by Tracy Sumner
Zach closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair, remembering. The crash of waves in the distance and the rustle of pine branches in the breeze soothed him. A little. "She was fragile. Like an angel made of glass. The kind they blow until it's so thin you think it'll break if you touch it."
He had often been afraid to touch her, to hug her with even half his strength, but that was far too personal a memory to share. "There wasn't a cross bone in her body or an evil thought in her head. She was good... kind." He blinked, refocused. Savannah had moved forward in her chair, her arms propped on the table, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "But she wasn't strong. I knew when I asked her to marry me that I would have to take care of her, that it wouldn't be the other way around. I accepted that, I wanted it."
"You wanted her."
Yes. He had wanted Hannah, had loved her intensely—something he had not felt for a woman since. But as the years of their marriage passed, and she seemed to wither under his care, he had often questioned whether he was the right man for her. If any man could be the right man for her. At the very end, he had almost decided that staying in the nurturing care of her family would have been best. He was a man, and he had needed certain things.
Things Hannah had given freely but without genuine interest. Without fire or enthusiasm.
It horrified him, made him feel guilty as hell, to think he'd loved a woman so completely, yet had very little in common with her in bed.
Conversely, the woman sitting across from him—uppity, proud, and sassy—was everything Hannah had not been. He sure as heck didn't like her... but he liked watching her. Watching swift, joyful smiles cross her face, hearing her gusts of uninhibited laughter, and the way her mirth pressed her bosom against her crisp shirtwaist.
She enjoyed life, or so it looked to him.
He even imagined she might be an entertaining companion, maybe even pleasant on a good day. And just when he felt safe thinking that, she would turn and deliver a crushing line of superiority and irritate him so bad he wanted to spit.
On her.
But she was intriguing, all right. That, he could not deny.
"What about you, Miss Connor? Never felt the urge to shackle yourself to a man?"
She straightened in her chair, her spine locking one vertebrae at a time until she sat as rigid as a dried-up schoolmarm. "Me?" With a scant laugh, she took a hasty sip of wine.
Zach smiled, sinking low in his chair, balancing his glass on his stomach. So, she doesn't want to talk about herself. "It's a customary question, isn't it? I thought most women wanted marriage."
She sniffed. "I'm not most women, Constable."
No kidding, he wanted to say, eyeing her over the rim of his glass.
"Furthermore, I have a calling which keeps me decisively engaged for most of my waking—"
"Busy."
She started, sliding forward a bit. "Pardon me?"
"Busy. Your calling keeps you busy. 'Actively engaged' sounds so"—he took a thoughtful sip—"frosty."
"Frosty?"
"Cool."
"Cool?" If he could see her well enough, he'd bet money her cheeks were blazing. "Constable, I'm neither frosty nor cool, nor—"
"Frigid."
Flattening her palms on the table, she rose to her feet, her shadow washing over him. "I'm not frigid."
He paused, felt an undeniable urge to challenge her. But, no, he couldn't do that. Could he?
"Prove it," he said, confirming that wine had indeed distorted his reasoning.
"Okay," she whispered. "I will."
He lifted his head, jerked ramrod straight in his chair, searching Savannah's face for any indication that she was bluffing. Her clothes, her skin, her features were all obscured in gray and black, giving him no clue.
"Are you joking?"
She released a pent-up breath and started to edge around the table toward him. "You said you could change my mind. Perhaps I can change yours."
He waved her back with his glass, sloshing a drop or two on his trousers in the process. "You must know that I'm not a marrying man. Never, ever again."
She halted, surprising the heck out of him by throwing her head back and laughing, her body curving with it. It was a masculine laugh and damned appealing. "Oh, heavens, Constable, is that a call for marriage in your world? I've never been kissed well enough to get me in front of a minister." Covering her mouth with her hand, she gasped, "Must be some—what would you call it—mighty fine kissing to make people take vows."
"Well," he said, feeling a frown bunch his brow, "it could be good. That's not out of the realm of possibility."
