The Pride Of Jared Mackade tmb-2

by Nora Roberts

  Never in her life had she known the magic and the generosity of love. She knew only that she would give him anything here. Whatever he asked. Whatever he wanted.

  When he twisted her hair around his fist, pulled her head back, she was prepared for anything. But he only pressed his lips to her shoulder, rubbed them gently over the curve.

  And she trembled like a startled doe.

  "Surprised?" Darkly pleased, he lifted his head and looked into her confused, clouded eyes. "You have beautiful shoulders." This time he laved his tongue over them. One by one. Her breath caught on two indrawn gasps. "Sensitive shoulders. They look like they should be carved in marble, but they're soft."

  He nipped lightly at her collarbone, and would have sworn it melted. Enthralled with the discovery, he exploited it, lifting her into his lap, so that he cradled her, rather than the ground.

  When she was limp. When he knew she was utterly open, he quickly, and with concentrated skill, ripped her ruthlessly to a peak.

  She cried out, bucking hard, then pouring into his hand.

  Love and pleasure burned through her. Unbearable heat. She turned to him, turned on him, in a wild frenzy of hands and lips. Later, he would think that they had both gone completely mad. But, for the moment, what they did to and for each other was all that made sense.

  She made him hiss out her name, and the sound of it sang through her like music. When his heart pounded like thunder under her mouth, she knew it was for her, and only for her. The taste of salty sweat on his skin bewitched her.

  He lifted her as though she weighed nothing. She opened, arched, took him deep, so deep that her hands reached out to grip his, from the sheer joy of it. She who cried only when there was no one to see, no one to hear, let the tears fall.

  She rocked, matching his rhythm, matching the savage, fearless beat of her own pulse. Endlessly, endlessly, with the stars raining over them and the moonlight slicing through the tender leaves, they took each other.

  He was nearly blind from the beauty of her face, electrified from what her body brought to his. He thought he felt something break inside him, around his heart. Then, like some ancient goddess summoning her forces, she lifted her arms high. Gleaming in the Stardust, her body went taut, and tightened around him like a velvet fist, and tore him over the edge.

  Chapter Eight

  Savannah awoke with a moan and flung her arm over her eyes to shield them from the blast of sunlight. Her body felt as though she'd ridden a wild bronc over rocky ground.

  And then she remembered she'd pretty much done just that.

  Her lips curved as the night reeled through her mind. She had thought she knew what it was like to want—a home, a life, a man. She'd been certain she'd experienced every kind of hunger—for food, for shelter, for love. But nothing she had felt before matched what had churned through her for Jared MacKade.

  There had been men in her life before—some had passed through, some had stirred her blood. But she had never needed one. And that, she realized, was both the risk and the wonder of this.

  There would never be another man. He was the first, and he would be the last, to take her heart.

  As both mind and body woke, she heard the song of the birds, the far-off yip of Shane's dogs. She felt the strength of the sun beaming through the spring leaves, and the chill of the early breeze. With her eyes still shielded, she stretched lazily, feeling like a cat waiting to be stroked.

  "You have a tattoo."

  She made a long, contented sound, flung her arm over her head, and at last opened her eyes.

  He was sitting beside her. His hair was tousled from sleep and her hands, his eyes were heavy and focused thoughtfully on an area high on her right thigh. She wondered if there was any other woman in the world lucky enough to wake to such a sight.

  "You look good in the morning," she murmured, reaching out to stroke him. "Naked and rumpled."

  He wasn't sure how long he'd watched her sleep. But he did know that when he tugged the blanket away from her, to pleasure himself with a long study of her body in the sunlight, he'd discovered the colorful little bird on her thigh.

  He simply hadn't been able to get past it.

  "You have a tattoo," he repeated.

  "I know that." With a little laugh, she rose on her elbows. Those dark-chocolate eyes were heavy and touched with humor. "It's a phoenix," she explained, amused at the way his brows drew together as he focused on it. "You know, rising from the ashes. I got it in New Orleans, when I realized I wasn't going to be poor for the rest of my life."

  "A tattoo."

