by Cait London
The soft question had the impact of a charging two-thousand-pound bull.
When Hogan’s thoughts began moving again, he released the living warmth of her hair and pushed his hands down at his sides.
“Artists are observers,” he repeated, backing slightly. “I like studying lines and textures. I like movement and emotions. I use them in my work, translate them,” he admitted, nettled because he felt the need to explain his behavior and because Jemma’s uncanny ability to pin down his emotions made him feel too exposed.
“That’s a hole to hide in, an excuse. What about your own emotions? What about your own desires and needs and fulfillment? What are they? You may create beautiful work, Hogan, but you’re living in a gray zone.”
Jemma threw out her hands. “I’ve had enough of the moody-artist bit. You’ve got to get in the stream of life and live it, Hogan. Not just watch everyone else in their lives.”
Hogan resented the truth tossed at him by a woman who wanted to remake his family and his life. At the moment he felt like sliding into something hot and exciting, and it wasn’t the “stream of life.”
Hogan braced his hips against the counter and folded his arms over his chest. He knew that Jemma was set to argue; the sight of her digging in, all fired up and ready to ignite, fascinated him. He dreaded another cold shower, but couldn’t resist pricking her temper. “You’re going to be difficult, aren’t you? What’s this about grandchildren?”
Jemma rubbed her hands over her face, clearly frustrated. “Do I have to explain the nesting urge or biology to you?”
Then, too patiently, she said, “Carley, Mitch, Aaron, you, all have the potential to be parents. When you get done playing with Simone D’Arcy, you might want to settle down, get married, and hold your own baby. All of you are way too old not to have thought of that. That makes Ben and Dinah grandparents. You wouldn’t want to have the sweet little babies torn apart like we are now, would you? Jeez, you’re so exhausting, Hogan. It’s like dragging you, step by step, into the living world.”
With a tired sigh, Jemma pushed him aside and quickly put her prized buttons away. “I’m beat,” she said. “Go home. I don’t have any more energy to work on you tonight. You exhaust me.”
“What about your life? What about your nesting urges?” he asked, more to defend himself than to know.
She sighed abruptly. “I don’t have them. I raised all the children I wanted to when I was only a child.”
“That’s unfair, isn’t it? Living through our lives? What about your own?”
She leveled a dark stare at him. “I’ve been married. I didn’t like it, and, yes, it’s fair. Because Carley needs this whole thing resolved, and you’re all standing at opposite ends of any healing... Now will you please leave?”
Hogan wasn’t about to be dismissed on Jemma’s terms. As she stood to replace the buttons in the cupboard, he studied the graceful line of Jemma’s backside, the long legs running into her slender hips. The van’s soft lighting was designed to best suit her, of course, twisting through her hair, igniting it as it swayed across her back. A natural athlete, she moved gracefully and he admired the symmetry of her body, the textures and vivid coloring.
Jemma shot through life like a rocket, but this time she’d gone too far. “You started this, now let’s finish it.”
She looked over her shoulder to him and lifted a gleaming winged eyebrow. “I really wouldn’t crowd me tonight, if I were you.”
“But your rules say you can crowd me, is that it?” Hogan smoothed the scar on his cheek. Energy surged through him as though he were about to begin a fascinating art project.
Passion, he decided, Jemma made him feel— did he like it? He wasn’t certain, but he wasn’t running away now.
She fastened the latch to the cupboard, then turned to face him. “You’re fencing with me and you’re good at it. I’m not— I’m straight out. This is for Carley, Hogan, and you know it. We’re all doing our best.”
“Has it ever occurred to you that you might be in danger? You, not Carley?”
She considered the thought as she dropped onto a long, lushly padded couch, kicked off her shoes, and placed her legs on the cushions. “Let’s leave me out of this. I’ve been in rough spots before. I survived. Carley has been too vulnerable since that night. Either sit down or get out. You’re taking up too much room and you’re not sweet... Hogan, you don’t have to sit here by me.”
