by Cait London
At his side, she said, “I had to hunt all over to find you. Aaron let me off his horse a while ago when we spotted your Appaloosa. You didn’t say where you’d be, and I had to track you down.”
Hogan tried to ignore that “track you down” statements. He’d never liked the idea of being hunted and caught at anything.
“Don’t ignore me, Hogan. Hurry up and teach me this stuff and then I need to use your office.”
“You can use my office equipment, but stay out of my studio,” he agreed, taking his time. He realized just how much he might regret any arrangement with Jemma. He tried to ignore her scent, but his senses locked on the warm brush of her breast against his arm. He eased slightly toward her and fought the tug of her body at the same time he enjoyed the touch.
“How do you do that?” she asked, staring at him, obviously fascinated as he cast again.
Hogan scoffed at himself, at the heady sense of attracting a woman’s attention— the woman he wanted in his bed. He was showing off, flexing his muscles and skill. “Come here, and I’ll teach you.”
He loved the excitement and pleasure in Jemma’s eyes. He’d seen it before, and realized now that her vivid, easily read expressions had always fascinated him.
*** ***
Chapter Nine
Sunlight gleamed on Hogan’s dark skin. With his body outlined against the glittering sunlit stream and the grayish green cottonwood trees, he took her breath away.
Jemma had been watching him for a long time before she’d moved closer. She’d never stopped to appreciate the smooth play of muscles across a man’s back. She’d never cared about the sensuous slide of gleaming tanned skin in the dying light of day, the breadth of shoulders narrowing down to a lean waist, but now she held her breath, just looking at him.
When Hogan’s jeans had slipped, just that bit, she’d expected a pale strip and found none. Then all that strong length of leg, braced wide upon the river rocks as he cast out into the stream fascinated her. There was graceful beauty in the way his hand worked the line, a man at ease with life.
Hogan Kodiak was beautiful, black hair covering his nape, his arms surging with strength as he cast, his hand slowly, patiently working the lure as it glided downstream from the riffle. After the cast, the line snapped back out of the water, curved elegantly in the air over his head, and shot the fly upstream. His pose was timeless and devastatingly male.
He was too complete, too cold and controlled, and he had a lover. Worst of all, Hogan could not be enticed or threatened. She’d tried for years to bend him and failed. There was no reason why she should find him exciting, why she should want him to hold and to kiss her, and more.
Hogan looked down at her with a devastating smile. “You don’t have the patience for this.”
“I can do it,” she said, watching him gracefully sail the line into the air, whipping it gently, the lure tantalizing the fish in the stream. “It can’t be that hard, and I have to know what I’m doing when Les arrives. I want that television slot. The reruns really pay off. What are we fishing for? Great big browns or rainbows?’’
“Cutthroats. Nice try, though.” He lifted an eyebrow, glancing at her as his right hand worked the line. “What do you know about starring in a weekly television show?”
“What have I ever known how to do? I’m a learner, Hogan. I do what I have to do.” She caught his scent— He’d bathed in the stream, and the soapy scent blended with another sweeter, fresh one, like that of grass. She wanted to brush that strand of hair away from his forehead, to feel those rugged contours warm and smooth beneath her hands.
“From the looks of that van, you’re using yourself as bait. Sooner or later, he’s bound to discover that you are about as much sportswoman as I am. Doesn’t that worry you, just a little bit?”
“Of course not. I know the pros usually do those shows, but I can pitch the how-to on a beginner’s level. We watched those shows and sometimes they explain way over the average person’s head. I’m into supply and demand, and fly-fishing is a top sport— and by the time he comes in July, you’ll have taught me how to fish. I need enough skill to make the sale, Hogan. Then I can pick up more as I go along. I’ve pulled off deals like this before, though not quite as big. All I need is my foot in the door, and I usually come through.”
“That’s confidence.”
“It’s the truth.”
Hogan cast again, and she watched fascinated as the fly lure whipped above the water and a trout leaped to take it— just as she had risen to Hogan’s kiss, his touch, that light trapping of her breast.