  "Some men think they're sexy." Of course, she hadn't gotten it for a man, but for herself. A brand, to remind her that she could remake herself, rise above what she had been. "How about you?"

  "I'll have to take it under advisement."

  He couldn't say why he was so fascinated by it. So jarred. What other secrets did she have? What other permanent marks from her past? He looked away from it, into her face, and was shaken all over again. The sleepy smile in her eyes, the curve of those lips.

  "How're you feeling?"

  "Like I spent the night having wild sex in the woods." Laughing, she moved to link her arms around his neck. "I feel wonderful." Her lips found his and lingered, soft and warm. "How about you?"

  "Exactly the same."

  She hoped so, she hoped he could. She would have lived her life in bliss if he could feel for her even a fraction of what she felt for him.

  He gathered her close and held her as no one else had ever held her. As if it mattered.

  "I don't suppose we could stay here forever," she murmured.

  "No, but we can come back." He needed to think, and knew it was impossible as long as he held her. There were responsibilities at the farm that he was neglecting, he reminded himself. "I have to go." But he buried his face in her hair, and his arms stayed around her. "Farms don't take Sundays off."

  "I have to pick up Bryan soon." But her head nestled into his shoulder, and her arms stayed around him.

  "Why don't you bring him over and.. .just bring him over?"

  "All right."

  "Savannah."

  "Hmm?"

  He caught her hair in his hand, drew her head back. His mouth crushed desperately over hers. "Just once more," he murmured as he lowered her to the blanket.

  When he walked back to the farm, his mind was fogged from her. He'd never known a woman who could leave him so dazed, so weak-kneed. He passed the pigsty, where the stock caught the scent of man and grunted hopefully. In the chicken coop, hens clucked and fluttered over their feed. Distracted, Jared nearly tripped over one of the barn cats, who'd come out to stretch in the sun.

  Rubbing a hand over his face, he made it to the back door. The smells of breakfast hit him hard, and his stomach realized it was ravenous. He could have eaten the sausages Devin was grilling, and the skillet along with it.

  "Coffee." He nearly whimpered the word as he stumbled to the counter.

  Devin glanced at him, then over at Shane, who was already gulping down his second cup. A look of pure enjoyment passed between them.

  "Your shirt's inside out," Devin said mildly.

  Jared scalded his tongue on the coffee, cursed, then collapsed at the kitchen table.

  With a grin cracking his face, Shane leaned on the counter near the stove, where Devin was frying up breakfast. "Brother Jared looks a little rough this morning. Looks like he spent the night crawling through the woods."

  "I guess I should have sent out that search party." Enjoying himself, Devin cracked eggs into the pan. "It's tough on a man, spending the night in the haunted woods. Alone."

  "I feel real bad about it. Let me get you some more coffee, Jare." All solicitude, Shane brought the pot to the table. "Then you can tell us all about it. Don't leave out a thing. We're here for you."

  Jared picked up the coffee Shane had just topped off and scalded his tongue again. "I'm in love with a former erotic dancer with a tattoo."
/>   With an expert's finesse, Devin flipped eggs. "She was a stripper?"

  "Where's the tattoo?" Shane wanted to know. It earned him a halfhearted jab in the gut. "Okay, just give me the general area."

  "I'm in love with her," Jared repeated, weighing each word.

  "Well, hell, you've been in love before." Shane strolled over to take biscuits out of the oven. "At least you've picked one that's interesting this time."

  "Shut up," Devin muttered. He heaped food on a platter and came to the table. Then he sat and studied Jared's face. A long moment later, he leaned back and took a considering breath. "All the way in love?"

  Experimentally, Jared rubbed the heel of his hand over his breastbone, which ached from the way his heart was swelling. "Feels like it."

  With a shake of his head, Shane dumped biscuits into a bowl. "Man, we're dropping like flies. First Rafe, now you." He brought the biscuits to the table, sat, and propped his head on his hands. "It's getting scary."

  "Did you tell her?" Devin asked.

  "I've got to work it out."

  "Next thing you know, we'll have to put on suits again and get married." Grumbling at the thought, Shane started to fill his plate.