"Prove it," she said around another burst of laughter. "Prove it, prove it, prove it."
He rubbed a hand across his chin, debating the wisdom of having any more wine. Had he actually thought he was in control of this situation? "I don't know. This all seems crazy to me. And it was my idea."
She gulped a breath and patted her chest. "My, from the fantastic entertainment I've witnessed in this town, I'm sure it does." Taking a step forward, she held out her hand, as if she were trying hard not to startle him. It was downright insulting. "Rightly, Constable, you asked me first. And I'm willing to go the distance to solve a disagreement."
"I bet you're always willing," Zach muttered, wondering if he'd lost his mind sitting in his backyard on a lovely twilight evening. Gambling with a woman who wouldn't back down if a tiger had her latched in its jaws.
"Are you willing?"
Through the shadows, he found her gleaming eyes, her slightly curved mouth. "No, it's too reckless. Too irresponsible."
"You're sounding like a father. Or a constable, Constable."
"I'm both, Miss Connor."
He watched her lips tilt and flow into a glorious smile. "Rory's in bed, safe and sound. Most of the town is in bed, safe and sound. And you're here, with a pragmatic woman who can take care of herself. Two adults and one magnificent challenge."
"More like a dare," he said and drained his glass.
She took a step closer, until her skirt brushed his knee. "Call it a dare if you like."
"No." His resolve slipped a notch when she crouched before him, the pleasing angles of her face flooding into view. She was much, much too tempting.
"I'll do it all. You don't have to participate. That should be enough to prove my case."
"I wasn't serious when I said that. I'm sure you're not, hell, frigid."
She leaned in, her hands sliding along the arms of the chair, her face fading out of view as it closed in on his. A scent, provocative and earthy, stole in with his stuttered breath. "You see, Constable, I'm always serious." He watched her moisten her lips, so near he could almost taste her. "Close your eyes. I've heard that's the way it's done."
3
The brain is not, and cannot be, the sole or complete organ of thought or feeling.
~Antoinette Brown Blackwell
Savannah held her breath, waiting, her pulse tapping against her temples in a potent rhythm, her fingers trembling where they gripped the chair. Who was this woman? This boastful, immodest woman challenging the most attractive man in town to a sexual dual?
Zachariah Garrett was right: she was crazy.
A moment passed; then he closed his eyes.
Dear God, he closed his eyes.
She moved in, nearly resting in his lap, all the while keeping his lips in view. They looked firm and very nicely shaped. Harder than hers, most assuredly.
Closer.
His breath smelled of wine and the cigarette she'd seen him smoke earlier in the evening. Pleasant, that too.
The gentle rise and fall of his chest beneath his pressed shirt. Whiskers on his chin, his cheek. Long lashes, a shade or two lighter than his midnight black hair.
Thank God those penetrating eyes of his weren't trained on her.
She eased down, a lock of her hair falling forward and skimming his cheek. She reached to lift it away and found herself running her fingers along his jaw, the e
dge of his ear, his eyebrow, almost as if she sought to memorize the shape of his features, the feel of his skin. Cupping his face, she brushed her lips across his, her brain buzzing, her blood thumping in her ears. His mouth was warm and unyielding, just as he'd promised, the stubble scraping her chin and cheek coarse and unfamiliar, yet somehow quite agreeable.
She drew back, releasing a drawn breath. A quiver of movement in his shoulders as his hand flexed, wrapping tightly around the stem of the wineglass. Other than that, he gave no intimation that he had felt her touch. Or enjoyed it in the least.
Perhaps she had done something wrong.
She tilted her head and moved in again, instinctively understanding that this would bring her closer, the fit more natural and possibly more correct. Furthermore, she felt a rabid inquisitiveness to really know the feel of a man's lips on hers, something to replace her less-than-considerable accumulation of experience. Indeed, much was based on imagination and hearsay rather than actual practice.
