THE EIGHT SECOND WEDDING

by Anne McAllister

  "Put your hand under my thigh and lift it. Bend my leg back toward my chest."

  "Under your thigh," Madeleine repeated in a faint facsimile of her normal voice. But her hands did what he said. One slipped under his thigh to lift, the other bent his leg back toward his chest.

  She lifted. She bent. He moved, stretched, tested. His skin where the ice had touched it was cool against her hand. Everywhere else he was burning. Burning almost as badly as she was herself. She dragged in a deep draught of air.

  "'Nuff," Chan said at last, sagging back against the pillows. "Thanks. Helped."

  "You're welcome." Madeleine began to straighten away from him.

  He caught her hand. "Now the rubdown."

  "Chan," she warned, though whether she was warning him or herself was questionable.

  "You can't quit now, Decker. It's just skin on skin."

  "Sure it is."

  He grinned. It was a sultry, sexy grin. "A rubdown is what you make it."

  "That's what I'm afraid of."

  "You're a cruel woman, Decker. You know you want to touch me. Are you chicken?" he taunted softly.

  Her teeth came together with a snap. "Just tell me what to do."

  "Rub me. Here." He showed her where.

  "There?"

  "It hurts all the way up to—"

  "You asked for it, Richardson. Let me get some body lotion."

  His flesh was still cool to begin with, firm and resilient beneath her touch. She stroked him gently at first, smoothing, rubbing back and forth. He shut his eyes. She saw his chest rise and fall slowly, then as she began to knead his thigh, his breathing quickened.

  He shifted restlessly beneath her touch. His left leg splayed wide, and she moved up and leaned against it, getting a better angle on the right. He let out a soft moan.

  "Does it hurt?" she asked quickly.

  "Yes. No. Keep going."

  She kept going. Her fingers soothing and smoothing. Her own emotions and physical reactions weren't soothing at all.

  Neither, from what she could see outlined in his shorts, were his. He shifted again and her elbow brushed against the fly of his shorts.

  "Better?" she asked him finally, a little breathlessly.

  "Yesssss." It was halfway between a whimper and a hiss. His hips lifted as her hand moved up the inside of his thigh. His back began to arch.

  Suddenly his hand reached down and grasped hers, holding it still and so tight against his thigh that she could feel the blood pounding in his pulse there.

  "Point of no return, Decker," he said hoarsely. His lids flicked open. Blue eyes met hers.

  "Point of—?"

  "You know what I mean. Make up your mind."

  "Me? Why is it always the woman who has to decide?" she protested.

  "Because men know what they want." His fingers tightened over hers. "Well?"

  Oh, hell. Oh, damn. She wanted it, too. She did. Biological urges were biological urges whether you wanted them or not. But if she had sex with him, if she shared that last intimacy with him…

  She gave a little tug. He clung for an instant, then reluctantly loosed his grip. Her hand slid away, brushing his thigh one last lingering time.

  "Night, Richardson," she murmured.

  She padded across the room and turned out the light. He heard her come back and get into her own bed, then roll away from him so she was facing the wall.

  He lay there and listened to his galloping heart, to the blood surging through his veins, pulsing, quickening, wanting…

  Night? he thought. Yep. And it was going to be a hell of a long one, he'd give her that.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  If there was ever a way to effectively take your mind off a case of terminal sexual frustration, it was probably to ride a bull when you had a groin pull.

  At least Chan found it was something else to think about as he climbed over the chute and contemplated Ground Zero, the broad-backed Brahma who was stamping and nudging and hooking at the chute gate, the same Brahma that he was going to have to spread his legs over in a very few minutes.

  The thought sent a cold chill right down his back. It was a good thing he'd ridden with pain before. He knew how to look past it, focus on the goal, on getting to the other side. He wished it would work as well with the frustration he was feeling with Madeleine Decker.

  Trouble was, with Decker he didn't know what the other side was.

  Dev moved around to pass the rope up to him. "You ready?"

