by Cait London
He kissed the horse again. “But we’ve got each other, babe.”
*** ***
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Jemma cried out as Hogan massaged her foot. “Oh!”
She fell back onto the soft thick rug in front of Hogan’s fireplace, a graceful feminine sprawl. She sighed as he began to work on her other foot. “I’ve got to get back to your office and check my e-mail. Oh! That feels so good, Hogan.”
When Hogan had asked her if she wanted to ride back to his house, her pride said No and her lips said Yes. Using his office was just an excuse— Jemma wanted to be close to Hogan, and since his horse was the only transportation... She’d wanted him holding her close, pressed against her back and legs as they rode.
“You look tense,” he’d said after she’d used his fax machine. Jemma had cursed herself for not resisting the relaxing massage he’d offered.
Jemma had never given herself to the luxury of relaxing. Even after a professional massage, she would be tense by the time she walked to her car. Her mind would splinter into a hundred little have-to streets and calculating lucrative buys and sells.
“Mmm.” Jemma let Hogan’s large, strong hands take away her problems. The small warm fire, the wine Hogan had poured after the first bottle at the stream, and his hands— his marvelous strong hands massaging her feet, her calves, had made her feel limp and floating happily.
She’d known from the moment that she’d seen him lying on that horse blanket with that expensive bottle of wine in his hand that what he offered was too good to pass up.
She’d wanted to see Hogan without his defenses, and she’d refilled their glasses several times. She’d always known that Hogan had something unique to offer her and when the time came, she’d take it— the massage was worth her aching casting arm.
He’d offered to take her home, but Jemma wanted more of him— that low soft chuckle that she suspected had been loosened by wine. Filled with the pleasure of his massaging hands, she sighed again as he turned her onto her stomach and began massaging the sensitive arches of her feet, sliding his firm hands over her calves.
Hogan leaned close to her ear. “I could do this a lot better if you were wearing something less restricting. Wouldn’t you like your back massaged?”
“Hmm?” She allowed herself to drift on the clouds, pleasantly warm as Hogan’s hands slid up to start working on her back. “Oh, Hogan, don’t stop. Ohhh!”
That purring, pleasured sound of a woman near the peak of her riveting climax, jarred him. His hands paused just over her wiggling bottom, and the need for Jemma ran through him like a hot stake.
Hogan swallowed and scrubbed his trembling hands over his face. He’d wanted women before, to serve a basic need, but Jemma excited him on another level. He wanted her, but not like this.
He’d had his fantasy ride with her on the saddle in front of him, carrying her to his lair, her hair blowing back against his face.
Hogan didn’t like the primitive needs she drew from him. He’d needed to claim her, take her to his lair and have her. He’d set out to see what Jemma was like with all the tense edges smoothed away, and now he knew— She was vulnerable to his touch, responding immediately to the control of his hands on her feet.
“I’m ready,” she murmured sleepily in the manner of a woman used to giving orders. “Do it.”
Hogan allowed himself a smile and lay down beside her. Jemma was too used to getting what she wanted from men, and he didn’t intend to be one of the crowd. She lifted her head, peering sleepily at him. “I can’t move, you know. I feel like a limp noodle. You’re very good. I could get you a job at my spa.”
“You’ve had massages before. You’re wound too tight, Jemma. Someday all the pieces are going to fly apart.”
He wondered what she would feel like under him, around him when she did just that. He reached out to stroke her hair, to twine his finger in the silky strands and Jemma’s eyes drifted closed.
“Hogan,” she whispered sleepily, and he longed for her to touch him, to hold him. The quiet sound of a Native American flute played in the background, and for just that instant, Hogan’s shadows were quiet. Being near Jemma, lying at her side, gave him peace.
The oddity of seeking warmth from a woman stunned him, even as Jemma sighed and plopped her hand on his chest. It wasn’t a lover-like move, but Hogan settled for massaging her palm and fingers. He drifted in his thoughts, and examined a peace that he’d never had— with Jemma relaxing quietly beside him, her hand soft and pliable within his.
Taking care not to disturb her, Hogan turned on his side and braced on one elbow to study Jemma.