A brief taste wasn't nearly sufficient.
Lowering her lashes, she swallowed once, slid her hand to the back of Zach's neck and pulled him toward her until their mouths grazed. Like pieces of a puzzle, she maneuvered until the fit was precise. She wasn't sure what to do with her tongue.
She'd read enough wanton novels to know she needed to use it.
Once, twice, she rolled it across his lips, making sure to delve into each tucked corner, each ridge, each edge. It was a moist and much more pleasant experiment than she had expected. And for a time, this alone satisfied her.
However, there was more. She'd read that, too.
Carefully, she threaded her fingers through his hair and dabbed at the corners of his mouth, then along the seam, begging admittance. Coaxing his lips apart. He smelled faintly of starch, wine, and smoke. Delicious. Enticing. She felt his heartbeat thudding beneath her breast, felt hers race to match the rhythm.
Finally charitable, he opened his lips, enough to allow her inside. The sweet, wet taste of him flowed inside her mouth. Further melting her with pleasure.
Although Savannah wouldn't go so far as to claim he participated.
So she tried harder to engage him, swaying against his chest, the heat of his skin burning through the layers of cloth covering her breasts. She explored the smooth edges of his teeth, the occasional brush of his tongue fairly shaking the ground beneath her.
More.
It was all she could think, all she could envision. And he knew. He knew... but would not relent. Her frustration built until she felt a dizzying wave of anger. Untangling her fingers from his hair, she shoved away from him.
"So you'll give up that easy," he murmured, his tense breaths batting her cheek. "I'm surprised."
"Go to hell." The weakness of her voice disquieted, especially when his sounded smooth as butter.
He laughed, his lids hanging low. "Come back here. I'll try this time." He made a quick cross over his heart. "I promise."
On trembling legs, she pushed off the back of his chair and tried to stand.
Laughing again, Zach wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted them to their feet. Stunned, she stood in his embrace, her gaze searching his. She was unsure of what he wanted, what contest he hoped to win. Were they were still involved in any contest at all?
"I thought two were playing this game, Miss Connor." He trailed his finger down the edge of her jaw, cupping it gently. "Was I mistaken?"
Before she could answer—could unravel the muddled thoughts in her head enough to answer—he dipped his head and took possession, the arm at her waist clamping tight and bringing her flush against his body.
She was a tall woman, but he was taller. She was fit, on the lean side, but he was harder. So solid, so muscularly sturdy in a manner his clothes deceptively hid.
Being held by him, kissed and mastered, taken under and swept away, enthralled her in a way she—an independent woman if nothing else in this life—could not have understood until forced to understand.
From the tips of her toes to the ends of her hair, finally, a man's strength dominated her.
Suddenly, she understood why women wanted so deeply. Why they wanted him. If they sensed even one-tenth of his passion, his power, his vitality, they would break his door down to get to him.
And this, she learned as quickly as any pupil could, was what had been missing before: Zachariah Garrett's full participation. In all fairness to the dare, she locked her arms around his neck and consented to a draw.
He murmured something low and unintelligible, his wine glass dropping to the grass with a soft thump. The arm around her waist tightened, the other climbing, his fingers delving into her loose chignon and tilting her head as he deepened the kiss, drawing down on her bottom lip and sucking. Instinct had her following his lead, shifting to better accommodate, parrying each thrust of his tongue with her own, rising on the tips of her toes to better sink into him, to gorge herself in vast, voracious gulps. The frantic nature of their joining melted her stiff posture and her cocksure bearing, rolling through her in a languid, glorious wave of sensation and recognition. It was a peculiar time to realize she had built her sense of self around an erroneous ideal.
She was no different than other women.
He walked her backward in a frantic move; her bottom bumped the table, the wine bottle tipping and rolling into the grass. Still he hung on, challenging, demanding. In response, she plunged, heedlessly, recklessly attempting to sate her hunger. She realized that the more she took, the more she would need.