  "As I'll ever be," Chan muttered. He eased himself down over the bull. He felt his groin muscle stretch, protest, then stretch a little more. Easy does it. Easy. Easy. He settled down, pulled the rope, wrapped it around his hand. He glanced over toward the stands, to where he knew Madeleine was sitting. He'd seen her there on Thursday. He looked for her now, as if she was some sort of talisman.

  Hell of a notion, he told himself. He'd got this damn thing showing off when he bailed out. Still, he checked to see she was there. Then and only then did he grit his teeth and move forward. He tucked his chin, tightened his hand, nodded his head.

  It was poetry again, once he got going. Poetry, he and Ground Zero, shifting and switching, bucking and twisting, right from the start. Eight seconds of style.

  Lucky poets. They never had to dismount.

  He hung on well after the buzzer sounded, considering his options. Showing off wasn't one of them. He wasn't taking any chances on his leg going out from under him and doing it again. And the fence was too far to make a leap for that.

  Well, hell, there was no help for it. It might not look pretty, but it was a damn sight safer. And he wasn't getting scored on it, anyhow, he thought as he tucked and rolled and did his best imitation of a parachutist coming down.

  * * *

  "Do you know what time it is?" Julia said, squinting at the clock on the bureau.

  "Five-thirty in the afternoon," Antonia replied promptly.

  "Not here," Julia said heavily, rolling over in bed, trying not to wake her slumbering husband. "And no, they haven't called."

  "Madeleine called me," Antonia said loftily.

  "In Bali?" Julia sat up, then lay back down again, as sitting pulled all the covers off Rick. "Why? What happened?"

  "They were in Reno. Chan rode in the finals today. He was wonderful, Madeleine said. He took second. But the best news is, he had a groin pull."

  Julia knew she was sleepy, but she didn't think that, even completely comatose, she'd misheard that.

  "That's the best news? Antonia, groin pulls are painful."

  "Amen," Rick mumbled and rolled over.

  "I know," Antonia said eagerly.

  "So why'd she call you?"

  "I'm getting to that," Antonia said. "Be patient. It seems that the groin pull slowed Channing down a bit. Tied him to the bed more or less. And Madeleine got to fuss over him and bring him ice and help him stretch and such. You know where that sort of thing can lead."

  Julia did indeed. "You mean…" She sat up straight. "Do you think they've actually … I mean, groin pulls permit you considerable intimacy," she added hopefully. "I remember Rick's."

  "For God's sake, Julia," muttered her husband. "Is nothing sacred?"

  Julia leaned over and kissed him. "Go back to sleep, dear." She snuggled against him, the receiver next to her ear. "Do you think so, Antonia?"

  "Well, actually no. Not yet. But—" Antonia's voice became dramatic "—I think they're close. Very close. Madeleine wants to quit!"

  "What?" The covers flew off again as Julia sat up. "She said so?"

  "Not in so many words. But she asked about the validity of studies of four weeks' duration." Antonia paused to let the significance of that sink in.

  It did. Julia sank back into the pillows. Rick tugged the covers around them and held her there.

  "I told her they were always suspect," Antonia went on. "Highly unreliable. I told her that in any good, significant, in-depth study th
e researcher always reaches a plateau, a point at which she always feels she can't dig any deeper, where she always feels she's got all she's going to get. I told her that the important thing was to dig deeper. Hang on."

  "Persevere," Julia said.

  "Exactly. I told her it was of utmost importance to do the full two months, to wait out the plateaus until at last you break through to a new level of confidence. To really understand, I told her, you need to forge ahead to that new level of intimacy with your subject, a deeper level of knowledge. Only then are your conclusions reliable."

  There was a pause, then Julia said, amazed, "And she bought it?"

  * * *

  Madeline didn't imagine she'd have any trouble getting Chan to agree to a "new level of intimacy." It seemed to be exactly what he had in mind.

  She just wished she was sure it was the right thing to do. What, after all, she asked herself, had that level of intimacy accomplished with Scott?

  She wasn't positive, of course, but somehow she thought that their increased intimacy might have been the shove that had sent their relationship downhill.

  Well, she asked herself, what's wrong with that?