He sat on the couch, lifted her legs onto his lap, and gave way to the need to touch her. “You’re not closing me out, Jemma. Let’s set the ground rules now, tonight.”
Her eyes drifted closed and she scooted down to relax on the couch, as he began to massage her feet. “That’s cheating.”
“Uh-huh, that from you. It’s only a massage, Jemma.” He stared at the pale narrow foot within his hands, the contrast of male and female stirring a ready passion in him that he did not want to examine. The warmth of her skin prevented him from being the observer, at least when he touched her.
“You’re not putting me in a better mood ... Oh! Oh! Do that again.” Jemma groaned and stretched luxuriously, arching her foot within Hogan’s hands. The undulating curves of her body, the light smoothing her breasts and belly, the length of her thighs caused Hogan to want to touch more than her feet. He wanted to pull her beneath him and—
In the next instant, she sat up, tearing her feet away from his grasp. “I saw that look, all dark and closed-in, the observer look, seeing how I react to what. You’re experimenting, Hogan— with me, and I don’t like it. Is that what you do for Simone?” she demanded, her eyes flashing at him like raised steel swords. “Play with her feet?”
Her temper raised his and he resented the easy overthrow of his control. Simone had taught him many things, but not how to deal with a hot-tempered woman he wanted to hold close and tight and protect. “She’s been my friend for years. There is no need to explain anything to you.”
“Friends. What a nice civilized term. In the newspapers, at the art showings, you look like lovers. She’s twined around you tighter than a boa constrictor.”
Her condemning tone chafed; he wouldn’t explain his comfortable ongoing relationship with Simone through the years. They’d been a match, suited to working a room and promoting his designs.
But he wanted to taste the fire burning in Jemma, taste that passion.
He bent his head and brushed his open mouth across hers, tasting her breath, that fire within her. While she was dealing with that, eyes opened and stunned, Hogan’s fingers traced and absorbed the outline of her lips, the sweep of her cheek.
“I don’t like how you see inside people, Hogan,” she whispered shakily, leaning away from him. “It’s like you’re seeing into my bones.”
“Is it?” he heard himself ask as he traced the sleek eyebrows that soared at the arch. His thumbs cruised lightly across the sharp line of her cheekbones.
“You’re so damned sensual. You even move like a cat— gracefully,” she muttered, blinking as he came close for another taste of her. He could feel her body align with his, curves and softness against his angular form— the tempting textures and scents. He could sense the heat within her, his body gearing up, hardening—
He eased his hands to her throat, keeping her still as his mouth traced the sleek warmth of her skin. She trembled with an excitement more powerful than an open seduction. “And we’re both tired, riding on edge...”
“Is that what this is?” Still close, tasting her soft breath upon his lips, Hogan let one hand rest lightly upon her closed fist, smoothing her nape with his other hand. He watched her respond, her eyes darkening, her body softening.
She arched her throat as his thumb skimmed the sensitive cord there, and higher to the underside of her chin and the fragile line of her jaw. She relaxed beneath his touch, her body responding to his hands, her eyes sensually drowsy.
Because he was hungry and a hunter releasing his needs, Hogan bent to take, to fuse his mouth to her sl
ightly parted one.
His primitive need to claim Jemma for his own shocked him, even as he was taking, devouring her. Hogan absorbed and noted her slight resistance, the stiffening of her body, the warring debate of a woman deciding if she liked the taste, the excitement of him.
Jemma’s eyes opened close to his. “Are you in this, Hogan? Or are you just observing?”
He almost laughed; he’d been wondering what her breasts would taste like and how hot and tight she would be inside— “What does it feel like?”
“You’re watching me—”
“I’m enjoying the sight.”
She tried to push him away, her hands spread upon his chest, and Hogan took advantage of the shift of her body, lying over her.
“Get off me!” Suddenly she’d paled, shaking beneath him, her face taut with fury. She looked up at him, her expression shifting between anger and curiosity.
Hogan smoothed back her hair from her face, splaying his fingers between the heavy, waving strands. She tried once to buck him off, a quick thrust of her hips against his, and Hogan held her wrists beside her head, enjoying the sight.