Lying on her stomach, her arms at her sides and her face turned toward him, Jemma was nothing like the pushy woman who shot through life, dedicating herself to profit. She fascinated him, even drowsing without all her usual fire.
He eased aside her hair, found the still taut cords at her nape, and slowly drew his fingers down them. The sensual wave of her body, flowing from the arch of her head, down her shoulders to her hips and legs, startled him. He’d wanted her like this, the barriers down, and now he wanted to make slow, gentle love to her. His unsteady emotions nettled him, the tenderness he felt for a woman who had interfered and pushed and fought with him for years.
Jemma could match his dark moods with her own; she could lift his heart and pierce the shadows. He’d mocked a lover’s eternal quest for a mate, and now he was faced with his own uncomfortable driving needs.
“You think too much,” Jemma murmured sleepily, one eye opening slowly. “I can hear your thoughts humming. What are you thinking about? A new design?”
“Something like that.” The design of his life, he thought, as he smoothed her cheek with his fingertips.
“I can’t move,” she whispered again, as he massaged her tense shoulders and the slope of her back.
He smiled again and let his hand rest upon her hip for a moment, claiming her softness. In the morning, Jemma would be furious and aware that he’d used wine to relax her. But then, he’d known that she was trying to do the same to him.
“That’s beautiful music,” she whispered, and sighed deeply. “Are you going to do my back? You could sit on my thighs to get a better angle.”
“Can’t. Too many clothes.” Hogan wanted to do more than kneel over her thighs. He wanted to reach down and lift her hips and touch her where she was dark and scented and made for him. He wanted to be a part of her when she came apart in a fiery storm— He toyed with her hair, the edges feathering across his skin, gleaming brilliantly on the dark rough surface. In his creative mind, he saw her in the wind, dressed in little but a shawl, the fringes lying gracefully around her pale body.
As a man, he saw her wearing nothing at all. The eagerness was there, the hunger and a need he couldn’t define.
“Do something, Hogan,” she whispered sleepily. “I feel like I’ve melted. I’m feeling too relaxed—ohh,” she crooned as his thumb found a tight spot by her shoulder blade, smoothing the knot gently.
“You should go home. I’ll drive you.” The admission that he couldn’t trust himself with Jemma as she was now, caused Hogan to smile. Maybe a scrap of his honor remained when it came to a woman he respected... He did admire her; she’d struggled against life and stood by those she loved— even if they didn’t like her meddling.
“You’re not so bad when you look like that,” she said, lifting slightly to study him.
Hogan bent to brush her lips with his, to taste the wine on her lips, the softness between them. Jemma’s lips lifted to his, an experiment, he thought, answering and questioning his.
Her lips parted slightly, following the contours of his, and Hogan closed his eyes, savoring the unique experience of Jemma delicately exploring him. She reached to smooth his face, to trace the ridges and the scar, and time stood still for that heartbeat as Hogan allowed himself to be studied.
She traced his eyebrows and the soothing calm within him spread an ease he hadn’t known. He allowed h
imself to drift beneath those feather-light touches, the scent of her hand a seduction. Had he captured her, or were the roles reversed now and he was under her spell?
A tiny shower of sparks burst from the firewood and Hogan pushed away the disturbing thought. He didn’t want to be pushed and maneuvered, and anyone close to Jemma didn’t lead an easy life. He studied the very sensual woman dozing at his side.
Without her drive-for-success persona, Jemma was warm, feminine, pleasing, soft, and soothing. Hogan saw her as Everywoman, one hand upon a rounded belly, a slight curve to her lips. He saw her running in fields, long legs flashing as she chased a child. He saw her as a fierce, demanding lover—
Her voice was as soothing as her touch, this gentle quiet Jemma he was exploring.
Then she asked, “You gave away bits of yourself when you were away all those years, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered truthfully as a flash of distasteful memories burned him. He’d been the show animal, the Native American model that wealthy women wore on their arms like an expensive fur stole, or a piece of jewelry. The art world was cruel, harsh, but his training as a Kodiak had served him. He’d managed, and he’d survived.
