"But, Carson..."
"Just watch."
He threaded worms onto the hook while she grimaced. "Soft-hearted little thing," he chided. "I'll never take you rabbit hunting, that's for sure.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. "Well, I wouldn't go, so don't ask me."
"Patty's having a party next Friday night," he said as he threw her line into the stream. The red cork bobbed gaily against the murky water. He glanced at her.
"Is she?" she asked in a breathless tone.
He threaded worms onto his own hook. "Kind of a social gathering, I think, so folks can get acquainted with her and tour her new office."
"She's really proud of it," she murmured.
He threw his own line in and leaned his elbows on his knees, holding the pole between them. Nearby birds were calling, and crickets made pleasant sounds in the underbrush.
She glanced at him. "Are you going?"
He laughed shortly. "You know I don't socialize."
She looked down at the ground. "I could... teach you."
His eyes glanced sideways. "Could you?"
"You've got the clothes now," she reminded him. "All you need to know is some of the new dance steps and how to talk to people."
He stared at her for a long moment. "Yes."
She shifted on the bucket. "Well, do you want to?"
"Want to what?" he asked huskily.
She looked up into his eyes and felt herself going hot all over. She dragged her gaze back to the water. "Uh, do you want me to teach you?"
"I think you may be the one who needs teaching," he said.
Her face flamed, because she knew exactly what he was talking about. She felt like a girl on her first date, tongue-tied and expectant.
"I know how to dance," she said.
"Deliberately misunderstanding me again?" he said with a soft laugh.
"I thought we came here to fish?"
"I am."
"Do you want to learn to dance or not?" she asked impatiently.
"I guess so."
"You can come over tomorrow night, if you want to," she said. "I'll make supper."
He studied her for a long moment. "All right."
She tingled from head to toe in a new, exciting way. She smiled, and he watched the movement of her lips with an expression that it was just as well she didn't see. It would have frightened her.
She studied the bobbing red cork with drowsy, contented eyes, hardly aware when it went straight under. When she felt the tug on the line and realized what was happening, she jerked too soon. The hook came flying up on the bank, straight into her shirt and caught there.
"My God, were you trying to send the fish to the moon?" Carson drawled. "You caught something at least."
She glared at him. "My favorite shirt," she moaned, letting her eyes fall to the hook sticking through the soft fabric just above the peak of her tiptilted breast.
"Hold still and I'll get it out for you," he said. He put down his pole and knelt beside her.
She hadn't realized how intimate it was going to be. In order to extricate the barbed hook, he had to slide one lean, work-roughened hand into the vee-neck of the shirt. And Mandelyn wasn't wearing a bra. That discovery made Carson start violently.
His eyes met hers. She could see the dark blue circles around his lighter blue irises, and the black thickness of his lashes. But what she was feeling was the touch of his knuckles on her bare breast, and her body was reacting noticeably to it.
"Carson, I can get it out," she said too quickly.
"Let me," he whispered. But he was holding her eyes when he said it, and his fingers were moving very delicately on bare skin. She trembled.
He smelled of wind and fir trees and desert. And his skin was rough against her softness, but it was a natural roughness, like sand against silk, or bark against water.
Even the crickets seemed to have gone mute. There was silence all around them in the little glade. Nothing existed except Man-delyn's awed face and Carson's hard one, and the sound of his breathing as he closed his eyes and tenderly cradled Mandelyn's head in one big hand.
She jerked a little in reaction, but he shook his head slowly and lowered his face toward her.
"Sit still, Mandy," he whispered as his lips stroked her mouth. "I just want to see how you taste when I'm sober."
"Carson, your hand..." she whispered half-heartedly, and her slender fingers touched his hairy wrist in token protest.
"Shh," he breathed. His mouth was like a teasing breeze, brushing at her lips. His fingers stroked over the soft curve of her breast, edging toward the hard tip with every movement, teasing her body as he teased her mouth.
