If A Man Answers

by Merline Lovelace

  On any other occasion, Molly would have savored her chilled cucumber bisque and delicately peppered Pacific salmon and dawdled shamelessly over the cappuccino that followed. Tonight, the exquisitely flavored food and drink did little to satisfy her appetite. Sam’s thigh accidentally brushing hers under the thick linen tablecloth had generated a different, far fiercer hunger. The gentle abrasion of his fingertips in the small of her back when they left the restaurant only added to it

  If she’d been a betting person, Molly would have wagered her next paycheck that three hours of Buck Randall would have killed those growing hunger pangs. Good thing she didn’t. Her losses would have set the acquisition of a living room sofa back once again.

  As tall and angular as he was rail-fence thin, the excon - turned - rodeo - stuntman - turned - recording - superstar electrified his audience with his energy. Molly still couldn’t quite get past his nasal twang. Nor did she find a great deal of poetry in his lyrics, which encompassed every disaster from the death of his first love to the loss of all his worldly possessions at the hands of a devil woman named Angel. But she had to admit he threw himself into his performance and pulled everyone in the cavernous showroom in with him. His fans cheered each song. Piercing whistles accompanied each verse. Half the house belted out the choruses with him.

  Even Sam got caught up in the act. Wedged next to Molly in the circular booth only a few yards from the stage, he tapped out a steady beat on her bare shoulder. At one point, his rich, deep baritone joined in the general sorrow over the theft of a piebald mare. The vibrations rumbling in his chest made Molly’s nerves dance in response. She slanted a quick look sideways, her heart thumping when she observed the pleasure on Sam’s strong, chiseled face. After seeing how pain had drawn it into a tight mask, she decided that Buck might just have some talent hidden somewhere under that twang after all.

  She didn’t really appreciate the full scope of that talent, however, until his final encore, when he pleaded with his listeners not to go to their graves without tastin’ mescal or lovin’ a green-eyed woman.

  Sam’s hand slid up Molly’s neck to tangle in her hair. She turned her head to find his eyes on her. Silvery gray. Shielded by dark lashes. And hungry. So hungry her heart contracted, then exploded painfully against her ribs.

  “Ever tasted mescal, Molly?”

  Even with Buck amplified to forty zillion decibels and two thousand of his fans stomping feet and clapping hands, she couldn’t miss the husky edge in Sam’s voice.

  “No.”

  “You’ve got something to look forward to then.”

  “If mescal is that stuff made from cactus, I don’t think so.”

  His thumb made a slow circle on her nape. “You’ll have to try it sometime. You might like it.”

  The applause faded to mere background noise. Buck’s final refrain dimmed in her ears. Molly felt Sam’s touch on her neck like a brand. Every square inch of skin that came in contact with his burned.

  She didn’t stop to think. Didn’t try to analyze her body’s response to his touch, let alone try to curb it. She leaned into him, until her breath touched his.

  “Ever made love to a green-eyed woman, Sam?”

  His gaze skittered, then locked with hers. For a moment, his face took on the hard edges she’d come to dread. For that same moment, Molly thought she must have misread him, misjudged the heat that rose in almost palpable waves around them.

  She was searching for some bright, witty way to pass her comment off as a joke, when his face softened. A need that matched her own flared in his eyes, and he pulled her closer, nuzzling her temple.

  “No, sweetheart, I haven’t.”

  Molly melted into a puddle of bright, liquid need.

  “You’ll have to try it sometime,” she murmured. “You might like it.”

  “I intend to.”

  Chapter 7

  Consumed by the need racing through her, Molly didn’t pay any attention to the whistles and shouts that erupted all around her at the end of the concert. Sam’s husky promise sang in her head, drowning out every other sound.

  In a shimmer of anticipation, she sat through two encores and a long, irreverent dialogue between Buck and his fans. Finally, Sam slid out of the curving booth and reached out to help her. His hand closed on hers, hard and warm, then burned a brand at the small of her back as he guided her out of the showroom and through the casino’s streaming throngs.