The trout fought the hook, but with patience, Hogan slowly drew it toward him. He let it fight the length of line, then wound a bit onto his reel, and repeated the process, working the fish closer. When close enough, he lifted the line and the fish, grinning at her. She could have killed him for that boyish grin, the pleasure easing his harsh features.
“Supper,” he said, crouching to slide the trout onto a line in the water with other fish.
“They’re so small, Hogan. I can’t make an impression with those. I need a giant one that looks great on a board over a fireplace.” Jemma’s stomach contracted— she liked to eat fish, but didn’t like to meet them when they were alive.
Her throat dried, just watching his graceful movements, the flex of his muscles, the smooth skin shifting sleekly over them. She nudged his bottom with her boot. “What do you say, Hogan? Now’s just as good a time as any to start lessons, don’t you think?”
“I thought you needed my office, to fax the world and check on your millions.”
“You can be so difficult. You’re here now, and so am I. There are fish out there, and they’re biting— you just caught one.” She looked down at the long, flexible rod he’d placed in her hand. “But this is old. I’ll just go get mine—”
“Yes, go get yours,” he said too easily.
She studied Hogan and knew he’d get away if she took time to get her equipment. Hogan knew how to fade into the countryside when he wanted. “Okay, okay. Show me. I’ll catch a few of the little ones first. And I need a few good shots of me holding a champion fish and some trophy or other in my other hand.”
There was just that darkening of his eyes, that tilt of his head as he rose to tower over her. She fought to keep her gaze from lowering to his smooth, gleaming chest, the muscles of his stomach, and the neat indentation of his navel.
“Let’s start by dropping the orders, shall we?” Hogan asked too softly.
The challenge was there, a man setting down his rules. If she wanted to learn from him, she’d have to note his limits.
Jemma resented anyone’s rules but her own. “You’re the natural candidate, Hogan. An artist usually has that inner eye for the best camera shot. I saw the photos that you sent to Dinah and Carley through the years. But I don’t want to actually touch fish, or clean them. They can just hang at the end of the line and we can fake whatever.”
His lifted eyebrows said she would have to do both.
“Fine,” she said unwilling to let him set up barriers to her goals. “I’ve shucked oysters, I can touch fish. Let’s get started. We don’t have much time, and the light is dying.”
He took the rod and flicked the line over the stream. “It’s a seduction, Jemma. You can’t ramrod and bully a trout to take your lure.”
“They’re hungry, aren’t they?” she asked, standing closer, peering into the smooth-running stream as he flicked the line and played it with his left hand, letting the current gently take the fly lure.
“Here,” Hogan said, stepping back and drawing her in front of him. “Hold the rod like this, and center on where you want the lure to go.”
His hands fitted hers to the rod and to the line and remained, his body moving behind hers, framing hers.
“Patience, Jemma,” he murmured against her ear. “Not too fast and hard. Slowly. Enjoy the feel of the rod in your hand. Flick it.”
His lips moved across her cheek, just a brush of heat bu
t enough to stun her. While she caught her breath, decided whether to edge aside or to stay within the circle of his arms, Hogan’s dark gaze traced her body against his, igniting a heat within her own body.
Unprepared for the tremble, for the awakening she hadn’t expected, Jemma studied his rugged face, the harsh planes and shadows, the small scar on his cheek. “How did you get that scar?”
“I fell,” he said simply, his expression darkening, closing into the shadows that were so much a part of Hogan. “No more questions. Keep that wrist straight. Use your elbow. Get the line wet first.”
His hand moved her arm, the motion sensual and slow, his hand hard and warm upon her skin. There was that caress of his thumb on her inner wrist, the smooth stroke of his cheek lying next to hers.
Against her back, Hogan’s body moved, almost caressing hers as he showed her how to move her wrist in casting. His breath swept across Jemma’s cheek, tangled in her hair, and moved the tendrils against her cheek.