  A little disenchantment with Channing Richardson was exactly what she needed. She was too interested in him as it was. The best defense against such preoccupation was to know him well. Extremely well. When there were no more mysteries, there would be no more daydreams.

  Such an increased level of intimacy would answer all her most pressing questions, like – for example – what exactly was he like beneath those white shorts?

  Then, too, there was the probability that Chan would become disenchanted with her. That was somehow not quite so cheering to contemplate, reminding her as it did of her experience with Scott.

  But it would serve the same purpose. It would satisfy their mutual curiosity. She didn't want him to declare his undying love, after all.

  All in all, Madeleine decided, it seemed like the best thing to do.

  But making up her mind was one thing. Broaching the subject with Chan was something else.

  She supposed she could simply say, "Remember when I was giving you that rubdown and you said to choose. Well, I'm changing my mind."

  She didn't imagine he would object. But somehow she wanted a little time and privacy.

  Time and privacy, however, turned out to be the two things they had very little of.

  When she drove the truck around to pick him up after the finals at Reno, he wasn't waiting alone. Kevin Skates was with him.

  "Gee, hope you don't mind me taggin' along," Kevin said as he clambered into the truck and stowed his gear bag alongside Chan's. "I reckon I got me a shot at the finals if I take a run at it, and Chan said you wouldn't mind if I rode with you as far as Calgary."

  Madeleine looked at Chan. "Calgary?"

  He looked right back. "Under the circumstances…" he said and let his voice trail off significantly.

  Kevin, of course, thought he was referring to Kevin's wonderful potential NFR contention.

  * * *

  He didn't know what she looked so unhappy about. It wasn't like having Kevin along was going to cramp their style. They didn't have a style! Madeleine had a dissertation and Chan had a pain in his crotch. And that was that. Well, maybe that was putting too harsh a spin on it, but he didn't know what else to think. If she didn't go to bed with him when he was riding high, and she wouldn't go to bed with him when he was at his most vulnerable, she wasn't going to go to bed with him at all. Fine, so be it.

  So they might as well bring Kevin with them. Besides, they were never in one place for more than the space of a rodeo, between June 27 and July 12. They called it "the cowboy's Christmas," that period around the Fourth of July when every town from the Pacific to the Mississippi seemed to have a rodeo. Chan had spent a fair amount of time figuring out which ones to hit, and he'd picked a dozen they could drive to. When he spelled it out for Madeleine, she looked at him like he was crazy.

  She said, "Do they give frequent-driver miles as well?"

  "You don't have to come," he said. "What's the point?"

  But Madeleine resolutely shook her head. "I'm coming. There's a point."

  "Oh?"

  "I've changed my mind."

  "What?"

  "We need to dig deeper."

  "Into what?"

  "You'll see. We're at a plateau," she told him. "I've been thinking, and I think I might have been mistaken."

  "Mistaken about what?" God, she was infuriating.

  But she just smiled, looked archly at Kevin, who was driving, then back at Chan.

  Mistaken? About what? Changed her mind? About what?

  He asked her then, he asked her later. He asked her one day, he asked the next.

  She just gave him coy little looks, speculative looks, and then she'd start typing again. She also gave him rubdowns at night that set him on fire, though he was sure she didn't intend them that way. If she wanted to drive him nuts, she'd sure hit on a terrific method.

  They drove from Greeley, Colorado to Pecos, Texas to Prescott, Arizona and then Window Rock, Arizona, then St. Paul, Oregon to Williams Lake, British Columbia, hitting six rodeos in six days. It gave him plenty of time for wondering and driving and stretching … and aching. She helped lift his foot and bend his knee. She smiled at him. Still she didn't say.

  They had thirty-six hours to drive from British Columbia to Folsom, California, then a whole two days to get to Utah, then another down to Santa Fe. They had two full days to get to Wolf Point, Montana and another two to cruise leisurely on up to Calgary. And all the while, she didn't say.

  She lifted and flexed and bent for him. She kneaded his muscles, and her fingers lingered until he moaned, and Kevin said, "It's weird, you know, I almost wish I had a groin pull, too."

