“No, I don’t suppose you do,” Luke said steadily. “You never did. Just let me ask you one more question. Who found the first double-branded cattle?”
“Nick did. He was out in the north pasture when he saw them and brought them in.”
“Don’t you find that a little strange?”
“Not at all. He’s out on the range, seeing to business. We work on this cattle ranch.”
Luke felt the heat, the flare of emotion. His father knew exactly which buttons to push. “Then I’d better not keep you from it.” He turned to walk out of the tack barn.
“Are you planning on marrying her?”
He thought about ignoring his father’s question as if he hadn’t heard. He couldn’t do it. Luke stopped, pivoted slowly to face the man who was his father. Henry stood there with the handkerchief wrapped around his hand like a wounded warrior throwing the last lance. “I don’t plan on marrying anyone just now.”
“Then ask yourself this. How honest are you?”
“Charlotte knows I’ll be leaving soon.”
“I’ve tried to teach you to be a good man. I’ve tried to show you that the whole world wouldn’t bow down to you just because you carried a little ball down a field better than anybody else. I tried to keep that praise they heaped on you from turning your head and show that a man’s real worth in the world is his ability to get a job done.” He shook his head slowly. “I guess I didn’t do a very good job. Nothing I ever said or did had much effect on you.”
Luke bowed his head in a mocking obeisance, his mouth twisted in a bleak smile. “You’d be surprised, Father.”
Chapter Twelve
The steering wheel of the car felt smooth and familiar under Luke’s hand. The quiet twilight filled the air with the sweetness of a summer’s evening, making the harsh words he’d exchanged with his father seem as if they’d been uttered in another lifetime. Charlotte’s house sheltered under the mountains; the jut and thrust of those purple peaks was once again as familiar to Luke as his own name, as familiar as the dust cloud that enveloped his car as he pulled up and shut off the engine. The muted peace of the evening was shattered by the sharp burr of her outside telephone bell.
He remained sitting in the car to give Charlotte a chance to answer the phone. Quiet drifted over him, and in the softly enfolding mystery of day slipping into night, Luke remembered an old line, something about home being the place where they had to take you in. He’d been fool enough to believe that. No more. Everything he owned was packed in the trunk of the car. He’d left his father’s house, knowing he’d never return.
He wouldn’t move in with Charlotte. That would make him the liar his father thought him to be. He was a man without a place to hang his hat, but he couldn’t leave, not with Charlotte in danger. He’d let her know that he was heading to a motel, and then he’d leave. Because she deserved a man who could give her his life.
He sat waiting in the car for Charlotte to finish her call, until he could wait no longer. He ached for the sight of her face, for the warmth of her smile.
The kitchen felt like her, smelled like her, clean and fresh with bleach and lemon and a hint of the lavender scent he hadn’t identified until just this minute. There was the aroma of coffee too, and when he heard Charlotte’s voice, low, throaty, teasing, coming from the living room, he walked to the cupboard and rummaged around for a cup. He was helping himself from the coffeepot on the stove when Charlotte came around the corner, the phone to her ear. He leaned back against the counter and brought the cup to his lips, his eyes on her face.
Her eyes blazed with that look he lived for. She tried to reach him, but her phone cord wouldn’t quite reach. She beckoned for him to come closer, but he stayed where he was, his back against the counter, the coffee cup in his hand.
“No, you’re not catching me at a bad time. Luke just walked in the door, that’s all. No, of course you’re still my favorite fella. You always will be.”
The sudden knife of possessiveness hit him on a blind side. He’d never been possessive, not of Elisa, not of any woman. So she was talking to a guy, sweet as all hell in her jeans, her crisp white shirt and her bare feet with those nicely shaped toes. For some reason known only to the laughing gods of irony, she was holding the phone out to him, her smile beaming.
“Want to say hello to an old friend?”
“I don’t have any old friends.”