He had never held a woman against her will, but Jemma was not just any woman. Maybe it was the hunter in him, or the man admiring a fiery woman, or maybe it was because his desire had hitched up a notch when she moved beneath him, but Hogan found himself enjoying the play.
“You look just absolutely wicked and full of yourself, Hogan Kodiak,” she muttered, glaring up at him.
“I have the upper hand for the moment anyway. Are you afraid of me?”
She frowned. “Of you? No. I know you’re just trying to drive me off course.”
“Drive you off course? Is that what I’m doing?”
Because he couldn’t resist, he placed his lips just where her pulse pounded in her throat like a trapped bird. The erotic scent of her skin swirled around him, and Hogan tasted her with the tip of his tongue.
There was just that quiver in her body, that stiffening, and her breath sucking past his cheek that drove him further. He felt his senses shift, homing in on her, aroused, skin heating against her throat as his fingers pushed hers, laced with them beside her head. He nuzzled the soft area behind her ear, traced her lobe with his lips and bit gently.
“Hogan... this won’t work,” she whispered unevenly, huskily. “Let me up. I’ve got things to do—”
“Mmm. Running away? You’ve been doing a lot of that, and you’re skittish.” He wanted more, he wanted to feel her body smooth against his, twining, warming, those long thighs opening for him—
Her cheeks were warm, and that heat made Hogan think of a deeper one as he brushed his lips across her jaw, her forehead, her eyes and cheeks. He trembled, shocked by his need, one hand leaving hers to slide downward, enclosing her breast gently, adoring the sleek shape, the softness that was—
The artist left the man, and Hogan tore away his chambray shirt. Her eyes widened, taking in his chest and still lower. “You’d better just stop it, Hogan Kodiak.”
He breathed raggedly, his body aroused, needs pounding at his control. Yet he found humor in the situation: Jemma beneath him, threatening him. That would be Jemma, unafraid of the consequences and not knowing when to pull back. “Or? You like setting the rules, don’t you? Take a note, Jemma. I’ve never liked rules.”
She glared at him. “You’re so perverse. I’ve waited to see you smile like that for years, not that cold tight smile that didn’t reach your eyes, but a real, open warm smile. Now you’re doing just that, and I am not in the mood for playing. I thought you had more control than to try to... to get me into bed.”
“This is a bed, right? This couch folds out? So I guess I’ve succeeded, huh?” he asked, unable to stop grinning.
He wasn’t certain about the lighthearted boyish feeling within him, the sudden shift from arousal to playfulness, but for the moment, he was enjoying Jemma’s changing expressions. Clearly, she didn’t know how to approach him next and was circling ideas. Jemma, without a plan and acting like a fully charged summer lightning bolt looking for a place to strike, was bewitching.
She licked her lips, and he bent to lick them again. “Hogan!”
He stood up, aware that he wanted much more than playing, his body still singing with sensual tension.
Jemma quickly slid from the couch to fling herself into the driver’s captain’s chair. She stared out into the night, folded her arms across her chest, and propped her feet up on the dashboard. “You’re playing with me, and I don’t like it.”
Hogan eased upon the couch, placed his hands behind his head, his feet upon the opposing booth and studied her as she spoke. “You’re too much in control of yourself and you’re just pushing me because you feel threatened. You’re defending some weird idea that I’m taking over your life. Oh, don’t snort like that. That’s just what Ben and Aaron do when they’re making light of a suggestion, as if men know best—”
Jemma stared at him. “I know what you’re thinking, of course. That my marriage went down the tubes because I’m frigid. Because I didn’t tear off my clothes, Hogan Kodiak, does not mean I am frigid.”
He smoothed her bottom lip with his thumb, removing it before she could slash it away. “You’re definitely not that, and you do respond to me.”
She brooded on that and in a typical lightning change of her emotions, asked, “What now?”
He allowed his body to stretch, easing the sensual tension he didn’t want and hadn’t expected to arise so quickly with Jemma.