  "No, you don't," Chan said sharply. Because he wasn't sharing Madeleine's fingers with anyone. Besides Kevin didn't realize that it was torture, too.

  He couldn't believe she'd changed her mind about making love with him. He couldn't think of any rational reason why she should. And with Madeleine he knew there would have to be some rationalization.

  Still he wasn't sorry when they got to Calgary very late Sunday evening, and Kevin hounded off to find the friends he was sharing a room with, and he and Madeleine were left facing each other and a hotel room together in Calgary.

  From the way she was looking, all eyes and hair and pale, pale skin, he was certain that she hadn't changed her mind about making love with him. In fact, he was beginning to get another idea that made a lot more sense.

  They went into the lobby and up to the desk together and Chan began to get an inkling of what was in store when she said, "I'll arrange things."

  Why hadn't he thought of it before? "I suppose you want separate rooms this time," he said.

  "On the contrary," Madeleine said and walked up to the reservations clerk. "We'd like a room with one bed."

  * * *

  "It's what?"

  "Research," Madeleine said calmly, leaning back against the door of their hotel room and watching as he flung his duffel bag next to the dresser and turned to glare at her.

  "The hell you say! Research!" The very thought made him want to explode.

  "Well, if you don't want to make love with me…"

  "Of course I want to, Decker! You know that. But I'm damned if you're going to be taking notes!"

  "I wasn't—"

  "And you'll be damned if I catch you writing it up for our mothers!"

  "I would never—"

  He shook his head. "I don't believe this!"

  Separate rooms would have been better! He did a furious limping lap of the room – not easy, as he had to avoid the king-size bed that Madeleine had requested for them.

  "I don't know why you're so offended," Madeleine said reasonably. "It's like I told Gil and Dev back in Vegas – just more compiling of evidence. Once you would have agreed."

  Which was true. Early on he'd suggeste
d compiling a bit of that sort of evidence himself. Sex was sex, he'd always thought. At least, so far it had been. He didn't know, though, now that he thought about it.

  Everything in his life seemed to change when Madeleine touched it. Why should sex be any different? Still, he couldn't see how. She'd have to show him.

  He turned and faced her. "Fine," he said. "I'm yours. Ravish me."

  Her jaw dropped. "Richardson!"

  He shrugged. "Go ahead. Think of me as a guinea pig. Do your clinical, philosophical worst. Or best, Decker. Whichever."

  "Richardson!"

  "I'm waiting." He spread his arms out slightly from his body and lifted his chin, daring her.

  Madeleine just looked at him. Her eyes moved slowly from his head down to his toes, then took a lingering local journey back up again. He began to feel just the slightest bit warm under her gaze.

  "Fine," she said in a soft sultry voice he'd never heard her use before.

  And she started toward him.

  He stood his ground. Just. One part of him wanted to take off running from this intent, determined woman coming toward him. Another part, the braver part, was curious as all get-out about just what Madeleine Decker had in mind. He stayed right where he was.

  She stopped just inches from him and lifted her hands to his chest. She smiled at him, her green eyes wide and luminous. He held himself rigid under her touch as her fingers slid beneath the opening of his shirt to pop the snaps one by one. Then she took each of his arms in turn and unsnapped the cuffs so they hung open. Tugging on the fabric, she pulled his shirt loose from the waistband of his jeans.

  "Yes," she said softly as her hands came up again and brushed lightly down across his chest. Chan sucked in his breath. How many times had she given him rubdowns that had aroused the devil out of him? Twenty at least. But not one of them had sent shivers right through him the way her lightest touch did now.

  "Here now," she said and eased the shirt back off his shoulders. It fell to the floor unheeded. Her hands moved to his belt.

  "I'll do it," Chan said.

  Madeleine shook her head. "This is my research."

  So he let his hands fall to his sides. He shut his eyes. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp of his belt. It was a bull-riding-championship buckle from Salinas. The prettiest, most coveted buckle, next to the NFR gold, in the entire rodeo world. He just wished it were easier to get undone.