“You want something more now, don’t you?” she asked, surprising him in the role of the eternal knowing, soft woman, her fingers threading through his hair. Hogan closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift.... He’d never allowed a woman to see into him as Jemma was doing now.
“Yes, more. I want more.” He wanted what he’d never had— peace.
“You’ll have what you want, Hogan. It’s just out there, waiting for you.” She was dozing now, smoothing his hair, already sliding away into sleep. This was the woman whom Carley loved, who loved back and whose basic nature when she let it be seen, was to comfort and understand.
“What if I said, what I wanted was here— you?” Hogan asked, bending to kiss her, to taste her mouth, to gently suckle her tongue. The taste of her shot to his loins, filling his need painfully.
Jemma’s lids fluttered, but didn’t open, her smile wry. “You’re not playing fair. Wait until I’m awake and not massaged into a limp noodle.”
“But I’d lose my advantage then, wouldn’t I?” he murmured. “You’d pull back into that demanding, hot-tempered woman, and I’d be left wondering if this warm soft one was a mirage.”
“You’re sweet-talking me, Hogan,” she returned warily. “And I’ve never been seduced.”
“Neither have I.” But he already had been ...
*** ***
At six the next morning, Jemma awoke to the slap on her butt and Hogan’s cheerful smile. “Let’s go fishing.”
She flopped over, drawing the blanket up over her head, and Hogan chuckled. She groaned as he placed his hands on the bed to bounce it in time to his words. “Biggest cutthroats you’d ever want in that mountain stream. I’m headed out now, and I’m staying a few days. You can come, but I’m not waiting, city girl.”
“Get lost.” Her plan to relax Hogan with wine had backfired. She’d wanted to release his secrets and instead she remembered wanting to soothe him, to hold him close all night long. But instead she’d fallen asleep.
“Okay. There just might be a big brown there, waiting for my lure... a real trophy catch.”
Jemma opened her eyes and knew that Hogan would leave her and she’d never get another chance to learn what he could teach her.
She sat up with a groan and realized she was still dressed in her clothes from the day before. She cursed Hogan, jammed on one boot, and hopped along as she drew on the other. In a temper, she ripped the blanket off the bed.... She was going to sleep after she caught her trophy fish.
Jemma grabbed a biscuit, then looked at the others in the pan. She hurriedly scraped the butter from its dish onto the biscuits, and holding the pan, blanket, and toilet paper, hurried after Hogan. Along the way, she grabbed her jacket from a wall hook and hung it from her head.
Outside in the cold air and predawn light, she staggered and grabbed the back of Hogan’s denim jacket. “You know darned well that I want to learn how to fish and camp. But, oh, no, you can’t wait until I’m up to it. You have to choose now. You’re absolutely perverse. Hogan, I’ll pay you a thousand, just to wait until I can take this better.... Oh, I hate it when you don’t talk. I’m dying, Hogan. On my last feet, you coldhearted—”
“Oh, well, yes. We all know I’m a bastard, don’t we?”
Jemma grabbed his jacket front with both fists and tried to shake him. “I’m not up to those quick, cold jabs, not now. I can’t battle a Kodiak mood when my head feels like ten tons of concrete. You were supposed to relax last night, not me.”
He glanced at her in the barn, tore off her blanket with a jerk and pushed her arms down into the leopard jacket she’d been carrying. He ripped the zipper up to her throat. “You can ride to Ben’s. I’m going camping and fishing. I’ve already called Aaron. Carley and Dinah are wallpapering in the house for the next few days, and I’m taking time off.”
She glared up at him from her tangled hair. “Just up and pack off without warning me? No clean underclothes? Hogan, I need clean underclothes. I need face cream and shampoo.”
He shrugged in a typical Hogan gesture, watching her from beneath his Western hat, his expression impassive. He tightened the ropes on the packhorse. “I brought necessities and whatever else you need, you can share mine. Stay or go. Your choice.”
“I hate you, Hogan Kodiak. You know exactly how I feel.” She dragged the blanket around her and struggled for dignity as she tried to mount the saddled mare, and failed. Hogan reached down to place his open hands on her bottom and lifted her as she struggled to sit in the saddle. With a last look, he rode ahead of her on the narrow trail, leading into the foothills.
