by Diana Palmer
But all the while, her rebellious mind was on John and the feel of his arms crushing her against his powerful body, and the taste of his hard mouth on hers. She walked around aching, wondering how it would have been if she’d opened his shirt and touched him the way she’d wanted to, if she’d given in completely and kissed him back. She still didn’t understand what was happening to her, but it was slowly sapping her strength, her pride, her willpower.
Friday rolled around and she glared at the telephone on her desk, hating it because it hadn’t rung. Perhaps John was out of town. Or, worse, perhaps he didn’t plan to call her. She’d said she didn’t want to see him again. Surely he hadn’t taken her seriously?
She chewed on her lower lip, her eyes riveted to the phone. After a minute, she picked up the receiver and began to dial John’s number, hating her own weakness. But she had to find out if they were on speaking terms.
Josito answered. “Why, hello, señorita,” he said, his voice surprised.
“Hello, Josito. Uh, is John around?”
“Sí,” he said, still uncertain.
“He, uh, hasn’t been out of town or anything?”
“No, señorita, he is here at the ranch. Surely he has phoned you?”
“No,” she grumbled, “he hasn’t. Where is he?”
He laughed amusedly. “You will not believe it.”
“That bad, huh? Where is he? Come on, Josito, if you tell me, I’ll tell you who’s going to get the knife in the sequel to The Grinding Tower,” she added temptingly, knowing the diminutive man’s passion for her work.
“You will?” She could almost see his face lighting up. He laughed. “All right, then. He is helping the men hay the Johnson bottoms.”
“John?” she burst out. “But he hates haying—he’d rather dig post holes.” She frowned. “Why is he helping? With that baler-loader of his, all it takes is a couple of men.”
“The machine, it is not working,” came the amused reply.
She sighed. “Again, huh? I’ll bet the mechanics have run out of words to call it by now. Well, what is he doing, rolling it into big round bales?”
Josito sighed. “He is doing it the old way, as usual,” he said.
“This I’ve got to see. The Johnson bottoms?”
“Sí, señorita. And now,” he said sternly, “who gets the knife?”
“Raggins,” she replied, laughing at his intake of breath. “Well, the old devil deserves it, don’t you think?”
“Oh, sí! Most definitely!”
“I hate the silly man, too,” she admitted. “Imagine enjoying a murder. There’s something wrong with a world that makes entertainment out of tragedy, don’t you think?”
“That is for the philosophers, señorita.” Josito laughed. “Not for me.”
“Well, I’m going to see John. Uh, he isn’t in a bad mood or anything?” she fished.
“Black,” he said. “Absolutely black, señorita. One hopes that his mood will improve someday. It is discouraging to spend hours creating the perfect soufflé, only to have it flung into the soup because it was creased.”
“He didn’t!”
“Sí. That was just before he poured the coffee into the rubber tree plant because it was too weak.”
“Oh, the poor rubber tree,” she moaned.
“Poor me,” he corrected. “Señorita Vigny, if you need a victim for your next book…” he suggested hopefully.
“You wouldn’t want me to knock off my friend, would you?” she teased.
“He is nobody’s friend in this mood,” he muttered. “Business must be indeed wearing to make him so unpleasant.”
“I’ll see if I can cheer him up for you,” she promised, more nervous than ever. “Thanks, Josito.”
She stopped by a package store on the way and got a twelve-pack of beer. It was blazing hot, almost summer, and the sun was high. Presumably John wouldn’t be alone, and if she remembered the old-fashioned way of haying, they’d all appreciate something cool to drink. After the hay baler made neat work of the yellow green hay, it was left in long rows in the field. A platform truck would drive along between the rows, the men walking alongside heaving the bales up onto the slow-moving truck. It was a long, arduous process, much harder than haying with a unit that baled and stacked all in one. Of course, John had one of those units. But it was ten years old and ready to junk, and he wouldn’t replace it because the mechanics could still fix it.