  Although it was close to midnight when they walked into the star-strewn night, Molly’s inner clock hadn’t sent its usual signals to shut down all systems at the first sign of darkness. Her whole body tingled with life and with an awareness of the man at her side.

  She didn’t want the night to end.

  While Sam fished in his pocket for the valet parking ticket, Molly glanced at the brightly lit Strip. The glittering neon signs beckoned like signposts to sin. She pulsed with the urge to follow their exotic, sensual lure...but it was the display of classic roadsters parked in the semicircle in front of the casino that snagged Sam’s attention.

  “Would you look at that?” he breathed, riveted by a gleaming green monster loaded with chrome.

  The awe in his voice made her smile. “I’m looking, but you’ll have to tell me at what.”

  “It’s a ’47 Studebaker.”

  “I thought Studebakers went the way of the dinosaurs.”

  “They did.” While the valet loped away to locate the Mustang in the reserved parking lot, Sam steered Molly across the circular drive for a closer look. “Before they became extinct, though, models like this one set the automotive industry on its ear. See that rear window? The all-glass notch-back caused a design revolution just after World War II.”

  She gave the wraparound back window respectful consideration.

  “There were some protests to the radical new look, of course,” Sam added with a quick, slashing grin. “The beboppers and hepcats who enticed their dates into the back seat didn’t particularly appreciate the cinemascope view it gave of their activities.”

  The gleam in his gray eyes caught Molly right where it caused the most damage. Her head tried to tell her that her neighbor’s on-again, off-again personality had switched to full power once more. That it could just as easily switch off. Her heart wasn’t buying any of it. That rebellious organ thumped erratically against her ribs, until all Molly could think of was a line from one of Buck Randall’s songs. Something about slidin’ down the slippery slope and not bein’ able to do a damned thing to break the skid.

  “In fact,” Sam continued, the gleam a definite glint now, “it’s my theory that every advance in automotive design pitted man’s basic instincts against his baser instincts.”

  “This I have to hear,” she murmured as the Mustang squealed out of the underground lot and screeched to a halt before them.

  Passing the attendant a hefty tip, Sam got behind the wheel. Larger-than-life statues of Greek gods and goddesses gazed serenely down on them as the Mustang flowed into the stream of traffic leaving the casino.

  “Take this gearshift, for example,” he said, warming to his subject. “Over time, the old, original levers evolved into a single stick shift, which in turn gave way to an automatic drive on the steering column. Far more convenient, but not as much fun as slipping the clutch and sliding this baby into gear.”

  As if to illustrate his point, he maneuvered the convertible into second with an effortless partnership of hand and foot.

  “Now we’ve come full circle. Today, every adolescent, young and old, wants a macho four-on-thefloor instead of a dull, boring automatic...and ends up cursing when the gearshift gets in his way on Saturday night.”

  Laughing, Molly shook her head. “Poor babies.”

  “You think I’m kidding?” His hand curled around the wood-grained knob. “This little gadget has been known to unman the overeager and unwary.”

  Somehow, she couldn’t imagine Sam ever letting a little gadget like that get in his way. Grinning
, she listened with mounting skepticism to his drawling recitation of the problems presented by various automotive designs on the male of the species. By the time he pulled into her driveway, his X-rated version of the evolution of bucket seats had her giggling helplessly.

  “Come on! Do you really expect me to believe narrow seats are the automotive industry’s counter to the sexual revolution?”

  “Sure they are.”

  He cut the engine and slewed around with his back to the door. She shifted to give him more room, acutely aware of the way their knees knocked. Her heart was doing some knocking of its own, as well.

  “Just think about it,” Sam urged. “Bucket seats appeared on the scene about the same time as the Pill. Someone had to throw a few obstacles in the path of progress.”

  “Some obstacles! We’re practically sitting in each other’s lap.”

  The glint in his eyes gave Molly her only warning that she’d walked right into that one.

  “Not quite. But where there’s a will...”

