
“He’s not moving,” Slade said.
“Good news,” Thorne said and caught Juanita’s and Slade’s attention.
“Señorita Randi?”
“The baby. He’s pulling out of it.”
Slade let up a whoop and Juanita prayed and crossed herself, her dark eyes filling with tears of relief. “I knew it,” she said.
“Does Matt know?” Slade asked, unable to stop grinning, his eyes rimmed in red.
“Don’t think so. I just got the call. Why don’t you tell him?”
“Damned straight, I will.”
“Good.” Thorne ran a hand over his chin. “I’ll run into town—got to talk to some local attorneys about Randi, then I’m gonna stop by the hospital. I’ll meet you and Striker back here later,” Thorne said.
“Fair enough.” With a nod and a crisp salute to Juanita, the “warden” as he sometimes called her, Slade disappeared through the back door.
“Thank goodness for the baby,” Juanita said as she turned back to her dough. “As for that one.” She hitched her head toward the door that was closing behind Slade. “He is too…irrespetuoso…too—” She waved one hand frantically in the air, sending a cloud of flour around her head.
“Too irreverent.”
“Sí. Irrespetuoso for his own good.”
“You’re the one who once referred to Randi’s mother as a witch.”
“That was years ago and is irreverent—”
“Irrelevant.”
“It is fact.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“He’s had his own demons to deal with.”
“Sí.” Her lips pursed and she plunged her hands into the bowl of cornmeal and went about her task, though both she and Thorne considered his youngest brother and the personal pain that Slade had endured.
His thoughts dark, Thorne slipped back to the office, called Eloise and checked in. Her voice was professional and bright, but Thorne didn’t miss the stress of the office.
“Buzz Branson’s been calling twice a day,” Eloise informed him. “Your accountant would like to go over the projected profit and loss on the Hillside View development and Annette Williams left her number twice.” His conscience twinged at the mention of Annette’s name, though he thought they’d reached an understanding the last time they’d spoken. Obviously not.
“If anyone calls back, give him—or her—the number here,” Thorne said. “If I’m not in they can leave a message on the answering machine.”
“Will do. Now you probably want to know that
there’s still talk of a strike by the local carpenters’ union. It could involve one of the framing crews, and one of the partners in Tech-Link is under investigation by the IRS.”
Thorne let out a long whistle. “You’re just full of good news, aren’t you?”
“Wouldn’t want you to feel unloved,” Eloise said wryly.
“Don’t worry. As I said, give them the new number—it’s connected to two lines and an answering machine, so I’ll get any messages. You’ve got it.”
“Will do,” she promised and he hung up feeling more dispassionate about his business than he had in years. He looked out the window to the gleaming acres of raw land where he’d grown up. Hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, he leaned a shoulder against the window frame and watched a herd of cattle lumber across the winter-dry acres. Shaggy red, black and mottled gray coats moved slowly and every once in a while a lonesome calf bawled.
Thorne had loved it here as a kid, turned his back on it disdainfully when he’d approached adulthood and spent the next twenty years avoiding the place. Now, it got to him. Just as a certain lady doctor did. You’re losing it, McCafferty, he thought without a trace of despair. Whatever that edge was that separated you from your brothers and your old man, it’s getting dull with age.
And he couldn’t let that happen.
Rather than dwell on his changing attitude, he strode to the stairs and climbed upward to his room. Some of his clothes had arrived and he thought he’d best shake himself out of this maudlin nostalgia that had gripped him ever since seeing Nicole again. He unpacked his favorite gray suit, starched white shirt and burgundy tie, then he headed to the bathroom to shower and shave.
* * *
“She hasn’t responded yet?” Nicole asked the RN on duty in ICU. Randi McCafferty lay still, unmoving, her monitors in place, the bandages removed from her face. She was healing slowly, at least externally, but she looked worse than ever. Her skin was discolored and scabbed over, her cheeks still swollen.