When she got to the Johnson bottoms, near the river, there were two men attacking the broken-down machine with tools, red-faced and cursing, while John and half the ranch hands walked alongside two huge platform trucks and tossed bales onto them. There were storm clouds looming on the horizon, and Madeline suddenly understood why so many workers had been turned loose on this one field. The hay had to be in before the rain.
Madeline parked the little yellow Volkswagen at the beginning of a row and cut the engine, counting heads. There would be just enough beer to go around.
It took John a minute to see her, but when he did, he made a beeline in her direction. He was bare to the waist, his hair-matted chest and flat stomach like polished bronze, slick with sweat; his battered black hat jammed down over his eyes. He was peeling off the thick work gloves as he came, his face as dark as the storm clouds gathering in the distance.
He opened the passenger door and eased his jean-clad legs inside the small car. The scent of hay and pure man filled the car as he turned, an arm over the back of the seat, to stare at her.
“Hi,” she said nervously, shy with him as she’d never been before.
“Hi, yourself,” he said curtly. “What are you doing here?”
She stared into his hard face, remembering vividly the feel of his mouth on hers, the brush of the mustache on her sensitive skin, the blaze of desire in his silver eyes.
“Uh, research for my next book,” she said, indicating the cans of beer. “Poisoned beer. I’m looking for volunteers so I can see the grisly effects.”
The mustache twitched involuntarily, and he studied her smiling face as if he hadn’t seen it for years.
“I think I can find you a couple,” he murmured. He drew in a deep, slow breath and removed the hat, wiping his forearm over his brow. “God, it’s hot out there.”
“Don’t you want a beer?” she asked, reaching for a frosty tall can.
He caught her wrist gently, and the smile faded as he looked straight into her eyes.
“No, I don’t want a beer,” he said softly. “Not just yet. You don’t like the taste of it, do you?”
She shook her head, feeling oddly breathless at the growing darkness in his eyes.
He dropped his hat onto the floorboard and leaned toward her, his eyes lowering to her full, parted lips. “I’m going to kiss you first,” he breathed, his hand going to her throat to ease her head back against the seat as he bent closer. “It’s all I’ve thought about for days!”
Her fingers went up to tangle in the thick hair at the nape of his neck, drawing him near, her eyes on his hard, sensuous mouth. “I was afraid…you’d be angry,” she whispered shakily.
“Don’t talk. Open your mouth for me,” he said huskily, his lips parting to take hers.
She felt the kiss like a volt of electricity shattering her body. She gasped involuntarily, clinging to him, her half-opened eyes looking straight into his.
“My God, you wanted it as much as I did, didn’t you?” he whispered gruffly.
He crushed her mouth under his, his tongue darting possessively into her mouth, his body pressing hers back against the seat. She moaned at the hunger he was creating, feeling the abrasive softness of the mustache as his mouth moved with expert sureness against hers. His tongue traced the inner softness of her lips, easing past her teeth to move slowly, suggestively, inside her mouth until she moaned sharply.
His fingers trailed down from her throat to her breasts, outlined by the yellow sundress she was wearing. He traced its low neckline with a caressing touch tha
t caused her fingernails to bite into him.
His mouth bit at hers softly, brushing, teasing. His knuckles skimmed maddeningly over the soft skin left bare by the dipping neckline, barely touching, tormenting her until she arched toward them involuntarily with a faint cry that was muffled under his hungry mouth.
“I can’t touch you like this,” he whispered against her bruised lips, “in front of half my cowboys. Is that what you want, Satin, to feel my hands on you under the dress, against your bare skin?”
“John…!” she cried out, burying her face in his throat while tears dampened her eyes from the intense emotion he’d aroused. Her hands moved down to his chest, helplessly touching him, savoring the hair-roughened feel of his skin under her fingers, the strength in the hard muscles.