  In one easy motion, he scooped an arm under her knees and lifted her over the offending gearshift. She landed awkwardly, her legs tangling with his and one elbow digging into the back of the seat.

  “...there’s a way,” he finished smugly.

  “So I see.”

  Suddenly breathless, Molly attempted to extricate herself. Her elbow slipped, and she found herself wrapped tightly in Sam’s arms.

  For a moment neither of them spoke. Molly held her breath, wanting, aching for his kiss. He wasn’t long in giving it.

  This one didn’t even remotely resemble the first kiss he’d given her. This wasn’t any light brush of lips on lips. No casual, friendly touch of his mouth to hers. This one came down hard, and got harder.

  Molly gasped, molding her mouth to his. Instant heat flared in her belly. White fire licked at her veins. She arched into him as much as her awkward position would allow, giving kiss for kiss and press for press.

  She knew she was about to go up in flames when Sam buried one hand in her hair to anchor her head. His other slid up her calf, taking the swirly red skirt with it. When his palm encountered a patch of bare flesh guarded by a lace trimmed strip of elastic, his head jerked up.

  “We have to throttle back,” he said raggedly. “Or take this inside.”

  Her stomach did a little flip. He was offering her the choice. She didn’t have to think for more than a second or two.

  “Let’s take it inside.”

  He stared down at her, his face grooving with stark lines that made her stomach take another flip. Oh, no! He wasn’t going to switch personalities on her now, not when she was about to melt all over his damned bucket seat

  “If you want to,” she tacked on hastily.

  “I want, Molly. I want so bad I hurt with it. I have since the night you came careening through the oleanders and into my arms.”

  “Me, too,” she said simply.

  Sam shouldered open the door and untangled his long legs from Molly’s. Effortlessly, he reached down and gathered her into his arms. He was halfway to her front door before he thought to ask if her somewhat sparse collection of household furnishings included a bed.

  “A bed I have.”

  By this point, Molly craved Sam’s touch so badly she would have made love to him on the kitchen counter. Thank heavens for her queen-sized mattress.

  She lost her dress and frilly garter belt somewhere between the front door and the upstairs hall. Still carrying her tight in his arms, Sam didn’t shuck his clothes until they gained the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed with more urgency than finesse and peeled out of his suit. Molly lay sideways across the bed, her stomach hollowing when he walked toward her.

  Lord, he was magnificent. Pumping all that iron had torched every ounce of fat from his body. He was rock hard, a solid mass of lean, corded muscle from his pecs to his glutes...and everywhere in between. Molly had never considered herself a connoisseur of the male physique before. A sense of humor and a keen mind rated far higher on her list of must-have qualities than a handsome face or a trim body. Now, she discovered, Sam’s combination of all of the above shattered every one of her preconceived notions of raw male beauty.

  On fire to touch him, she rose up on her knees. Her hands skimmed skin that felt like warm, supple leather. Entranced, she traced the expanse of his chest. The ridges and rounded slopes came alive under her fingertips, rippling at her touch.

  “You almost make me want to take up exercise.”

  She pressed her lips to his shoulder, marveling at its smooth shape. He tangled his hands in her hair and tipped her head back. A smile sketched across his face.

  “From the first day I moved in next door, you’ve made me want to do a lot of things, Molly. With no ‘almost’ about them.”

  She decided not to pursue that particular line of conversation. She didn’t want to spoil the magic of the moment by careless references to run-over garbage pails or neighborly feuds. Instead, she slid her hands up and around his neck.

  “What do you want to do now, Sam?”

  His voice dropped to rawhide softness. “In the words of the immortal bard, I want to make love to a green-eyed woman.”

  With a silent, heartfelt thank you! to Buck Randall, Molly dragged Sam down. Or maybe he took her with him. However it happened, he proceeded to do exactly what he wanted. He made love to her. Slowly at first. Deliberately. Exploring every slope and valley of her body with his hands and his mouth.

