by Diana Palmer
"When I marry," he said stiltedly.
"Darcy wants a big church wedding, does she not?" she persisted.
He didn't want to talk about Darcy. He put his paper aside. "I haven't any definite plans," he said firmly.
Enid lifted an eyebrow. "I thought it was all settled. Darcy speaks as if it is. She had some very firm ideas about how she wants my home remodeled," she added without looking at him.
King let out a rough breath. He'd suspected that Darcy had upset his mother. He glanced at Amelia, but her impassive face gave away nothing of her inner feelings. Whatever Darcy had said to her, if anything, it had made no apparent impression. He wondered if anything ever did. She was almost completely without emotion. Until he touched her, he thought arrogantly.
"We can discuss such things later," King murmured. He glared at Amelia, then stood up. "Come for a walk, Amelia. You can do needlepoint anytime. I want to show you something."
She didn't move. After the explosive attraction between them had flared Saturday evening and then again Sunday morning, she had no wish to be alone with him.
"Do go, Amelia," Enid prompted without looking up from her needlepoint. "The exercise will do you good, and the first roses are blooming. I think the darkness heightens their fragrance."
"Very well." She put down her embroidery and went along with King, aware of his tall presence beside her as she'd rarely been aware of anything.
The garden was full of flowers, and two of the rosebushes were in bud. One rose had just bloomed out. It was white and easily seen in the darkness that was lit only by the windows of the house and a crescent moon.
"You have avoided me since Sunday," he said without preamble.
"Mr. Culhane"
He caught her arm, firmly but not hurtfully, and brought her to stand in front of him. His silver eyes searched her face in the dim light. "Say my name."
Her breath was strangling her. His touch unsettled her. "King," she whispered.
"My name, Amelia," he emphasized gruffly. "You know it, don't you?"
She swallowed. It sounded strange in her mouth as she forced it out. "Jeremiah," she said softly, looking up.
Ripples of pleasure made their way through him. He'd never liked his given name until he heard it on Amelia's lips. It sounded different.
"Is Amelia your only name?" he asked curiously.
"Amelia Bernadette," she whispered.
"Amelia Bernadette." He pictured a little girl with blond hair and big brown eyes as he said it, and his thoughts made him restless. He was only thirty. Why should he suddenly think of a family?
"Shouldn't we go back in?" she asked quickly.
"Not until you tell me why I frightened you," he replied quietly.
"You are like my father," she blurted out. "You must have it all your own way, yet you have no respect for any creature that you can grind under your heel."
"Yet you allow your father to make such a creature of you, do you not?" he asked mockingly. "You are the very picture of an obedient child in his presence."
"You do not understand," she said in a haunted tone.
"I know that you dislike your father," he replied. "And while he is overbearing, and not very kind to animals, he is nevertheless your father. You owe him respect. I only object to the way you cower when he speaks to you. Have you no courage? No spark of will?"
"I daresay your Miss Valverde has sufficient for us both," she replied coolly.
He arched an eyebrow and smiled. "Indeed she has. I appreciate spirit in animals and women."
"Why, because it amuses you to break them?"
He was very still. "You think of all men as brutes, is that it?"
"Some men are," she said huskily.
"Some women invite it," he returned.
She tried to pull away from him, but he refused to let go of her shoulders.
"Stand still," he said quietly.
She desisted, fatigued and depressed as she considered that her father would soon return.
"Is there no inclination in you to fight?" he asked. "Suppose I had in mind dragging you into the bushes with lewd intent, Miss Howard?"
"I should scream."
"And if I covered your mouth with mine," he whispered, bending, "and prevented it?"
She felt his breath on her lips. She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. She remembered how he looked just awakened, with his hair rumpled and his shirt open. She remembered the touch of his mouth on her wrist and how it had made her feel. All those thoughts paralyzed her in his grasp. When his hard mouth came closer, all she could do was watch its approach without even the appearance of protest.