Her smile faded just a little. “It’s Richard. Go on, say hi to him. He’s got a part, and he’s dying to tell as many people as he can about it.”
He took the phone from Charlotte’s hand and decided that jackass was too good a name for him. Need and hunger burning inside him, he grasped her around the waist and headed for the living room couch, where he sat down with her, dragging her into his lap in one smooth movement. She seemed startled, but she settled in quickly, with that way she had of fitting his hardness to her softness that both soothed and aroused the hell out of him.
The phone was still warm from her hand. Her hair was silk against his cheek and smelled like strawberries. Luke shifted her closer and tucked her head in under his chin and thought about how he’d felt when he believed she was talking to another man on the phone and knew that somehow, somewhere, all his plans to be cool, to be easy, to take things as they came, had gone very much awry. He leaned back with her, feeling that hungry edginess ease out of his gut, only to be replaced by another more basic hunger. In his ear, Richard rambled on about his part in a TV detective series, about how he was the second banana and the part was a real breakthrough for him. It was good to hear his old friend’s voice, and Luke was glad Richard was at last finding some success in pursuing his dream, but he could feel Charlotte’s cheek against his as she fit into him like a kitten, and Luke could feel her breathe and smell her skin, and he wanted to throw the phone away and bury his hands in her hair and his body in hers. Instead, he had to content himself with rubbing his hand up and down her arm, as if he weren’t really thinking about her at all. He realized then that he was doing what he had done most of his life, escaping from the harsh storms of his father’s repressiveness into the safe harbor of Richard and Charlotte’s life. He’d taken from the two of them all his life. Had he ever given back anything?
The man was taking too much for granted, coming into her house, sitting down on her couch with her in his lap, letting his hand drift from her arm to her thigh in a careless embrace. Yet he felt so hard and solid and endearing. In his black shirt with the tiny stripes, a cotton city shirt, too dressy for the country with its button-down collar, but decidedly sexy with the front open to expose Luke’s throat and the shirtsleeves rolled up, exposing his tanned, muscled arms. And darn that man, his black denim jeans went beyond sexy to downright dangerous, especially with his spitand-polish-clean black boots. He looked dressed for trouble, ready to do some bar cruising in a city. She wondered what he’d said to his father, what abuse he’d taken for her sake.
When Luke finally handed her the phone, she asked, “What did he say?”
“He wanted me to know that if I didn’t act like a gentleman and take care of you, he’d come home and knock me flat.”
“I’ll bet you’re scared to death.” Richard was five-ten and weighed a slim one hundred and fifty pounds.
“Shaking in my boots.”
“Did you tell him it was too late for you to be a gentleman?”
“No. There’s an old Steadman rule. Never destroy anyone’s good opinion of you, even if it’s undeserved.”
“That sounds like a great rule.”
“Right up there with clean your teeth every night.” Now was the time to tell her he was on his way. Now was the time. But he could smell the perfume of her hair and feel the silkiness of those soft black strands against his cheek. The words wouldn’t come. He wanted a little more time. Just a few minutes more with her, with the peace of her, and the hunger of her.
Charlotte lay in his arms, aware of the hand that lay splayed at her throat a
bove her breasts, his fingertips heavy and warm against the bare skin under her blouse collar. He was all coolness and calm, but those eyes were dark as midnight, and he was watching her as if his life would end if he took his eyes from hers. But he wasn’t making a move toward her.
“Do you have to take my brother’s instructions quite so literally?” She tried a smile, hoped for an answering smile, was disappointed. Exasperated, she leaned forward and kissed him. His mouth was cool, uninvolved. She didn’t know what was eating him, but she could guess. Henry.
“You could help me out here,” she said.
“Help you do what?”
She couldn’t read his eyes, but she knew his soul. He was spoiling for a fight. He needed her help in putting back that high wall that protected him from loving, from intimacy. He couldn’t do it by himself anymore. The thought cheered her immensely. If he could be obtuse, so could she. She smiled at him, as if she missed the point altogether. “You must be deadly in the courtroom.”