She stiffened, moved. Her eyes opened, her breath quickened. His face was so close that all she could see was his mouth. He'd shaved. That registered. And he tasted of smoke and coffee and mint. But his hand...!
She caught it just as his thumb and forefinger found the hard tip, and her nails bit into him helplessly and she moaned. It took every ounce of will power she had to move his hand away. She was afraid of the new sensations she was feeling. She was afraid of Carson.
"All right," he said softly, not offended at all. Her flushed face and wide, frightened eyes told him everything he needed to know. His hand brushed the long strands of hair away from her cheeks, and he looked at her with such reverence that she couldn't seem to move.
"The hook," she reminded him.
"Yes," he murmured, smiling faintly. "Later. I want that kiss, honey."
Her heart was beating so wildly that she could barely breathe at all. His head bent and she waited for his mouth, no protest left in her, only a sense of anticipation.
His lips were warm and hard and exquisitely tender. She closed her eyes with a soft sigh and let him do what he wanted. He eased between her trembling lips, letting her feel the texture of his own. Her hands dug into the hard muscles of his shoulders in an agony of wanting.
But still he teased her, rubbing his closed lips between her open ones, nibbling at her soft mouth. And then he stopped. She moaned aloud as he got to his feet and reached down to bring her body into the hard curve of his.
"It's all right,” he murmured, wrapping her securely in his arms. "I only want to feel you while we kiss.”
She reached up, hesitant, and touched his hard face.
''Carson,'' she whispered.
His chest rose and fell roughly. "I've waited years for you to say my name that way,” he murmured unsteadily as he bent again. "Years, centuries..."
"Hard," she pleaded, trembling. "Hard, please...!"
A tremor ran through him, probably of shock, she thought dizzily as he took her open mouth. She'd shocked herself with the whispered demand. She tasted him, experienced him with every sense she had as he gently crushed her breasts into his hard chest and his mouth merged roughly, intimately with her own. His tongue stabbed between her teeth, into the dark warmth of her mouth, tangling with her tongue in a wild, exquisite exploration.
He groaned against her mouth. A faint tremor shook his arms, and she arched into his body. She wanted him. Her body told her that, it screamed at her to end this sweet torment. She wanted to feel his skin against hers, she wanted the driving power of his body to overwhelm her, possess her. She wanted his open mouth on her soft breasts—
When he lifted his head abruptly, it was like being thrown to the ground. She shivered.
His darkened blue eyes searched hers quickly, intensely, and although he'd loosened his grip, he still held her by the arms. He started to draw back and her shirt came with him.
"Oh, hell," he muttered, looking down. The hook that had gone through her blouse had caught in the thick pocket of his shirt.
She started laughing as reaction set in. Her twinkling eyes sought his. "I've hooked you," she teased.
He stared at her for a long moment. "I haven't seen you laugh before. Not like this."
"I haven't felt like this before," she blurted out. "I mean,
being relaxed and going fishing and... and being myself."
"Stand still while I get us untangled," he said, and reached down, frowning as he tried to extract the barbed end of the hook from his pocket. "Damn, I'll have to cut it," he muttered. He dove into his pocket and dragged out an old pocket knife, expertly extracting the blade and slicing deftly through the fabric. His eyes glanced at her apologetically. "Sorry, honey, but this is the only way. I'll buy you another blouse."
"You don't have to do that. It was my fault, after all," she said breathlessly.
"Stand still, so I don't nick you," he said softly and slid his hand under the fabric again, against her bare skin.
She felt wildly female at the feel and sight of that dark-skinned, tough hand inside her blouse. Her lips parted and she studied the face so close to hers with wide, fascinated eyes.
He felt the stare and looked down into her eyes. His hands paused in their task and he watched her for a long moment. "Why didn't you want me to touch you?" he whispered.
Her lower lip trembled a little. "I... haven't been touched ... that way since I was eighteen, Carson," she said unsteadily.