There on the stream bank, Hogan held her forearm with one hand and curved her close against his body with his other, his hand opening and spanning her lower stomach as she cast. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t move away from him, or set rules— she simply enjoyed the flow of his body around hers, a natural graceful movement that captivated.
“Feel the drag of the line in the water, pull it slow— feel it give as it leaves the water— use that energy to let it snap back and then cast—”
The lure hit a tree branch, the line draped over it and Hogan took the rod, flicking it expertly, until the lure dropped into the water. “Do it again,” he said. “And not as though you’re zipping a baseball across home plate.”
After forty-five minutes, Jemma turned to Hogan, who was fitting three large trout onto sticks, bracing them over the small fire. He’d stopped talking to her in that low soft way and at one point had glared at her before walking off. “My arm is tired. The line just goes out there and plops into the water. Why aren’t they biting? Aren’t they hungry? Should we go somewhere else? Where are the big ones?”
In the evening shade, Hogan crouched by the fire, dressed in his T-shirt and unbuttoned flannel shirt. He spread the horse’s saddle blanket on the grass and settled down, his back against a log, long legs extended in front of him. With a stalk of grass in his mouth, he appeared to be relaxed. “You’ve fouled the line. It can only go so far before it’s hung up on the reel. You didn’t listen, you never do. You don’t know how to relax. Bring the rod over here.”
Jemma walked to him, and watched him begin to patiently unravel the line looped around the reel. “My new reel isn’t supposed to get tangled. The sports guy said so.”
“Uh-huh. Next time, when you’re reeling in, try to make the line run across your finger like I showed you.” Hogan’s long graceful fingers continued to work on the line. He handed her a length of straightened line. “Hold this.”
She sat on a rock, watching him rewind and straighten the line, working the series of small loops out of it, his head bent over the task. “You’re always so careful, so precise. I think I got the hang of it, don’t you? I mean those last few casts— I’ve been thinking that there really is no need to cast out that three or four yards of line— that just tangles it. Why not just cast it out there without all that getting the line wet, ‘feel the energy’ stuff?”
Hogan plucked away the willow leaves tangled within the line. “Do you ever relax?”
“Sure.” She pressed the dial that lit her wristwatch and knew that the first refrigerator she got to had better be full of food. “I really need to contact my sales manager and see if she managed to get a deal on that lot of dolls. You’ll have to take me back, Hogan. It’s dark now.”
He placed the pole aside and checked the fish, sizzling now over the fire. “Aaron and Ben will tell them you’re with me. They were up on the ridge about a half hour ago, checking on you.”
“Oh. We need to hurry, so we can get back to your place before that supplier closes shop in California. I need to—”
“Eat. We’re going to relax and have dinner. Or I am. You’re invited. Or you can run away. Moon Shadow will take you to Ben’s.”
His black gaze rested upon her, challenging her. “You shouldn’t be shy of me, Jemma. We’re both adults now, and we’ve known each other for years. Surely we can have a meal together and share a glass of good wine.”
“You’re not a relaxing sort of guy,” Jemma stated warily, and Hogan grinned again, one of those flashing, boyish grins that could make her heart leap and race. “What wine?”
He lifted a bottle of very expensive white wine and two plastic cups from his saddlebags. “Do you still like lots of butter on your baked potato and sour cream?”
Jemma sipped the wine he’d given her and watched him prod the coals of the small fire to extract two foil-wrapped baked potatoes. He expertly slit and filled them with butter and sour cream.
“What is this, Hogan?” she asked, aware that they were very alone and that Hogan wasn’t allowing himself to be hurried into leaving.
“This,” he said simply, and leaned down to brush his lips against hers. His hand curled around her nape, his thumb caressing the side of her jaw.
She hadn’t been touched like that ever— that slow sensual sweep of his hand on hers, his dark eyes asking her a question she didn’t want to explore. This was Hogan, and she’d known him for most of her life. Alarm and heat mixed in her senses. “I think we should be going.”
