by Diana Palmer
“You’re just jealous because nobody would pay to watch you and Mr. Hawes and Mr. Danson stand around and talk oil and cattle for two hours.”
“So that’s it,” he murmured.
“Now you will get an insight into the true nature of woman,” Conchita informed him, putting her dishtowel aside. “Go off and fight, and then you can make up properly. José is taking me in to town to shop for Christmas, so you will have the house all to yourselves.”
They waited, glaring at each other in silence, until she’d left the kitchen.
“I don’t want to make up with you,” she told him furiously.
“So stay in here and pout,” he replied. “I can always go work off my temper with the men.”
“Good! Why don’t you start a fight? Maybe I could sell tickets to that!”
He glared at her one last time, turned on his heel, grabbed his Stetson, slammed it onto his head, and stomped off toward the porch. The door crashed loudly behind him.
Erin flung a plate at the door. Unfortunately, it was one of those new unbreakable ones, and it only made a loud thud, not a satisfying shatter. She sighed and picked it up to wash it again. By the time she’d finished, tears were streaming down her cheeks.
Ty stayed away all day. Conchita and José came home to find Erin in her own room and Ty outside with his men. They stared at each other for a moment and then shook their heads as they went about their business.
By early evening, Erin had taken a bath and settled into her bed, two short novels by her side. At eight-thirty she unlocked the door to Conchita, who bustled in with a bowl of homemade soup and some hot coffee. Erin closed her ears to Conchita’s well-meant grumbling and in the process forgot to relock the door behind the housekeeper. She ate the soup, drank the coffee, and finished the second novel, by which time she had a genuine headache and a throbbing hip. She felt thoroughly miserable. She wished she’d never met Ty in the first place; she was sure that she hated him. Somewhere along the way she drifted off to sleep, tears drying on her cheeks.
Ty came in about midnight, dirty and disheveled and half out of humor, and found her asleep in her own room. He glared at her sleeping form for a long moment before he closed the door again and went to his room to spend a cold, unsatisfying night by himself.
The next morning, Erin was up before breakfast, exercising by herself in the living room. She’d show him! She’d get better, then she’d leave him! She’d go back to work and make a fortune and have men running after her all over the place, and then he’d be sorry! The thought gave her fresh energy. She was going full steam when Ty walked into the room, smoking a cigarette.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she replied sweetly. “I hope you had a horrible night?”
“I did, thanks. How about you?”
“I hardly slept.”
“You were sawing logs when I came home,” he remarked.
“Oh, then you did finally come home?” she asked sarcastically. “How kind of you.”
“You started it,” he muttered.
“No, you did.” She glared at him. “Ignoring me like that in front of everybody, letting me go off and wash dishes on my wedding day! How could you!”
He took a deep breath. “I’ve been a bachelor for thirty-four years, and I’ll remind you that this is no conventional love match. We got married to keep gossip down, didn’t we? Or is there a reason I don’t know about?”
He was right. She stared at him blankly while she went over their relationship in her mind. Then she forced herself to compare that reality to the idyllic little fantasy of mutual love she’d created. Finally she lowered her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said dully. “I had no right to get upset like that. We did get married to keep gossip down, after all.”
He was sorry he’d opened his mouth when he saw the life drain out of her. All the lovely brightness, all the excitement that had given her such beauty yesterday…gone. He hadn’t thought about it from her point of view. Women took things so seriously. His eyes narrowed as he watched her sitting there, slightly stooped, and it suddenly occurred to him that she might have expected him to behave like a…well, like a bridegroom. He’d been so busy trying not to frighten her that he’d obviously gone overboard. Now she thought he didn’t want her, that he didn’t care.
“Did you want me last night?” he asked gently.
“No,” she said.
He knelt beside her and tilted her chin up, forcing her wounded eyes to meet his.
“Yes,” she mumbled.
“Then why didn’t you say so?” he asked.