His big arms swallowed her, holding her hard and close while she clung to him, trying desperately to get her own shattered emotions back under control. She felt an ache that seemed to go all the way to her soul, an unfamiliar ache that she barely understood.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” he whispered in her ear. “We were both too hungry for it.”
She drew back a little, her eyes wet with tears as they searched his. “I feel strange,” she whispered.
“So do I,” he said quietly. “I hurt in a way I haven’t since I was fifteen. You weren’t the only one who caught fire.”
She stared into the fiery gray depths of his eyes helplessly. “I missed you,” she said without meaning to.
“I know. I missed you, too.” He brushed the unruly hair away from her cheeks with a tender hand. “I thought I’d frightened you away for good, and I didn’t know what in hell to do about it.”
She reached up to touch his mouth, the hard curve of his chiseled lips under the smooth, furry mustache. It was exciting to be able to touch him, without having him push her away or get angry.
“I’ll shave it off, if you want me to,” he said against her fingers.
She shook her head, smiling. “I like it.” The smile became mischievous. “In fact, I think I might get one for myself. A handlebar mustache…I could wear it on special occasions.”
“Not around me,” he said firmly. “I don’t much like you in trousers, Satin.”
“You old-fashioned male chauvinist pig,” she said in her haughtiest tone, teasing him and loving every second of it. All the brittle tension between them seemed to have melted away in that one, hungry kiss.
“You’ve got gorgeous legs,” he continued, unabashed, his eyes traveling down the skirt of the dress to her bare calves.
“So have you,” she said with a grin.
He chuckled. “Remember that from sponging me down, do you?”
She laughed up at him. “Hairy, but gorgeous,” she amended. “No, really, most men don’t have nice legs. They have pale, skinny ones. Yours are nice and tan and masculine.”
He smiled at her. “What an admission,” he murmured with a twinkle in his silver eyes. “I didn’t think you’d ever noticed that I had a body.”
“It’s very hard to miss,” she observed dryly.
He caught a strand of her loosened hair and tugged at it, bringing her face close to his. Her eyes were wide and dreamy, her mouth slightly swollen from the long, sweet pressure of his.
“Kiss me,” he murmured, bending. His mouth brushed hers and she looped her arms around his neck, her eyes closing as she felt his mouth crush against hers lazily, easily, as if he had all day. It wasn’t a threatening pressure at all, nothing to frighten her; just a warm, rough kiss.
He drew back with a faint smile. “How about the ballet tonight?” he asked. “I’ve got tickets for Swan Lake.”
Her face lit up. “I’d love to!”
“I’ll pick you up about six. We’ll have a late supper at my apartment. I’ll have Josito go over and get it started before I come by for you.”
She nodded, searching his face. “You’re different, like this,” she said.
He drew in a long, slow breath as he returned that intent look. “So are you, honey. Sweeter than I dreamed….”
She lowered her eyes. “Go drink your poisoned beer and bale your hay. Poor old tired thing,” she murmured, eyeing the broken-down machine with the two cursing mechanics grumbling over it. “If you had any compassion in you, you’d give it a decent burial and buy a new one.”
“Not,” he told her, “until it gives out completely. I’m not replacing a perfectly good machine.”
“It’s ten years old!”
“I’ve got a horse ten years old, and he works better now than he ever did.”
“He’s probably terrified that you’ll turn those mechanics loose on him,” she returned.
He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, hard. “See you later.”
He opened the door and got out, beer in hand. She stared at his broad back as he moved away, holding up the frosty cans to the obvious delight of his co-workers. Madeline started the little car and drove away, thankful that she was driving, not walking. Her knees didn’t feel too strong at the moment.
Chapter Five
Swan Lake had never been lovelier. The ballerinas looked like fairies as they floated through the sensuous ballet. Of course, the fact that John caught her hand at the beginning and held it warmly and tightly until intermission had nothing to do with her exhilaration.
He smoked his cigarette silently during intermission, his turbulent eyes never leaving Madeline. In her long, silky gold dress, she was a sight to hold any man’s eyes.