To add to her humiliation, Aaron and Ben were seated on their horses along the trail, watching her follow Hogan.
“Nice day,” Ben said, studying her.
She knew she was evil-looking, a tangled, rumpled mess with a headache, and she hated them all and the deer in the meadow and the hawk in the sky. “No, it’s not a nice day.”
“Are you okay?” Aaron asked her.
“I’m mad,” she said, burning a stare at Hogan’s expressionless face. “We’re going fishing. There had better be the biggest fish ever at the end of the trail, or I’m making his life unbearable. I’m making your life unbearable for even being related to him. I am going to learn how to dazzle fish with immature bugs from a hatch if it kills me. And him.”
“I’ll take care of her,” Hogan said quietly, and in the still of the morning, it sounded like a vow.
Jemma was too angry to note how Ben studied Hogan, and how Hogan met that dark, quiet look with his own.
“Well, I guess it’s time, then, and you’ve found what you want,” Ben said quietly, reining his horse back. With a nod, he rode off into the dawn sweeping across the pastures.
“I have,” Hogan returned quietly.
“You’ll pay plenty,” Aaron noted with a grin.
Hogan chuckled at that and nudged Moon Shadow back onto the trail.
Her head aching, lashed by the rising dawn sliding between the pine trees, Jemma didn’t know what Ben meant, and she didn’t care. But she understood Aaron’s remark, and Hogan would pay plenty.
“I’m not happy,” she called to Hogan, who didn’t turn back. “I’m not happy,” she called back to Ben and Aaron, and stuffed another buttered biscuit into her mouth. “Coffee, anyone?” she asked the deer grazing in the field. “Orange juice? Granola? A banana?”
She could have killed Hogan when he looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “You wanted it, you got it, Red.”
“What’s this ‘Red’ stuff? I’m going to kill you, Hogan. You’re a beast!”
*** ***
Chapter Ten
Jemma sighed as she moved stiffly to a patch of thick grass and spread Hogan’s blanket across it. She eased painfully down on it, whipped the edges of t
he cloth around her body, and, from her cocoon, glared at Hogan.
In another instant, she was on her knees, foraging beneath the blanket and retrieving two rocks, which she hurled into the smooth-flowing stream. “If those hit my trophy fish, wake me up after it’s cleaned. That’s just what I’d like to do with you, Hogan Kodiak—drown you,” she called darkly as Hogan began to unsaddle the horses.
“Don’t hold anything back, Red. Go for it,” he said mildly.
“Red?” she protested, outraged that Hogan, who had never teased, would grin wickedly at her.
She pushed down the temper that her body was too tired to deliver and settled for a menacing glare at Hogan, who was clearly enjoying her bad mood.
“You can hand it out, but you can’t take it. Are you ready to go back now?” he asked quietly, studying her intently as if trying to read beneath her temper.
“You could not tear me away from here, no matter how evil you are.”
She tossed upon the hard ground, furious with herself for letting Hogan set the terms; she was furious with Hogan for forcing her to run after him. She flipped over to glare up at him as he crouched by her side, smoothing her tangled hair. “You are truly a fascinating woman, Jemma Delaney. Especially when you’re wide-open, stormy-hot, nothing held back.”
She shook her head, closed her eyes, and firmly drew the blanket over her face, blocking out his sexy smile.
Hours later she awoke to a burning-hot mountain sun, stiff muscles, and the sight of Hogan putting away his fishing gear. He turned toward her and held up a stringer of five fat trout. If she hadn’t been so dazzled by the sight of him, she could have killed him for the boyish grin, for the pleasure on his face.
Without his shirt, sleek and perfect, pooled in sunlight and with a background of glittering water and pine and juniper trees, Hogan was beautiful. He dipped his hands into the clear water and splashed his face, then crouched to study the water as it drifted through his fingers. Clearly at peace in the rugged mountain clearing, the stream gurgling through it, Hogan seemed more like a man from the Old West than a sophisticated world traveler.