“What did you expect me to do, walk up to you in the middle of a discussion on artificial insemination and tell you I wanted to make love? I’m sure your neighbors would have found that interesting.”
He smiled faintly. “I guess they would have.” He touched her hair, feeling its dampness. “I don’t know much about being a husband. You’ll have to bear with me until I get the hang of it.”
She searched his eyes. “Maybe I’m just expecting more from you than you want to give. Things have never been normal for us. I’ve been so confused….”
“And so hurt.” He grimaced. “And I seem to do more of it every day. Hurting you is the last thing I want.”
“And pity is the last thing I want.” She touched his hand where it rested on her shoulder. “I’m having some problems with this hip.” Well, that’s almost the truth, she told herself; it does ache. “It’s made me irritable. I’m sorry I’ve made things difficult for you. I won’t be troublesome anymore, I promise.” She got to her feet, moving away from him, oblivious to the stunned look on his face. “What Conchita said yesterday reminded me that I haven’t done any Christmas shopping, either. I don’t relish walking around a lot, but I need to buy some things. Could you spare someone to drive me over to San Antonio?”
His face hardened. “I’ll drive you myself,” he said coldly. “When do you want to go?”
“Saturday would be fine.”
“All right.” He turned and left her without another word. She didn’t let herself think about why. She wasn’t going to beg for his attention; if he didn’t care enough to give it, she’d learn to live without it. Somehow.
It was a long week, during which she and Ty met at the table and nowhere else. She found things to keep her busy, as did he, and they communicated only when it was absolutely necessary. Conchita just shook her head and mumbled, but she was too wary of Ty to come right out and say anything. His temper went from bad to worse. Erin could hear him out at the corral, giving people hell for everything from leaving gates open to breathing. She felt responsible, and she kept out of his way as much as she could. The marriage that had started out with such promise was turning into a fiasco.
Finally Saturday came, and Ty was ready, as promised, to escort Erin to San Antonio. He looked rich and important in his cream-colored dress Stetson and boots—and every inch the Texan in faded jeans and a denim jacket. Erin felt a little dowdy beside him in a simple gray jersey dress. She didn’t have many clothes, but she wasn’t going to spend money buying new ones. She still didn’t feel entitled to her share of the ranch, despite the will and everything that had happened to her because of the Wades. She’d never forgotten what Ty had said in the car, how he’d accused her of wanting to live off him. She didn’t realize that he hadn’t actually meant what he’d said, so she’d taken the words at face value.
“Is there any particular place you’d like to go?” Ty asked politely as they reached the outskirts of the city.
“I don’t care,” she murmured, staring out the window at the sprawling metropolis. Despite the fact that a million or so people lived in San Antonio, it seemed nicely spread out except for right downtown near the Alamo Plaza. At least there were plenty of parking lots around, she thought.
“It’s a big city,” he said. “It would help if I knew what you wanted to shop for. Are you looking for new clothes?”
&
nbsp; “Why? Do I look like I need some?” she asked, glaring at him.
“You wear that same dress every time we go out,” he remarked. “It’s wearing on my eyes.”
“Then by all means, I’ll buy another one,” she said coldly.
“Go ahead, take it personally,” he said, his eyes never leaving the road. “Better yet, why don’t you sit down and cry? That would make me feel even worse than I already do.”
She bit her lower lip hard as sidewalks and pedestrians blurred past the window of the Lincoln. “I haven’t had money to spend on clothes.”
He glanced at her angrily. “Do you know what Staghorn is worth at current market prices?” he demanded.
“I am not spending your money on clothes. I’ll spend what I made modeling.”
“For God’s sake! What the—”
He broke off as a parking lot caught his attention, near the Alamo. He pulled into the last vacant spot and parked before he turned to her with blazing silver eyes.