His lean hands came up to frame her oval face. They were warm against the faint chill of evening, and just slightly callused. His pale eyes met her dark ones, almost with speculation.
"Your mouth has the shape of a Cupid's bow," he said, his deep voice smooth and low in the silence of night. His thumb moved across it in a teasing, exploring caress. "It trembles when I touch it. Is it fear that you feel with me, I wonder, or something more?"
She grasped at sanity. He was going to marry Darcy. Surely, this was only another taunt, another effort to make her vulnerable and then laugh at her weakness.
Her hands grasped his shirt and pushed, but he was immoveable.
"Shhh," he whispered gently. The hands framing her face became caressing. His eyes fell to her soft mouth, and he began to bend toward her. "In the parlor Saturday night," he said roughly, "and in church Sunday, there were fires burning between us. I want to see how deeply they burn, Amelia. I want to take your mouth under my own and taste you like a ripe apple"
As he spoke, his lips began to fit themselves to hers with what she dimly recognized as expertise. He hesitated when she protested, renewing his efforts very gently when she stopped resisting him. He felt her hands tauten on his shirt and then slowly relax as his lips probed delicately between her own.
"I will not hurt you," he whispered into her mouth.
His hands moved, catching her arms and guiding them gently up, around his neck. They moved again, his lean fingers touching her back, burning through the thin lawn of her dress as they pressed her to him. She could feel the muscles of his broad chest, its warmth and strength as his arms slowly enfolded her.
It was new and frightening to be held so closely and feel so empty, as if life suddenly depended on the mouth slowly invading her own. She felt the hardness of his lips as they began to move insistently, trespassing beyond the tight line to touch the dark inner recess of her mouth.
She stiffened, because this new intimacy was causing sensations that made her knees go weak.
He lifted his dark head and looked at her. He wasn't teasing, or mocking, now. His eyes were half-closed, glittery in the dim light.
"Your mouth has the softness of a flower petal," he whispered. "And you taste of innocence, Amelia. Innocence and virginal terror."
"Please, you must not" she began breathlessly.
"Why?"
"There is there is Miss Valverde," she managed huskily.
"One chaste kiss is hardly a proposal of marriage," he murmured. "And it will be chaste, if that makes you less afraid to submit to me. Come here, Amelia."
He kissed her again, but not insistently or boldly. His mouth was tender, coaxing hers to respond. She tensed, but her lips yielded to the slow stroking of his mouth, and with a jerky sigh, she let him have her mouth without restraint.
The submission, unexpectedly sweet, made him reckless. His hand went behind her head and gently cupped it, pulling her mouth upward, even closer, so that the pressure of his kiss increased and grew demanding, ardent. His arms swallowed her up, but so tenderly for all their strength that she forgot her misgivings. Her hands tangled in the thick hair at his nape, savoring the softness and coolness of it under her fingertips.
She felt his hand at her throat then, sliding hungrily up and down it, and he turned her, so that his ardent mouth forced her head back against his broad shou
lder, imprisoned. The kiss went on and on, and she felt near to fainting when his hard lips finally lifted.
Her eyes opened, misty and startled. She was still clinging to him, her heart beating madly against his chest.
He looked totally impervious to any emotion. A faint smile touched the mouth that had ravished hers.
"Will you fall if I put you from me?" he asked with quiet amusement.
She couldn't answer him. It had been earthshaking. But to him, it appeared, there was no such uniqueness. He wasn't even breathing hard.
After a minute, she pulled against his hands, and he loosened her at once. While she stood dragging in air, he calmly lit a cigar and stood smoking it, his eyes on the distant horizon.
She was a fool. She wondered why she could never see through his tricks. Perhaps this latest lesson would teach her restraint.
With a heavy sigh, she turned and walked back toward the house without another word. But he fell into step beside her, tall and elegant. Cigar smoke drifted down into her nostrils, harsh after the faint and delicate perfume of the rose.