"If I'd persisted a minute longer, you'd have let me, though, wouldn't you?" he asked.
She licked her dry lips and her wide gray eyes searched his blue ones with uncertainty. "I didn't expect that,” she whispered.
"Why not? I'm human, Mandy. I may be rough and half-civilized, but I'm capable of wanting a woman."
"Oh, I didn't mean it like that," she said, touching his hard mouth with her fingers. She searched his eyes curiously. "Carson ... you... you've had women, haven't you?"
Time seemed to hang suspended between them. "Yes," he said quietly.
Her breath shuddered out of her throat. Her fingers traced his lips unsteadily, with helpless pleasure. "I've never been to bed with a man," she breathed.
His nostrils flared. His chest rose and fell raggedly. "You're twenty-six."
She smiled nervously. Having him this close was affecting her wildly. "Yes, I know. Do you think I might get in the record books?"
"Not," he sighed heavily, "if you keep touching me that way."
"Oh!" Belatedly she realized just how intimate her fingers had grown on his face. She moved them back down to his arm. "Sorry."
"You excite me," he admitted, turning his attention back to the hook. He sliced the fabric gently, not unaware of her hot blush or the increasing pressure of her fingers. "So watch out."
That wasn't going to be easy, she realized, feeling his warm fingers being slowly removed from her blouse. "Thank you," she said as he removed the hook as well.
"My pleasure," he murmured drily.
"Carson, I didn't mean to..." she began, losing her train of thought when he looked down into her eyes. "I didn't know...I wasn't..."
"Hush." He handed her the fishing pole with a warm, knowing look. "I haven't been with a woman in a long time," he said slowly. "It was a moment out of time, that's all. Nothing to be afraid of."
"Of course." She managed to get a worm on the hook and began talking real estate, out of nervousness. She'd reacted to Carson's lovemaking like a shy young girl, and she knew now that while he might need lessons in deportment, he'd never need them as a lover. He knew exactly what to do with a woman. And now she was more afraid of him than ever. In all the years she'd known him, she'd never thought of him as a lover. Now it was impossible to think of him any other way,
He followed her lead in conversation, and they talked about general things for a long time while the day moved lazily by. After they had caught a good number of fish, they packed up their gear and went back to the house.
"I've enjoyed today. Thank you," she said. She was reluctant to leave him, and that was odd. In the past she'd always been glad to get out of his sight.
"So have I," he replied. He studied her for a long moment. "Want to stay for supper? We can cook the fish together."
She should have said no. But she didn't. Her face lit up and she smiled. "Sure!"
He chuckled. "Want to clean them for me?"
She frowned. "Carson, I hate to be a drag, but I don't think I know how. Uncle didn't fish, you know."
"Yes, and cleaning fish isn't something you learn in finishing school, is it, little lady?"
He didn't say it in an insulting way. She searched his hard face. "Does it bother you, my background?"
"No," he said firmly. "If you want to know, I think a lot of you. Until you came along, I'd never met a real lady."
"You wouldn't think I was one at times, though," she murmured, smiling at him as she followed him into the kitchen.
"You're a firecracker sometimes, all right," he agreed. He caught her by the waist after he'd put down the string of fish, and jerked her against his body. "But I like you that way, Mandy. A woman with a temper," he murmured, bending, "is usually pretty passionate."
His mouth crushed down against hers and she moaned, the sound unusually loud in the confines of the room as she savored his strength, the urgency of his hard kiss.
He lifted his head, his eyes glittering with some new emotion. "Why did you moan?" he asked roughly. "Fear or pleasure?"
Her lips trembled and, embarrassed, she pulled away. "I'll get started on the fish."
He watched her for a minute specula-tively and then he smiled. "I'll get some potatoes to fry."
It was a quiet supper. She enjoyed her crisp fish, but Carson seemed preoccupied.
"Want to call it off?" she asked.
His head came up. "What?"
"Tomorrow night."