“Do you?” His deep voice slid over her like warm butter, and her heart hitched up double time.
“I suppose we could eat that first. Since you’ve gone to so much trouble,” she whispered against his lips. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
“Not quite. But I intend to find out.” Then he framed her face with his hands and drew her lips close to his warm smooth ones. “You’re shivering, Jemma. Cold?”
His expression mocked her, because he could feel the heat of her cheeks on his callused palms. She dug her fingers into the hard, rangy line of his shoulders, anchoring her senses from drifting away into the night. “You’re playing games, Hogan.”
“I thought you liked games. But then, maybe you just like being in control. That’s right, isn’t it? You like controlling the relationship— getting what you want, setting the terms, and never letting your carefully selected partner come too close.... You’re running too hard, Jemma. You’re afraid what you’ll find when you stop, and you’ll have to stop someday. But you don’t want to think about that now, do you? You want to think about getting money and making the Kodiaks’ lives your own personal playground. You’re a woman who needs life and warmth and most likely a good amount of very physical sex.”
For a moment, Jemma stared blankly at him. He’d skipped the usual friendly chitchat and homed right in on “very physical sex.”
“I’m not repressed sexually, Hogan. You’re worse than Mitch, spouting psychology. You like to observe, to take people apart, see their components... but you’re not taking me apart, Hogan.”
“Aren’t I?” he whispered, and gently bit her lip. He eased a space away and watched her. His expression was as dark and sultry as when he’d rested over her in the camper van. “Shall we eat?”
*** ***
“Stop it. You’re wearing out yourself and the animal.”
Using one hand as a pivot, Mitch launched himself over the corral gate. He strode to the center of the corral and grabbed the reins of the horse that Carley had been riding.
“Reining,” the short stop, change position, stop, change directions riding was competition rodeo riding. Originally used as “cutting horses,” horses that separated cattle from the herd, reining competition no longer needed cattle to demonstrate their agility and obedience.
Carley was good— too good to hide her talent. Tonight, she was using the horse to relieve her tension, sweat gleaming on her moonlit face and the animal’s rump. She frowned down at him. “Sue is a great reine
r. She responds perfectly to directions.”
Mitch gripped Carley’s waist and pulled her from the saddle. She tugged up the sweatpants that were now too loose on her and glared up at him. “You’re in an evil mood. Don’t ever pull me off a horse again.”
With the air of an older brother used to attending his sister’s needs, he reached down to find the inner loop of her sweatpants. In jerky motions, he retied the knot tighter. “If you want to kill yourself, that’s one thing. But don’t abuse that animal.”
She hit his chest with both fists, tears streaming down her cheeks, each one like a painful lash in Mitch’s heart.
“I’ve never abused an animal in my life.”
“Carley, take it easy.” Mitch trapped her arms with his, holding her tight.
How many years had he loved her? From that first sight of her riding a horse far too spirited and too big for her, her pale hair blowing in the wind as she stood on the horse’s bare back, riding him around the arena?
While her silky hair webbed across his cheek, Mitch looked out into the night. He detested the lie that had brought and kept her here, but Carley’s stalker had a big advantage— time and invisibility. They’d have to find a way to take away that advantage.
“Jemma’s worried about something. She’s started talking in her sleep again, and last night, she damned Hogan well and good. Now she’s out there with him, and he’s in that dark stormy nasty temper again, keeping to himself. They’re certain to be fighting, and no telling what Jemma will do.”
“Why don’t you worry about yourself for a change?” Mitch asked, then he lowered his lips to Carley’s sweet ones.
Two heartbeats later, he found himself flat on his back, looking up at the horse and the starlit night.
“That’s my girl,” he said, gingerly easing to stand, and watching Carley’s round backside as she stalked toward the house. He kissed the horse. “Ah, old Snake still has it, huh?”
Mitch watched a horse with two riders crossing the field on a path for Hogan’s house. “He’s doing better than I am. This should be interesting. He’s had her on the run, and now the noose is closing.”