He hadn't spoken, but when she started to go up the steps, his hand came out and prevented the movement.
"Your mouth still holds the evidence of my kisses," he said quietly. "Unless you want my mother to make unwarranted speculations, it might be wise to wait a bit before going inside."
The lazy observation was the last straw in a basket of them. She went up onto the porch and sat down in the porch swing, expecting him to go elsewhere. But he didn't. He eased down beside her and rocked the swing into motion.
Her stiff posture said more than any words could. He slid an arm over the back of the swing and studied her with interest, until her face flamed and her hands clenched in her lap.
"Darcy Valverde enjoys the gifts I buy her and the wealth and position of my name," he said quietly. "But she loathes the touch of my mouth on hers."
She couldn't speak. Her throat felt choked.
"In time," he added coldly, "she will learn to respond to me. Her family is one of the original ones, from the days of the old Spanish land grants. Like my own family, she is born to this country. You will not last the year, Miss Howard. You are too soft, and far too docile, to manage the rigors of this sort of life."
She felt her teeth clench. "Perhaps you are right," she said stiffly.
"There is, after all, more to a relationship between a man and a woman than kisses," he continued, forcing the words out. "Similar backgrounds and common interests are necessary. Darcy can ride like a cowboy and shoot like a Ranger. Despite her sharp tongue, she is accomplished as a hostess."
"She will be exactly what you require in a wife, Mr. Culhane. I knew that."
"I wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss you," he said flatly. "I think you had the same curiosity about me. It was best indulged before there were any formal ties to be broken by such an action. You have a sweet mouth. But it was only curiosity. Nothing more; Not on my part."
"I knew that, as well," she said without looking at him.
He stared at her hard for a moment, trying to read her expression. But it never wavered. She was untouchable on the surface. If he didn't remember so well how her arms had clung, how her mouth had answered his, it might have fooled him. It had been folly to give in to his hunger. Now he was faced with the task of pushing her away and making her aware that he wanted nothing more to do with her.
She was a child in many ways. He should never have touched her. The impulse had been building for days. Weeks. Just as well to have strangled it at birth, but his feverish desire had clamored for expression. It was going to be hard to forget her ardent response. Every time he touched Darcy for the rest of his life, he would mourn the eager submission of Amelia's soft mouth.
"So long as you understand the situation," he said curtly.
She got to her feet. "Indeed I do," she replied brightly. "Good evening, Mr. Culhane."
She didn't look back as she went into the house. In case her mouth was still swollenand it felt soshe called a soft good night to Enid from the doorway and went quickly down the hall to her room. She throbbed from head to toe with frustrated passion and temper, and she knew she would never sleep. But to have to look at King Culhane again tonight would cripple her heart! Why, why, could he not leave her alone?
Quinn helped the Mexican boy into Juarez, to the barrio where he said he wanted to be taken. His people would come for him, he promised. So Quinn left him with two women who apparently knew him and then began the long journey down to Del Rio, from whence the boy had apparently come when he was hurt. As soon as he rode into town, he went along to the commandant's headquarters, where he discussed the bandit Rodriguez.
The Mexican officer was sorry, but they could give him no help in locating the man. It was said that some of Rodriguez's cohorts had been in Del Rio just recently. However, he promised, every effort would be made to cooperate if Quinn cared to stay in Del Rio for a day or so.
Quinn agreed gratefully. That would give him some time to catch his breath and heal his saddle sores, he added, tongue-in-cheek. He left the military commander's office and went to find a telegraph office. He sent word to the Ranger post in El Paso that he was going to conduct a search in Del Rio before returning.
He was tired to death. There was a small cantina where he'd found lodging the last time he was in town. It offered a little something extra: the best girls on the border. It had been a long, dry spell between women, and Quinn needed something soft in his arms for a night. It was an urge he disliked giving rein to, but a man had his needs.
He bought himself a small whiskey and beckoned the wife of the owner to his table, discreetly inquiring if she had a girl for him.