“Now look here…” he began. Then he caught the glimmer of tears in her eyes, despite the fact that her face was averted. Instantly he calmed down. He reached for one of her hands, tightly clenched on her purse, and pried it loose. It was soft and slender and very cool. He touched her pulse and found it was racing wildly.
Erin jerked her hand away and glared at him.
“Could we go shopping, please?”
“Yes, I think it’s about time we did,” he murmured. “And I know the perfect spot for it.”
He took her arm and escorted her down the street, into an elegant old hotel. She watched, wide-eyed, as he booked a room, then drew the manager off to one side and murmured something. A minute later, he took the key, signed the register, and led her into the elevator.
The room was old but elegant, done up in shades of green with all the modern furnishings coordinated to please the eye. And there was a huge king-size bed.
“What are we doing here?” she asked hesitantly.
He locked the door and laid the key on the dresser before he turned toward her, his eyes as deep and mysterious as a winter day. “I’ll give you three guesses,” he said, moving toward her.
Her breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t move. He took her purse away from her and then proceeded to undress her.
“You and I need a lot of privacy.” He removed the dress and her slip and laid them aside. “We haven’t had it at the ranch. But we’ll have it here.”
She swallowed. “We’re going to…to…?”
“Yes.” He bent and put his mouth softly over hers, feeling it tremble. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Erin,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you this time.”
“But-b…it’s daylight,” she faltered.
“We have to get used to each other sometime,” he said reasonably. “And the curtains are drawn. It isn’t so much light, is it?”
His hands were behind her, feeling for the clasp of her bra. He found it and loosed it, then gently removed the wisp of lace and silk. His eyes adored her for several long moments before he bent and removed the last silken undergarment. She was a little self-conscious, especially about the scars; but he didn’t seem to mind them, and after a minute she relaxed and let him lower her to the bed.
“Get under the covers,” he said gently, as if he knew how difficult it was for her. “You don’t have to watch me if you don’t want to. We’ve got plenty of time to get used to the sight of each other.”
There were rustling sounds as he undressed, and a minute later she felt him slide under the cool sheets beside her.
“Now,” he whispered, moving above her so that he could look down into her eyes. “Now, here, our marriage begins.”
She pushed at his chest until she felt the erotic combination of hard muscle and abrasive hair. Her hands were fascinated by it, by the pulsating feel of it.
He moved the cover down to her waist and looked at her breasts with warm, curious eyes. His hand reached out and touched her there, feeling her go hard, watching her.
Her own eyes followed his, and she saw his long fingers exploring her, discovering the textures, with exquisite tenderness. Her breath caught, because it was new and exciting to realize that he was her husband now, that all the old taboos had been lifted.
“We’re married,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “Will you try to remember that it’s all right for us to do this now?”
“I’ll try….” Her eyes were drawn to his broad, tanned chest. “You must strip to the waist when you work outside,” she said curiously.
“I do.”
“I look white compared to you.”
He lifted himself above her, letting his narrow hips move completely over her flat belly, watching her face contract at this new intimacy.
“Now move the cover away,” he said, arching over her, “and watch me.”
She trembled all over at the soft command, obeying him without even thinking, caught up in a growing tide of erotic pleasure. Her eyes traveled the length of their bodies, to where he was as white as she was; then he moved over her, and she felt the strength of him in an embrace that seemed more intimate than anything they’d done before.
“Oh, Ty…!”
“Put those soft hands on my hips,” he whispered, “and hold me to you.”
She moaned as his mouth came down over hers, feeling him tense, feeling the weight and warmth and maleness of him settling against her. His tongue probed inside her mouth, and she opened her lips to give him access, feeling him tremble as she moved and lifted toward him.
“You’re my woman, Erin,” he murmured, his lips a breath away from hers. He caressed her hips, urging them upward, moving them against his. “You’re my wife.”
She shuddered at the exquisite sensations flowing through her. She reached up, trembling as her breasts brushed against his hard chest, feeling him shudder too, feeling the tide of hunger overwhelm him.