  No passive participant, Molly tried to match him kiss for kiss, stroke for stroke. Before either of them was ready for it, slow and deliberate couldn’t satisfy the urgency that speared through them. Her panties slid down to catch on her ankle. A hair-roughened thigh slid in to press against her core. Gasping, Molly arched at the pressure. Sam used the small movement to rid her of her demi-bra. Her nipples peaked at his touch. Her breasts quivered at the scrape of his tongue and his teeth.

  His mouth devoured her. Hers touched and tasted him. She was panting with need, her breasts and belly slick and aching, when Sam suddenly pulled away. The mattress rolled under his weight as he pushed himself off. Molly closed her eyes, fighting for breath, then levered herself up on her elbows. Her heart broke at the tight cast to his face.

  “Oh, Sam! Are you hurting?”

  His mouth twisted in a wry grin as he scooped his pants off the floor.

  “I’m hurting, sweetheart. As bad as I’ve ever hurt in my life. Just give me a moment and we’ll fix it.”

  The little blue package of condoms he produced banished Molly’s wrenching concern. She fell back on the bed, laughing with relief. Relief gave way to singing, searing joy the moment Sam took her in his arms. When he matched his hips to hers and slid into her, she thrust up to meet him. They found a rhythm that matched their need, slow and sure at first, then harder, faster, more urgent. Pleasure centered, swirled, spread.

  Sam braced himself on both elbows, determined to see Molly’s face when she convulsed under him. He couldn’t count the hours lately he’d envisioned her like this...head thrown back, eyes closed, face flushed with passion. Since the moment she charged through the oleanders in those skimpy purple boxers and half a T-shirt, he’d wanted her. He’d fought it. Hell, he’d pumped more iron this past week than he had at any time since the accident, and not just because of the ache in his skull.

  Molly made him hurt in a way he hadn’t hurt in a long time. Just the sound of her breathless little moans pushed the ache in his groin right past pain into a pleasure so intense he couldn’t hold it. He thrust again, felt her slick, satiny heat grip him.

  “Sam!”

  She arched under him. He sank into her. The night fireballed around them.

  Molly dropped into sleep with the abruptness of someone falling off a cliff. Sam wasn’t surprised. He’d watched her sink into unconsciousness twice before. Tonight, she had the extra incentive of total physical exhaustion.

  Smiling, he hitched her a little higher up on
his shoulder. She mumbled a protest and threw an arm across his chest. One of her knees gouged into his thigh. A soft wash of breath bathed his neck.

  Unlike Molly, Sam couldn’t sleep. Not because his head ached, thank God. More from habit, he supposed. He’d gone so long with so little sleep, his body had accustomed itself to a lesser need.

  He felt good, though. Great, in fact. The prospect of greeting the dawn without pain was joy enough. Greeting it with Molly in his arms would rank right up there among his greatest private pleasures. Better than riding out with his brothers on a cold, misty winter day to bring the cattle down from the high pastures. Even better, he thought with a grin, than the exhilaration of his first jet solo.

  The grin slipped for a fraction of a second, then fixed firmly in place. For the first time, Sam didn’t break out in a sweat of regret when he thought about the flying he suspected he’d never do again. He curled his arm, bringing Molly closer into his side. Slowly, deliberately, he let himself envision a future without the constant adrenaline high of the test business. Without the speed and the thrill and the edge that came with throwing high-performance aircraft across the sky.

  He’d take it one day at a time, he told himself. One day at a time.

  His fingers caught in the silk of her hair. He closed his eyes, breathing in her musky, womanly scent. No beer flavor this time. Not even wine or coffee. Just Molly.

  The grin came sneaking back.

  Maybe he’d take it one night at a time.

  A sharp thrust to his thigh brought him jerking upright some hours later. He blinked, trying to orient himself in the dim, grayish light.

  “Sorry,” Molly murmured sheepishly, easing her knee away from his thigh and her bottom off the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “Wake me?” Sam shook his head, still groggy. “Was I sleeping?”