She broke through some scrawny trees and discovered herself on the bank of a decently wide river. I’ll be damned. She blinked several times, just to be sure she was really seeing it. The sand is white.
Just ahead was a long, sloping hill, so low that it was maybe only seven feet tall. The front of the hill had been shorn off by hundreds of years of water running over this very spot. The top of the hill was covered by more of the scrawny trees, but they looked less anemic up there than they did down here. And there, right in middle, was a tent.
He really did live in a tent. It wasn’t just a load of bull. He was for real.
Real like the small fire crackling in a pit at the bottom of the hill, less than five feet from the river. Real like the pot hanging over it, bubbling with what smelled like stew. Blankets were spread out on either side of the fire. Looked like he was expecting company.
Excellent. She was intruding. If she had parked close, she’d bail. This was not a good idea, much less a great one. What had she thought she’d accomplish by barging in on him? He had plans, and God only knew what a man like Rebel considered plans.
But the water was gurgling on its merry way past the campsite, just begging her to kick off her shoes and come on in. She turned to look at the river. She’d come so far...maybe for only a minute. Then she’d see if she could find something to drink that didn’t look like it was crawling with microbes, and it would be time to go. She spun around, looking for a place where she could sit down and wrench her boots off.
And found herself face to chest with a dripping wet, shirtless Rebel. Well, almost face to chest. He was still a good six feet away from her, just finishing knotting a towel around his waist.
His bare waist. She could see the oblique muscles, cut from solid rock, just above his hips. And it wasn’t a hell of a big towel. There was no way he had on anything else but one dinky little towel and a whole lot of muscles.
She was staring when it hit her. Holy hell, what am I doing here? Not a good idea. She should not be here, not with him looking like some sort of water god, not with her on the brink of a medical emergency. She should not be here at all.
His smile seemed a little less lazy this time as his eyes took in everything—the sore feet, the sweaty shirt, the hair that was about ten seconds from full-fledged frizz. Everything. The smile left lazy behind and headed straight for intent. “Hmm. Not who I was expecting.”
“You were expecting someone?” Great. Add besotted teenager voice to the long list of things that were wrong with her at this exact moment in time. But that was the best she had because, faced with that chest, she felt exactly like a besotted teenager she’d once been, watching Patrick Swayze teach that lucky Jennifer Grey how to dance in the water for the first time. The moment puberty had officially begun.
And damn it all, she was about five feet from living that delicious dream in real life. If she didn’t pass out from her plummeting blood pressure first.
At this exact moment in time, he was everything—everything—she wasn’t. He was cool, calm, collected, mostly undressed and in no apparent danger of swooning. “Someone. I just didn’t know who. Thought it might be...Nobody. If I’d known it was you...” he looked over to the pot, “...I wouldn’t have made the stew. I hope it’ll be okay.”
See, now, that was exactly what he normally did—spoke words she understood individually, but all together? He wasn’t making a single ounce of sense. “You made me dinner?”
“It’s got a little while to go.” His eyes moved again—and she realized that was the only part of him that was moving. No ball-peen-hammer heels, no tapping fingers, no swiveling hips. He was completely, utterly still. The only movement was the trickle of water down bronzed skin and off the ends of his hair.
This was officially getting weird. Hell, it was already weird. It was getting a whole lot weirder.
“So, you wanna go?”
The question caught her off-guard, but not quite as much as the yes that almost popped out of her mouth. She didn’t know for sure what she would have been saying yes to—Leaving? Swimming? Go at it?—but with the way he was just looking at her, she didn’t think she was going anywhere anytime soon.
And she was starting to think that maybe she was okay with that.
She managed to get a, “Where?” out, but she couldn’t fool him, not one bit.
He tilted his head to one side, setting all that loose hair tipping off to the right. “You look hot. I don’t have anything air conditioned, but the river would help those blisters you’re working on.”
Well. At this particular point in time, perhaps hot was the best she could do. “I don’t have a suit.”
He had the nerve to chuckle. “So? Neither do I.”
Now would be a good time to start breathing again. Right now. “Uh...”
“You came from the east, which means it’s about a mile and a half back to your Jeep. I don’t want you to get heatstroke or anything.” Rational—at the same time he was completely, totally irrational.
Get naked? In a river? With him? Oh, let me count the ways this is a bad idea. “Uh...”
Great. Just great.
And then he moved. One careful step at a time, he closed the distance between them until there was less than a foot. One measly little foot between hot, sweaty and panicked and cool, wet and calm.
She swore she could hear “The Time of My Life” echoing from somewhere. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“You’re hot. You’re blistering. You need to cool off.”
“I’m fine.” And that sweat trailing down her face? That had nothing to do with anything, thank you very much. At least she was still sweating, right?
Twisting his mouth into that canine grin, he shook his head at her lousy lie. And then, moving slow enough that it hurt her deep inside, he reached up and felt her forehead with the back of his hand. His hand was cool, damp. Her temperature dropped a whole degree—at least on her head. “Why do you do that?” he asked.