“Sweet,” he groaned, nudging her legs apart. “God, you’re sweet, you’re so sweet, so sweet…!”
His mouth shuddered against hers. He felt her move, heard her moan, and all at once it was happening. His head seemed to explode with the helpless urgency of his body. He moved feverishly against her, over her, feeling her body accept him with only a small spasm of protest.
She clasped his neck with her arms and gasped a little, but before she could begin to feel anything, it was over. He could feel her disappointment and damned himself for his infernal impatience. He was still shuddering helplessly in the aftermath of their lovemaking, but there was no pleasure in it for him now, no satisfaction: Erin had felt nothing.
He lifted his head and looked down at her, seeing the suspicious brightness in her eyes even as she tried to smile.
“Don’t do that,” he said gruffly. “Don’t pretend. Don’t you think I know how it was for you? You didn’t begin to feel anything; I didn’t give you time.”
“It’s all right—”
“No, it’s not all right.” He drew in a harsh breath and smoothed the hair away from her flushed face. “Oh, God, honey, I’m sorry,” he whispered, bending to her mouth, kissing it with aching tenderness. “I’m sorry. Erin, I don’t know how….” He groaned, burying his face in her throat. “I don’t know how!”
He lifted himself away from her and got to his feet, reaching into his discarded shirt for a cigarette. He went to the window and stood staring out the slightly opened curtain, smoking, silent.
She stared at him curiously, uncertain. “Ty?”
“I’ve only had a handful of women, Erin,” he said after a moment. “It was always just sex, nothing more. Just a need I satisfied. But it wasn’t necessary to give back the pleasure. So I never learned how. I thought it might come naturally, but I guess it doesn’t.” He took a long draw from the cigarette. “I guess it doesn’t.”
She ached for him. With his intense pride, a confession like that must have taken a lot of courage. She got to her feet slowly, favoring her sore hip, and went to h
im.
“I don’t know how to say this,” she began, keeping her eyes on his chest. “But I don’t think experience is all that important, if two people have a…a mutual need to please each other. I’m glad you haven’t cared about those other women, because that makes it special with you. Almost as if I were the first woman for you.”
“You are the first woman—in every way that counts,” he said.
She lifted her eyes. “Then…then…maybe…”
“Can you tell me?” He searched her eyes. “Or at least show me? I’ll do anything you want, anything I can to make you feel pleasure.” He touched her hair hesitantly. “I don’t get much out of it when I know you aren’t enjoying it.”
Her lips turned up a little at the corners. “I can’t look at you and show you,” she confessed shyly.
“You won’t have to.”
He put out the cigarette and lifted her easily in his arms. “Maybe I can hold back this time, since I’m not so hungry,” he said, looking at her with kindling desire. “What do you want me to do?”
She arched her back a little, feeling the magic, feeling her femininity blossoming under his ardent gaze. “You know,” she whispered.
“Yes, I think I do.” And he bent suddenly and opened his mouth over the peak of her soft breast.
She moaned, stiffening, her voice breaking as she caught the back of his head and held him there.
He tasted her, savored her, as he lowered her to the bed. Her hands guided him, showed him where to touch her, how to please her with his mouth and hands. When he reached the softness of her inner thighs, she shuddered and cried out.
He grew drunk on the sound of those soft little cries, but carefully controlled the pulsating fever of his own body as he tasted and kissed and nibbled at her soft, sweetly scented skin. When he kissed her mouth again at last, she was crying.
He eased over her, slowly this time, and felt her arching under him, felt her hands at the back of his thighs, guiding, showing him where she was the most vulnerable, teaching him the rhythm she needed.
“Sweet,” he whispered, opening his eyes to look at her.
She was moaning now, her skin glistening, her hair damp. Her eyes were half closed, glazed, her lips swollen and parted. She gasped and tossed her head restlessly back and forth on the bed. Her eyes opened, wild and frightened, then closed again.