She grinned from ear to ear. Oh, yes, she said with faint malice. She did, indeed have a girl, one who was sure to please the Americano . The girl was very pretty. It would cost him a lot for this one. At least five American dollars.
Quinn was intrigued. He'd never seen a pretty woman in a place like this. She must be Mexican, all the others were, but it would be worth the price if what the woman said was true.
He gave the money to the buxom woman, and she showed him to a small room far down the dirt floor of the hall.
" Allá ," she told him, pointing to the door. " Buenas noches, señor ," she added with a cruel smile.
Quinn frowned. It sounded as if the woman disliked the girl. He began to wonder if something was amiss here.
He opened the door and went inside, closing and locking it behind him. It was a sparse confinement, with only a chair and a bed and a tiny window. The sounds of music from the cantina drifted in the open window along with voices murmuring in Spanish.
Quinn took off his hat and tossed it onto the chair. He ran a hand through his thick blond hair and moved to the side of the bed.
A girl was lying on the serape that covered the rudely made bed. She had long, black hair that laid around her oval face like a fan. Thick black lashes laid on cheeks that were faintly flushed. Her skin was almost translucent, her lips red, a natural red, not colored. She was wearing a peasant blouse that revealed breasts like pert little apples, firm and beautifully shaped. Her waist was small, and her hips gently rounded above long, elegant legs that showed where her colorful skirt had ridden up to her thighs. Her feet were bare. Pretty feet, he thought absently.
He sat down beside her and gently ran his big hand up her waist and over her breasts. They felt as firm as they looked. She was wearing nothing under the thin blouse, and as he touched her, her nipples hardened. He could see them stand erect. She made a sound and moved on the serape, but her face was drawn as if in pain.
"Wake up, pretty girl," he said softly, and shook her gently. "She was right, you know. You are pretty."
She groaned and shifted. A minute later, her long eyelashes lifted to reveal eyes so blue that for a moment the shock of color startled him. He'd never seen a Mexican girl with blue eyes and white skin, and he frowned.
; She stared at him. Her dry, parched lips separated, and she tried to swallow, but her throat was as dry as her mouth.
" Agua ?" she whispered.
He looked around and found nothing to drink. There was only a tin cup on the bedside table. He took out his brandy flask and poured a little into the cup. He took it to her.
She had to have help to sit up. " Mi cabeza me duele ," she moaned.
Her head hurt. She spoke perfect Spanish. Her coloring was odd, but she must be what she seemed.
"Drink that," he told her. "Don't talk."
She took a sip and choked, but then she took another and another. She laid back down, breathing steadily as she looked up at him. " ¿Donde estoy ?"
" Está en una cantina en Del Rio ," he returned.
"¿Por qué?"
He lifted an eyebrow and smiled lazily. How could she not know? He put the cup aside and leaned over her, his big hands framing her face. "Don't you know?" he asked softly.
He bent and laid his mouth over hers. She stiffened and pushed at his chest, but he was hungry, and she obviously belonged here, or what would she be doing in this room?
Her struggles didn't bother him. He'd known prostitutes who felt obligated to put up a fight at first. It never lasted, and they were usually the most ardent ones. He kept on, his experienced mouth slow and sensual on her soft lips, until she relaxed into the covers and submitted.
It was interesting that she stiffened when his hand smoothed over her breasts again. She started to protest, but his mouth opened hers and probed gently inside. Her fingers bit into his hard arms, but she stopped fighting the minute his hand slid under her bodice and over her pretty breast.
"You feel like apples," he whispered into her mouth. "Your breasts are perfect. I want to take them inside my mouth and feel them with my tongue."
She understood English. She must, because the words made her moan.
He untied the string that held the bodice together and slowly pulled it down, baring her to his eyes. He caught his breath audibly at the sight of her white skin. Her nipples were a dark, soft pink, tight and thick against the elegant rise of flesh.