She tried to pull away from his touch, gentle and yet exquisitely dangerous, but he suddenly had her face in his bare palm. That alone was enough to hold her. “Do what?” Excellent. Her voice was starting to quiver. All she wanted to do was run into the river, water god be damned. She was going to crack.
“Ignore what you really want.” His thumb moved over her cheek, leaving a cool trail in its wake. “What you really need.”
“I don’t need anything.” She was sure that wasn’t true—she’d come here needing something—but at this exact moment in time, she was having a lot of trouble remembering what that was. She didn’t need anything. Other people needed her. That was how it worked.
“Everyone needs something, at least some of the time.” He should sound like he was scolding her for not knowing that simple fact, but nothing about him said scolding. “And right now, you need to cool off.”
He stepped in, close enough she could see herself reflected in those black eyes. Close enough she could smell the river water. Close enough she could taste him, if she wanted.
He slid his hand down from her face, across her collarbone, over her shoulder and down each and every one of her vertebrae with enough pressure to weaken her knees. Then he grabbed her top shirt and began to pull.
“What are you doing?” she spluttered, finally finding her hands. She grabbed at his forearms—rock solid—and halted his movement.
He let her stop him. “You don’t want to ride home in wet clothes, do you?”
There it was again, that rational irrationality. “I don’t want you to look.” And she was right back to childish.
He shook his head, his smile not moving a bit. He knew exactly how childish she was being. “You’re a doctor. You see people naked all the time.”
She swallowed. His hands were still on her waist, but he was tracing her ribs through her tank top now. Her shirt was half up. For the love of God, it couldn’t go up any farther. “That’s different. I’m a doctor.”
; His eyes narrowed and his hands stilled. “Are you saying no one has ever seen you naked before?”
Excellent. Just freaking wonderful. She was so horrid at this...this...this whatever they were doing that she was coming off as a virgin. A bad virgin. “I didn’t say that.”
Did he look relieved, or was she imagining things? Either way, his hands started to move again, edging up ever so slightly and taking her shirt with them. “Let me guess. The first boyfriend, your parents hated. The other, they loved.”
How did he do that? How did he just know about Bryce, her one attempt at teenaged rebellion? How did he just guess that Dad had referred to Darrin as son from the second date onward? How did he know anything?
There was that grin again, the one she wanted to push into his head when he shot it at her in the clinic. But they weren’t in the clinic. They weren’t even in a building. They were standing on a sand bar, next to a river, under a hill.
She was pretty sure. If she was suffering from heat stroke, she might be imagining this whole thing.
He leaned in and pressed his cheek against hers. She was not imagining that, that much she was certain. “So which one did you leave to come here?”
He hadn’t kissed her. And she was disappointed about that—why? “The one Dad loved.”
“That’s kind of what I thought.” And her top shirt was over her head, leaving her feeling naked in a tank top.
“Madeline,” he said, his voice pushing its way past her heated daze and pouring cool, clear water on her soul. His hands found her shoulders again, tracing the straps of her tank top. “No bra?”
If possible, she got hotter. “Don’t need one when I’m not in the office.” She’d long ago given up on being jealous of Mellie’s fabu set of girls, but in an instant, she wished she had something more to bring to this particular little party.
“Hmm. A necklace.” His fingers undid the leather strap of her necklace without hesitation, which didn’t leave a doubt in her mind that a bra wouldn’t have slowed him down a bit. He let the ends of the necklace trail off her skin. “Madeline,” he whispered again, his accent taking each syllable and making it something different, something new. “I won’t look.” His eyes locked on hers with laser-like intensity. “I promise.”
And then he went for the tank top.
By now, Madeline was powerless to stop him. His voice had her mesmerized. The heat wasn’t helping. The promise of cool release was all she could think about.
That, and she didn’t know what to do with her arms. The tank top was a lot tighter than her top shirt had been. Her elbows had to go somewhere, and she was desperately afraid she was going to clock him in the nose. Of all the problems with this moment, that was the one that unexpectedly had her frantic.
He solved the problem for her. His hands guided her arms up as he stripped her of her shirt, and then he dropped the shirt behind him so that her arms were around his neck. Which brought their bare chests within a breath of touching.
Her eyes were not focusing like they should. She knew she needed to cool off before the heat stroke got serious, but all she could think was that with one stiff breeze her nipples would be introducing themselves to his bare skin.
On the bright side, at this distance, he couldn’t see said nipples. She had that going for her.
“Mad-e-line,” he repeated, each syllable a prayer said by a man hell-bent on sinning. He slid his hands down her exposed back, each fingertip finding something new to explore. Then he was undoing her button, then her zipper, then his palms were flat against her skin, sliding under the jeans and pushing them down. “Madeline.”
Name. Names. His name. Despite her befuddled state, a dim, flickering light went off. “Jonathan,” she whispered, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth was.
He froze. Absolutely froze against her, and damn it all, her nipples went rock hard. She ignored her stupid nipples and focused on the victorious fact that she had outflanked him. For once, she had outflanked him. “Jonathan Runs Fast.”
“Who told you that?” His voice was off-balance, scared even.