“I do what’s necessary.”
He wasn’t going to give an inch. She lost a bit of her courage. Maybe she had read him wrong. No, she couldn’t have. He was here. And he was holding her. “You look…drained.”
“Thank you very much.” He bowed his head in mock gratitude.
“It didn’t go well with your father, did it?” She lifted a hand to his cheek, felt the fine, dark stubble of his night face. She wanted to give him the world. He looked at this moment as if he didn’t want it. Or her.
“No, it didn’t go well.”
She felt full, suddenly, of things she wanted to say, things she wanted to give him. Full of love. She reached for the silk of his hair and ran her palm over it, loving the feel of his hair under her hand, the curve of his head.
His eyes darkened, flashed. “You give sympathy so well.”
She felt the anger surge within her, but she knew him too well to give way to it. He needed her desperately, but he’d die before he’d admit it to her. Or to himself.
Charlotte shifted a little, and then more, till suddenly she was straddling him. “Perhaps I can give you something you like better than sympathy.”
He might have put other people off with his stoic act, other women, but he wouldn’t fool her with that idiotic nonsense. She dragged her hand around to the rim of his ear, found the tiny hairs there. “Have you ever thought about all the different kinds of hair there are on the human body?” Her other hand was splayed against his chest, to help her hold her body away from his. “Tiny little ones here.” She teased along his ear, up and down, gently, so gently, her eyes fastened on his. He looked completely in control, but she knew he wasn’t, felt the evidence of it beneath her. He’d hardened instantly. Smiling, she leaned closer, let her hand drift to the back of his neck, where she found a whorl of hair that seemed promising. “Stronger ones here, but embedded in very sensitive skin. Did you know the back of your neck is sensitive as a primitive survival defense?” She made forays there for a bit, all the while watching him. She thought she saw the muscle move on the side of his jaw that betrayed his teeth clenching. She was getting under his skin, all right, but he was determined to keep control as long as he could. Spurred on by evidence that victory would be hers, she let her hand move to his chest, where she slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Her eyes dark with laughter, she said, “If you want to say no to this scientific exploration, Luke, you’d better do it now.”
His mouth twitched with a sudden dark amusement, but he didn’t smile. “Far be it from me to stand in the way of scientific advancement.”
His dark pelt exposed, she took her time exploring it, careful not to catch her nails in the darkly springing curls. “This hair is coarse and springy, again contributing to the survival of the male animal by providing defense.” She shattered his defense by finding a nipple under those curls, rubbing it against her palm. She discovered the other with her left palm and, just for good measure, rubbed them both, first one way, then the other.
His hands had been open, but now she could see them closing, as if he needed to keep his hands clenched to keep them away from her. She pulled the snap loose on his jeans. The sound of the zipper rasping open filled the entire room. Steeling herself to keep from losing her nerve, she slid her warm fingers against his even warmer flesh, feeling the path of curls down, down….”And this hair also conceals and protects—”
“And I thought country girls were shy.”
He relaxed back against the cushions, his mouth curved in a darkly sensual look, his eyes nearly black with arousal, his body as ready for pleasure as an indulged pasha’s.
“You’ve got a lot to learn about country girls. Would you like to continue this lesson upstairs, where we both would be more comfortable? I know you like your comfort.”
“I find,” said Luke, reaching for her hand to let her help him up, “that I have this insatiable thirst for learning—in the proper atmosphere.”
Warm and dark was her room in the twilight, with a cool breeze rustling the curtains. Hot and cold danced together on her skin. The coverlet on her bed whispered as she drew it back. The bed gave as Luke lay down and drew her on top of him. He held her for a moment, just held her. She could feel her heart beating, and his, too, the slow, steady rhythm under her ear confirming his life, his reality. But still it must be a dream to be with Luke like this on her childhood bed, wrapped in the ultimate freedom of sensual intimacy.