He shook his head. "No. I want to learn to dance." His eyes dropped to her soft mouth. "With you," he added softly.
Her chest felt tight. He was doing it again, using that wicked charm that she hadn't known he possessed.
"I have to practice on somebody, don't I?" he asked when he saw her hesitation. "I thought teaching me how to make love went part and parcel with teaching me to court a woman," he added with a wicked smile.
She flushed. "You don't need teaching in that department, and well you know it," she said.
His eyebrows arched. "I don't?"
She looked up. Her wide eyes pleaded with him. "Don't take advantage, will you?" she asked softly. "I'm afraid of you, a little."
"Yes, I know you are," he replied, his voice deep and quiet in the stillness of the room. He reached across the table and took her small hand in his, rubbing his thumb over the silky skin. "Haven't you ever wanted a man, or was it that exclusive upbringing that kept you innocent?"
"That exclusive upbringing is the downfall of a lot of girls," she murmured drily. "Most of the others were quite experienced."
"Didn't you date?"
That brought back painful memories, and she didn't want to face them. She shrugged.
"I was terribly shy in those days. It was hard for me to talk to men at all."
"Not when you got out here," he chuckled. "I'll never forget the first time I saw you."
"I slapped you," she recalled with a wicked smile. "I didn't know at the time how dangerous that was."
"I would never hit you back," he said. "I'd cut off my arm first."
"That's what Jake knows, that's why I always get rousted out of bed to come and save the world from you," she laughed.
He studied her hand. "Jake isn't as blind as you are, I guess."
"Blind?"
"It doesn't matter." He let go of her fingers and lit a cigarette. His eyes searched hers. "Getting dark. You'd better go home, before somebody makes a remark about your being here alone with me after dark."
"Would that bother you?"
"Yes," he said simply. "I don't want any blemish on your reputation. I'd fire any one of my men who suggested that anything improper went on here."
"It did this afternoon," she blurted out and then flushed.
He searched her eyes slowly. "I wanted to see if I could make you want me," he explained quietly.
She
got up from the table in such a rush that she almost knocked over her chair. "I'd better go," she faltered.
He got up, too, and walked along behind her at a slow, steady, confident pace.
"Was that too crude a remark for a gentleman to make?" he murmured drily. "Sorry, Mandy, I don't always think before I say things to you. Look on it as getting some sexual experience. You seem to be pretty backward yourself in that department."
She turned at the front porch and met his stare levelly. "Are you sorry? Would you rather I was experienced?"
He reached out and put his knuckles against her lips. "I'd like, very much, to let you get that kind of experience with me," he said quietly. "Because the way I'd take you, even the first time would be good. I'd make sure of it."
She could hardly walk, her knees felt so weak. She headed for her car in a daze, wondering at the explosive quality of their changing relationship.
"Hey," he called as she opened her car door.
"What?" she asked.
"What time tomorrow night?"
She swallowed and looked back. He was standing on the porch, leaning against a post. The soft light of the kerosene lanterns outlined his superb physique. He looked devastating, and she wondered what he'd do if she walked back up on that porch and kissed him.
"Oh... about six," she faltered.
"Do I dress?"
"You'd better," she said, "if we're going to do the thing properly."
"By all means," he murmured drily. "'Night, honey."
"Goodnight, Carson."
She drove off, jerking the car as she never had before. Carson was getting to her! She must be off her rocker to let him get under her skin that way. She was the teacher, not Carson. At least, it had started out that way. She had to be careful. Her memories of love were too sweet to let reality interfere with them. She'd learned the hard way that loving was the first step to agony. She didn't want to go through it again. She couldn't! From now on, she'd just keep Carson at arm's length. It was safer that way.
Chapter Five
Mandelyn went home and paced the floor until bedtime. And then she tossed and turned for hours, remembering vividly the touch of Carson's lean fingers on her breast, the fierce hunger of his mouth on her own. She felt on fire for him, and part of her hated the reaction.
Books By Diana Palmer Page 5