“Karen. From the High Plains Gallery. I bought a green bag. With pipe.”
He swallowed—her eyes were level with his Adam’s apple. “You overpaid in commission.”
She was going to enjoy this. She thought. Already, her perceived victory was leaving a funny taste in her mouth. “It was worth it, Jonathan.”
His hands went hard against her. “Don’t. Don’t call me that.” He swallowed again. “Please.”
“Why not?”
He leaned away from her, catching her eyes and holding them tight with his again. “Because.” His fingers found her face again, and he cupped her cheeks. His eyes weren’t looking at anything but hers. “That’s what my ex-wife called me.”
Chapter Six
If possible, her cheeks shot even redder than a summer tomato as everything soft about her in his arms turned to steel. “Excuse me? Your ex-wife?”
He didn’t want to talk about Anna. He wanted to get Madeline into the water, get her cooled off so he could heat her up again. But, as usual, Anna had popped up out of nowhere, leaving him to deal with the wreckage. “Not a big deal. One of those starter marriages. Over before it got going, really.”
Which was kind of how his afternoon was beginning to feel. Over before it got properly started.
“Why?” she demanded, managing to look a little ferocious even as she sounded like she’d been swallowing sand.
“She took one look at the rez and ran screaming.” Against his will, his hands began to slide down, grabbing more of what he couldn’t see. Her skin had a give to it that just begged a man to grab another handful.
“Don’t,” she snapped, lurching away from him.
He caught her around the waist. Too much more distance, and he might accidentally look. Which would only make her madder—and that wasn’t what anyone needed right now. “You need to cool off.”
Her eyes darted to the river behind him, and she bit her lip. She wanted to go—she needed to go. But would that second nature of hers override what was just a simple, basic need?
“I won’t look,” he said, trying hard to sound like it didn’t matter to him one way or the other. “I promise.”
He felt the sigh start low in her chest before it moved up to her eyes. Which just about turned his brain to jelly. Her, right here. No sexless coats. No patients. No Jesse. Just her. She tried to glare at him, but all she could manage was some pitiful version of her normal sneer.
“Fine.” She sounded like she was doing him a favor, but he’d take it. “But I’ll do this myself, thank you very much.”
He stared into those icy blues for a second longer before he scrunched his eyes shut. “You tell me when I can open them again, okay? Just go slow getting into the water. Watch your footing. There’s a little bit of an undertow.”
She nodded. Reluctantly, he let go of her waist and pivoted in the direction of his water cooler. “You need some water,” he called over his shoulder as he fumbled around for a cup.
“I am not going to drink river water. Do you have any idea what kind of microbes or contaminants could be in that stuff?”
He wanted to laugh at her, but he didn’t want to spill the cup he was filling. “Madeline, do you really think I’m dumb enough to drink this straight? I have a purifier system. My water is cleaner than what comes out of your tap, I bet.” Besides, he didn’t think she needed to be worried about the water.
The trickle of water told him the cup was full, while the sound of grunting behind him said she was struggling with those boots. Again. “I’m going to set this on the stump. You come in the water when you’re ready, okay? You need to cool off.”
“What about you?
“I’ll be in the river.” Flinging his towel onto a bush to dry again, he waded in.
She gasped, a quick, involuntary sound. The sound tickled over his nerves like Magic Fingers. Oh, yeah. She’d looked.
The water
welcomed him back, the current swirling around his legs as he went deeper. He sidestepped a sinkhole as the cold water hit his groin like a slow-swung sledgehammer, which was just as well. She wasn’t the only one who needed to cool off.
He needed to get his head together right now. He could not even think about thinking with his dick. She’d been in Rapid City. She’d bought that green bag—God only knew how much she’d paid for that.
But more importantly, she’d talked to Karen. Karen, who treated him like a god descending from Olympus. Half the white world treated him like that—some mystic Indian god at whose feet they desperately wanted to worship. Just like Anna. Which was good for his brand image, but bad for his soul.
And now Madeline knew about Anna, about his art—about everything. He knew why she was here. She was pissed. She had merely underestimated the prairie in summer, that was all. As soon as she unwilted a little, she’d probably let him have it.
He could hope, anyway.
His ears looked for him. Over the gentle lap of the river, he could hear her sniff the cup, then take a drink. He heard her swallow the rest in huge gulps. “There’s more in the cooler, but don’t drink it too fast. You’ll upset your belly.”
“I know that,” she snapped. A little less wilted with every second. “If I get dysentery, I’m holding you personally responsible.”
Like this was all his fault. Well, maybe just a little. “I’m not the one who walked a mile and a half during the hottest part of the day, you know.”
She snorted, but he still heard the water give way to her foot. “Don’t change the subject.”
“Which was what again?” The way her bare legs were slicing through his river? The way she’d shiver when the coldness hit the hidden spot between her legs? How hard her nipples would get when they got wet? He cleared his throat and moved deeper into the water, in case she was still looking. She’d made no such promises, after all. “Is that your lack of preparedness for a summer hike?”
Mystic Cowboy: Men of the White Sandy, Book 1 Page 7