“Charlotte.”
He said her name, just her name, but she knew that in that moment he, too, was savoring the dark, cool world that sheltered them and the particular closeness that only a man and a woman about to make love could share.
He seemed to know that she needed quiet in this serious act of joining with him. He lay still, not breaking the mood, still only holding her, his hands quiet on her back. And in that moment, she knew she would never again in her life love anyone as she loved this man.
Slowly, carefully, she rose up over him and began to undo his lower shirt buttons.
When at last she was cool and bare in his arms, Luke dragged his hand over her back in a silken, ragged caress, but Charlotte knew what she needed. She needed him inside her, and she wanted him now, before she began to think, before she began to doubt the wisdom of loving him so thoroughly, before she began to remember that he would never be hers. She clutched his back and rolled with him, taking him into her, tightening around him, his sharp intake of breath sending a ripple of pleasure through her that echoed in their joining.
“Charlotte-”
Her name was a breath, a song, a sigh. “Shh…” She moved to take him deeper. He held his weight on his hands above her, and now he threw his shoulders back in a spasm of pleasure.
She watched the cords and muscles in his shoulders tighten, watched his eyes close in that acute pleasure that was nearly pain, saw the sleek line of his neck as he lifted his head in a futile effort to contain and shape his pleasure.
She would not let him. She knew she must make him feel the chilliness of the breeze, the warmth of her body, the tightness with which she held him, now, quickly, before he remembered to raise his guard again and shut her and the world out. She danced light fingertips over his bare back, and he dragged in a tortured breath. She cupped his muscled rear, explored, felt his rising tension. And, in concert, her own.
He sought her mouth hungrily, and she felt him trying to hold on to sanity, but, ruthlessly, she pushed him over the edge. And went with him.
They slept and woke in the absolute darkness of night before dawn, and Luke took his revenge on Charlotte, treating her to a long, slow loving that had her writhing beneath him in a twisting need that was heightened by the path of his mouth on her ear, her neck, her breast. Oh, yes, a Steadman could be depended on to take his revenge quite, quite thoroughly.
Charlotte came awake slowly, curled into Luke’s side. She looked up into his face. He was lying there on his back, his arm protectively around her, his brown eyes wide open, staring into the gray
light:
“You have the loudest birds in the world.”
“I’m sorry.”
He rolled, taking her with him, and he was all smoothmuscled grace, her lover, his skin golden in the early-morning light, his dark, sleek head hers to touch. She felt headywith sweet abandonment, both sated and hungry. When he gazed down at her and threaded a hand through her tangled hair, his languid possessiveness matched her mood completely.
“No, you’re not. You’re the most unrepentant woman I’ve ever seen in my life, as well as seductive, shameless and beautiful—”
Her beauty was the kind a man didn’t forget—the wild blackness of her hair against the white of the pillow, the ivory perfection of her skin, her eyes nearly black with arousal and surrender. He wondered at his insatiable need for her.
He gazed down into that lovely face, knowing he was being selfish, but he was too close to heaven to retreat. Still, he could try to be a gentleman. “Is there something you need to do first?”
She stretched her arms up, and then, as if it were an accident, let them fall on his shoulders. “Not yet.”
He found her with his hand, discovered she was moist and ready for him. He eased his body into hers, felt that instant stab of pleasure that was the delightful prelude. He loved her, and in the loving he discovered yet another facet of the jewel that was Charlotte.
The room glowed in the light of a sun fully risen when Luke woke the second time. He felt Charlotte stirring beside him, warm and sleek and content. He was feeling rather content himself as he leaned forward to brush his mouth against the hollow of her throat. She opened her eyes, looked at him and smiled. He laid back against his pillow, feeling her smile warm him. “And I thought you were a morning grouch.”
“Just shows how wrong you can be.”
Her voice was early-morning husky, infinitely attractive. He felt that need to touch her, to claim her, and leaned over her again, telling himself he’d take just a small taste.
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