“I like you in that color,” he said quietly. “It brings out those tiny gold flecks in your eyes.”
She smiled. “You don’t look bad yourself,” she returned, letting her eyes run down the dark elegance of his evening clothes. “There’s a brunette a row over from us who hasn’t paid any attention at all to the dancers. She’s been too busy leering at you.”
“Oh?” A corner of his mustache was raised in a wicked smile. “You’ll have to point her out to me, won’t you?”
“Not on your life,” she said with a surge of pure jealousy. She frowned and turned away. “Hadn’t we better go back in?”
He moved in front of her, catching her under the chin to raise her confused eyes to his.
“Be possessive,” he said curtly. “I like it.”
She caught her breath at the emotion in his deep voice, the look in his glittering eyes.
“I don’t have any hold on you, John,” she said steadily. “Remember, you told me once that you didn’t like people getting too close.”
“People, not you,” he returned. “My God, come as close as you like. I won’t push you away.”
“You’ve been doing it for weeks,” she said, searching his eyes.
A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Don’t you know why?” he asked with a bitter laugh. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?”
Remembering the way he’d kissed her, the way he’d looked at her, touched her, she was beginning to understand a lot more about his recent behavior.
She looked away, faintly embarrassed by that wild flare of passion they’d shared in the fields. Their relationship had changed so subtly she’d hardly been aware of it. She couldn’t even think of him in platonic terms anymore. She’d wanted his mouth with a kind of violence, she’d wanted his hands on her bare skin, his eyes devouring her….
She was barely aware of people moving past them, the buzz of conversation drifting away as the audience filed through the doors into the auditorium. Her eyes were locked with John’s all of a sudden, and she felt frozen to the spot.
The smoking cigarette, forgotten in his fingers, sent curls of gray smoke up toward the ceiling.
“That’s right, look at me,” he said huskily, watching the curious intensity of her green eyes as they traveled over his hard face.
“You’re…very pleasant to look at,” she said involuntarily.
“That’s not what I meant,” he said curtly. His chest rose and fell heavily. “You’re just beginning to see me as a
man, aren’t you?”
The conversation was beginning to disturb her. She fumbled with her purse, avoiding his eyes. “I always have,” she murmured.
“Not exactly. Not in the way you’ve noticed me for the past few weeks.” He lifted the cigarette to his chiseled mouth with a faint smile. “What’s behind this sudden compulsion you seem to have about touching me?”
Her eyes spit green fire at him. “I’m a physical person,” she muttered.
“Like hell,” he replied pleasantly. “You never touch anybody, honey, male or female. That was one of the first things I noticed about you when we met. You’re fastidious in that sense.”
“I never knew my mother,” she reminded him. “And my father wasn’t outwardly affectionate, even though we were close.”
“I wasn’t asking for an explanation, I was simply wondering why you like to touch me,” he continued.
She clutched the purse tightly. Perhaps if she got a running start…
“Oh, hell, why do I start these conversations?” he asked the ceiling. “Do you want to watch the ballet or go see if Josito’s got supper ready?” His mustache twitched. “That beer you brought me didn’t last long. And it’s the only thing I’ve put in my stomach all day.”
“John!” she gasped, forgetting her irritation with him. “No breakfast?”
“Wasn’t time,” he replied. “The damned machine broke down and it looked like rain. When we finally got through, I rushed home to shower and shave and dress for the ballet.”
“Why didn’t you say so?” she chided. “I wouldn’t have minded missing the ballet, truly I wouldn’t. Let’s go, before you pass out from hunger and I have to drag you out of here by your pants’ legs.”
“That might cause some interesting speculations,” he murmured.
She laughed up at him, once more on familiar footing. “With my luck, someone who reads my books would see us and think I was acting out my next plot.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Dragging my latest victim off to a secret grave after inflicting a fatal wound with some untraceable instrument.”