  "I didn't say anything about marriage," Jared said quickly. Panic reared up and kicked him in the throat. "I've been there. I didn't say anything about marriage."

  "You weren't married, you were contracted." Cheering up, Shane shoveled in a man-size mouthful of eggs. A good solid breakfast always lifted his mood. "You might as well have cuddled up with a spreadsheet."

  "What the hell do you know about it?"

  Shane washed down the eggs with coffee. "Because I never saw you look then the way you look now, bro."

  Devin ate slowly and nodded in agreement. "Is it the kid that bothers you?"

  "No, Bryan's great." Frowning, Jared helped himself to what was left on the platter. He liked the boy, liked spending time with him, talking with him. And the truth was that one of the reasons his marriage had been doomed was that he'd wanted children, and his wife hadn't.

  No, the boy didn't bother him. It was the man who had helped create him who stuck in his craw. And, he realized, the other men since.

  He just couldn't intellectualize them away. And he didn't like himself for it.

  He caught Devin's look, that quiet, knowing look, and jerked his shoulders restlessly. "I just have to get used to it."

  Devin dashed some salt on his eggs. "The trouble with lawyers is, they like to gather up all the little facts, every little piece. Then they can argue either side. You were always good at that, Jare. Dad used to say you could twist something simple around from right to wrong and back again. Maybe this is one of those times you should just take it as it is."

  Jared wanted to. And he hoped he could.

  He didn't move in with her, technically. But he spent most of his nights there, and some of his clothes found their way into her closet, his books onto her shelves.

  He got into the habit of swinging by after work to pick up Bryan on practice nights. More often than not, they lingered on the field, tossing the ball.

  If a case kept him late at the office, he phoned her. Sometimes he phoned her just to hear her voice.

  With casual regularity, he brought her flowers, and baseball cards or some other treasure for Bryan. They were a trio on outings, and they gave the town a great deal to buzz about.

  Bryan accepted him without question—a fact that both pleased and distressed Jared. He wanted to believe it was because the boy cared for him, considered them a kind of family. But he wondered if Bryan was simply accustomed to having a man stake a claim.

  When that nasty toad of a thought jumped into his head, Jared did what he could to bat it away. It was, after all, the now the mattered. The way she looked at him. The way she laughed when she watched him and Bryan tussle on the lawn. The way, he thought, she arched her back after she'd been bending over the flowers she tended, or how complete her concentration was when she worked in her studio.

  It was the way she smelled that mattered, when she walked out of a steaming bath. It was the way she strained against him night after night in bed, as if she could never get enough. And the way she would reach for his hand when they sat together on the porch swing in the evening.

  Court had kept him late, and the strain of the day refused to be shaken off. He'd brought work home, and he knew that the headache that was drumming behind his eyes would be violent before it was over.

  He stopped off in town to pick up aspirin, searching the shelves in the general store for something that promised to kick big holes in the drums in his head.

  "Hi there, Jared." Mrs. Metz, armed with a loaf of bread and a box of Ring Dings, cornered him. She was an expert at the ebb and flow of gossip.

  "Mrs. Metz." The rhythm of small towns was too ingrained for him to hurry on, and he liked her, had fond memories of her feeding him homemade cookies. And chasing him off with a broom. "How's it going?"

  "Fair to middling. Need some rain, that's for sure. Spring's been too dry."

  "Shane's a little worried about it."

  "We're going to get some tonight," she predicted. "A storm's brewing. Heard that Morningstar boy played a good game Saturday."

  "Three RBIs, initiated two double plays."

  She gave a cackling laugh that sent her trio of chins waggling. "You sound like a proud daddy." Before he could comment, she hurried on. "Seen you and the boy and his mama here and there. She's what my boy Pete would call a stunner."

  "Yes, she is." Jared chose a painkiller at random.

  "Hard, though," Mrs. Metz continued, shifting her ample weight to block his retreat. "Raising a boy on her own, I mean. Not that lots of women don't find themselves in that kind of fix today. She's from out west, isn't she? I guess the boy's father's still out there."