Bowing her head to break contact, she unlocked her arms from around his neck and shoved against his shoulders with all her pitiable strength. The table, lodged just beneath her bottom, kept her legs from liquefying like hot wax and spilling her at his feet.
He pulled back enough for a stray shaft of moonlight to illuminate the feral look in his eyes, the dull wash of color sweeping his cheeks. His chest rose and fell in double-time, as if he had run a race. "I hope you're not expecting an apology, Miss Connor." The arm circling her waist tensed once before dropping, releasing her. "Not when you were knee-deep in the ring with me."
Edging away, she rubbed her hand over her tender lips, then up to the tangled droop of hair hanging past her shoulder. What a mess she must look. She had never been any good at creating those obtuse chignons. "This isn't a scuffle." She blew out a breath and edged a bit further away from him. "There's no ring. We're not adversaries. At least"—she waved her hand through the air, avoiding his piercing gaze—"not in this."
"Dammit," he said in a hoarse voice, his words clipped, "I knew you were trouble from the first minute I set eyes on you. A man has to go with intuition when he has nothing else. Gut feelings aren't reserved only for pretty little things in bonnets."
Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at the ground, trying to ignore the way his voice made her stomach clench.
She'd never liked the way he talked before now. The shaky tremor running through his words fortified her. For the first time in her life, she'd obviously had an amorous effect on a man. A rather positive outcome as it was.
Except the man in question seemed moderately angry.
Certainly, she had made men angry a thousand times before. Angry enough for them to throw her in a jail cell. Only, when a woman has a man look at her the way Zachariah Garrett had for a moment or two through the lazy shadows of a summer evening, she doesn't want him to snap right back to anger.
"I'm not trouble," she finally said, and by placing the table between them, gathered the nerve to look him in the eye. "A certain joie de vivre, perhaps, which has unquestionably embroiled me in diverse skirmishes in the past. I wouldn't—"
"Stop. For the love of God, please. Stop."
Bending down, he grasped his fallen wineglass, turning it in his hands. "Always, in my experience, troublemakers never know they're troublemakers. They go along causing problems and making everyone else's life hell, all the time thinking their actions are fine and da
ndy with the rest of us. Not a consequence out there that they're concerned about. I make my living dealing with them. Pilots who run aground because their bellies are too full of drink to steer clear of the shoals; men who can't handle their finances so I'm forced to auction off their houses and break up their families; busting up brawls every time payday rolls around. That's what I do in this town, clean up messes."
He shoved to his feet, his eyes blazing. "So excuse me if I swear on the holy book that I can spot a menace at ten paces. And you, ma'am, are a menace to any unmarried man in this town. And by the way, I don't have a ghost of an idea what you said to me in French."
"Why, well…." She gestured broadly, frustration blocking clear thought. "I'm so glad to see you never have to clean up your own messes, Constable. My, how fortunate."
"I have plenty of my own, don't you worry. My life's been full of them. But just now, in the last two months, since Noah came home to us, things are starting to settle. Starting to look right. You"—he pointed the glass at her, a rather lethal jab in her opinion—"are not going to put me on a path to destruction."
She stalked around the table, forgetting her need for a protective barrier. "How could I possibly set you on a path to destruction?"
He raised a brow, gestured mildly. "I'm not going to marry again, Miss Connor. I did it once and it failed. I failed."
"I don't understand."
He shook his head. "You don't have to."
She halted, uncertain. Was he considering going further with this experiment? It was an intriguing notion, one that had her heart skipping beats, her palms perspiring. "I'm not looking for marriage, either. I have my own funds, my own life. I have no need for a husband. That is without question. As to the other, I won't tell. Discretion is key." In the event he wasn't talking about the future, she added, "What happened tonight is between us and no one else."
"Someone will find out. In a town this size, they always do." He tugged his hand through his hair, tussled locks falling back across his brow immediately after. "I have my son to consider and, blessed Lord, you to consider. People can't feel safe coming to me if my life is a great big mess."