“We wait. You can drive home now,” he added, aware that the dismissal would set her off, and that was something he’d begun to enjoy very much.
“Get out!” When Jemma would have shoved him out the door, Hogan caught her hand, turned it, and elegantly kissed the back. Taken aback, Jemma blinked up at him, and he forced himself to kiss her forehead when he wanted to sink deep within her body and take—
“If you want to learn how to fly-fish, meet me down by the stream tomorrow afternoon. The native cutthroat are biting. The hatches are good.”
She shot out a fist to grip his shirt. “You’ll really teach me how to fish? This isn’t like the time you told me to meet you at that cemetery to hunt snipes, is it? What’s a cutthroat? A fish? What’s a hatch?”
“A trout and big fat juicy bugs.”
“I knew it!” Jemma clutched his shirt in her other fist. “You’re having some kind of sick joke and I’m in a fix. I need to know how to fly fish, Hogan, not catch bugs.”
“Trout like to feed on the hatch. Sometimes they even take a lure disguised as a bug, Jemma,” he explained and watched with fascination as her expression followed her thoughts and her face lit up.
“I’ll be there. Look—” she said, hurrying to open a closet of new fishing equipment. “I’m stocked up. I spent a fortune on what they said were the top brands. What do you want me to bring? Waders?”
“Yourself.”
“Okay, okay, okay. Go home now. Get some sleep. Eat a good breakfast and I’ll see you tomorrow for my first lesson. Well? Hurry. Go home.”
Hogan folded his arms over his chest. Jemma was back to being pushy, and he enjoyed the excitement lighting her expression. “Now why do I get the feeling that I’m being rushed? That I’m being used?”
“Hogan, you are so exasperating. You’re just stalling because you know how anxious I am to learn and get this right. I could make a mint on this deal.”
“You’ve hurt my feelings,” he lied, enjoying the sight of Jemma harried and frustrated for a change, reversing their roles.
She stared at him blankly. “You?”
“Uh-huh. You’ll have to make me feel much better,” he answered, and dipped his head for a kiss.
*** ***
Ben finished washing the salve from his hands and dried them. He stared out into the night, toward the “needle and thread” natural grass field where the longhorns were grazing. The image of Dinah in her satin robe, the tightly belted sash dr
awing the material over her breasts, outlining them, had shaken him.
He rubbed his hands over his face. He was almost sixty years old and had set his trail in life; but how he ached for Dinah, wanted to touch her, to feel her close and soft and sweet against him. He leaned his arms over the corral boards, thinking about how sweet she’d been, how she made his mind stop, just looking at her. Then the babies had come along, Aaron and Carley, and everything had been perfect.
He stiffened as a light step sounded behind him; an experienced hunter, Ben knew how to define sounds.
Then Dinah’s fragrance curled around him, that light feminine scent, reminding him of flowers. When she came beside him in the moonlit night, placing her delicate hands on the weathered old boards, he didn’t move, couldn’t move away, fearing he’d say the wrong thing, hurting her.
He stood there, a man missing a leg, damning his inability to say what was in his heart. He swallowed, a tough rancher more comfortable talking with a horse than a woman he’d always loved. The ring on his chest seemed to burn his skin because he wished he’d never—
“It’s a beautiful night, Ben. Is that Jemma’s van soaring back to the ranch?”
“It is. She’s been holed up with Hogan. Lately, the boy is getting to her and she’s backing up some, running in the other direction, skittish as a filly with a stallion chasing her. I wondered when he’d have enough of her bossing him around.”
Dinah turned to look at him and Ben feared looking down into her face— her beautiful face unchanged all these years. “Do you think this will work, Ben?”
“Damn straight it will.” The thought of the stalker putting his hands on Carley made Ben sick.
“Aaron and Mitch can’t stay here forever. What will we do when time runs out and he hasn’t surfaced? What will we do when they have to go back to their lives?”
Ben knew his sons. “They’ll stay until the job is done, and he’ll come. He’s wanting her, fastened on her, sick with wanting her to himself. Then we’ll get him.”
“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” she asked slowly, and he nodded.