  "I couldn't say." Because it was the literal truth, the pounding in his head increased.

  "You'd think the man would want to see his son now and again, wouldn't you? They've been here close on four months now. You'd think he'd want to come around and visit a fine-looking boy like that."

  "You'd think," Jared said, careful now.

  "'Course, some men just don't give two hoots, much less a holler, about their children. Like Joe Dolin." Her cheerfully homely face puckered up on the name. "I'm happy as I can be you're handling Cas-sie's divorce and making it smooth for her. Mostly they're not smooth—I know when my sister's second boy got his, the feathers flew. I'd wager Savannah Morningstar's divorce was a rough go."

  Oh, no, you don't, he thought. He wasn't going to give her any fuel by saying there'd never been a divorce, since there'd never been a marriage. "She hasn't mentioned it."

  "You used to be more curious, Jared." Before he could snarl at her, she beamed a smile at him. "And just look at you now, a lawyer carrying a briefcase. I've come up to watch you in court a time or two."

  His anger with her deflated. "Yes, I know." He'd seen her there, in her large flowered dress and sensible shoes. Like his own personal cheering section.

  "Better'n watching Perry Mason, that's what I told Mr. Metz. That Jared MacKade's better'n Perry Mason. Your folks would be right proud of you. And here we thought the lot of you would never be on the right side of the law." She found that so funny, she almost doubled over with laughter. "Lord, you were bad, boy. Don't think I don't know who blackened my Pete's eye after the spring dance in high school."

  The memory was very sweet. "He tried to muscle in on my girl."

  "Sharilyn got around in those days. It was Sharilyn in high school, wasn't it?"

  "Briefly."

  "Anyway, she got around, and so did you, as I recall. Girls always fluttering around you and your brothers. Young Bryan's mother must be right pleased to have hooked herself a MacKade, and I got to say, the three of you look real nice together. I got a feeling your mama would've taken to that girl."

  "Yeah." Jared felt a clutching in the stomach. What would his mama have sa
id about a woman like Savannah?

  He thought about it on the way home, and it added weight to his headache. If his mother were alive, how would he explain Savannah? Unwed mother, erotic dancer, carnival worker, calf roper, street artist.

  Pick one, he thought, and rubbed at his temple.

  The problem was, he could imagine it all, could see her in each stage of her evolution. And it was too easy to see how each layer was part of the whole that was the woman who was waiting for him.

  He was tempted to stop off at Rafe's, or go straight to the farm. Just to prove he could. That Bryan's mama didn't have her hooks in him. But he turned up her lane, because it seemed that anything less would be cowardly.

  No MacKade was a coward.

  She was playing the music at full volume again. Usually it amused him, the way she would crank up that old stereo and blast rock out over the hills. Now he sat in the car, rubbing his aching head.

  He walked to the porch, his heavy briefcase weighing him down. Though the screen door he could see her back in the kitchen, washing dishes, singing along with the stereo in a lusty, throaty voice that would sizzle a man's blood. Her hips were grinding to the beat.

  She sure knew how to move, he thought, jealousy and temper slashing through him at the same time the first flash of lightning blazed in the west.

  Before he could stop himself, he'd slammed the door behind him. Like a pistol shot, it boomed over the music. She swung around, her loose hair following the flow of her movement.

  "You want to turn that damn thing down?" he shouted.

  "Sure." Hips still rotating, she sauntered over and flipped it off. "Sorry, didn't hear you drive up."

  "You wouldn't have heard a freight train drive up."

  She only lifted a brow at the edge in his voice and wiped her damp hands on tight jeans. "Rough day?"

  He stalked over, dropped his briefcase on the table where the daisies he'd brought her a few days before still smiled sunnily. "Is that how you danced for money?"

  The blow was so quick, so sudden and sharp, she couldn't even gasp. It shivered through her once, viciously, before she gathered herself and rolled over the pain. "No. I wouldn't have made much, if that's all I'd put into it." She walked to the refrigerator for a beer she didn't want, because if there was something in her hands they might not shake. "Want one?"