by Cindy Nord
Why in God’s name have you been covering up such amazing splendor beneath bravado and faded denims?
Sweat gathered on his brow. If she had indeed poisoned his tea, at this precise moment he could think of no sweeter death. Jackson crossed his arms over his chest, reining in his damned libido.
Shit, even his palms were sweating.
Do I still even own a voice?
He cleared his throat, offered her a slow nod and then finally managed to say, “Good evening, Callie.”
“Good evening, Jackson.” She retrieved a teacup and saucer from Pamela, then bent so low before him her breasts nearly spilled from the lace-edged bodice.
He centered his gaze upon them and prayed they would.
“Would you care for tea?” she asked.
Tea?
His nerve-endings frayed. Good God. All he wanted to do was bury his face against her breasts and stay there for the remainder of his days. Somehow, he managed to drag his gaze back to hers. Blazing bright eyes burned him to the core.
Her lips lifted into an ever-so-soft smile.
“I don’t drink tea,” he said. The calmness in his voice belied his internal chaos as the ungodly pressure inside his groin built into a pikestaff, begging him to drink any damn thing this goddess offered.
Her mouth tipped downward into a kittenish pout. “But I made mine sweet and delectable—just for you. How disappointing you won’t even sample what I offer.”
A fresh wave of heat rolled through him. “Frankly, I’m surprised you’d even offer at all.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She straightened and slid his cup onto the piano, then seated herself opposite him. Her gaze remained locked upon his as Pamela handed her another full teacup.
Stifling the urge to drag her from the chair and up against him, Jackson uncrossed his arms and swept a hand in a long wave in front of her. “I mean this. I’m somewhat puzzled you’d find interest in all this.”
“Well now you know another secret of mine.” Her cup rose and the coral-tinted bud of her mouth drew his gaze. Flawlessly, she elevated her pinkie and sipped.
Arousal flared within Jackson’s depths. For a moment, he was swept back to parties at his family’s manor where a gaggle of debutantes waited at his beck and call. None of them had managed to capture his interest. Not one. Tonight, however, the roles were reversed. He was the one now craving the angel that sat across from him in Miss Talmadge’s parlor.
The scent of cinnamon swirled around him and he inhaled, refocusing on her statement. A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No, now I know four secrets.”
“Four?” A perfectly sculpted brow arched and her laugh twisted Jackson’s quixotic emotions into a knot. The pressure inside his pants grew. He envisioned her naked beneath him, her long, coltish legs wrapped tight in a lover’s squeeze around his waist. A sliver of sweat slid down his neck.
God help me, I want her.
He shot a glance to the cup and saucer on the piano. “You make and serve tea. That’s one.” His hand slid along the Steinway, thankful for the coolness beneath his fingers. “Two…you play this instrument with remarkable skill.” He motioned toward her green damask evening gown. “Three. You do know how to wear a dress.” He then rested his elbows on the arms of the chair, and steepled his fingers in an outward show of control. Inside, however, his blood still churned. “And four…” Jackson paused to slide his gaze in a deliberate, self-indulgent sweep over the curve of her breasts before reconnecting with her now-widened eyes. “You’re an incredibly beautiful woman.”
“But, Major Neale,” Pamela interjected, draping a snow-colored napkin across her lap. “Beautiful women hold many secrets.”
“Now that’s the damned truth,” Gus declared, rattling his cup in the saucer. He caught the curse word a bit too late and cast a sheepish glance in Miss Talmadge’s direction. “Again, ma’am, pardon my language.”
Pamela nodded.
Callie should have felt embarrassed by the carnal sweep of Jackson’s eyes. Fury should be roiling through her veins right now at his blatant and vulgar appraisal of her…womanly blessings. Instead, however, excitement pulsed through her—a living, breathing animal, vital and raw. Consuming her.
She stared at him. My God, his face is…flushing! Her brain grew dizzy. Heat scaled her cheeks in an instant response. The corset’s metal stays dug into her ribs as she pulled in each ragged breath. Her nerves unraveled in agonizingly slow degrees beneath the smoldering heat that radiated back at her from his eyes.
Restless fingers threaded and rethreaded the handle of her teacup, a useless attempt to stop her hand from shaking. How in the world could she steer the conversation toward today’s race?
Redirecting hadn’t been part of her lessons.
“I raise my cup and salute the winner,” Dillon said. The scout’s words broke the mesmerizing hold Jackson had over her and drew Callie’s immediate and thankful gaze. “Here’s to an exciting race, Miss Cutteridge, even though I missed the entire thing.”
“Th-Thank you, Mr. Reed,” she sputtered, corralling her wild emotions. All right, here’s the opening I need. Now focus! “I-I had no idea I would win. Especially since Salvaje was clearly in the lead.”
Her gaze drifted back to Jackson’s, but he said nothing. He simply continued to stare at her with those disarmingly dark eyes. The silent message of desire Callie saw wreaked havoc with her emotions, and she ached to curb the calamity he incited inside her. The entire purpose of tonight’s escapade was shredding into comical little pieces beneath this man’s unnerving control over her.
“Yep,” Gus said. “We couldn’t have asked for a finer finish.”
Conversation rolled on around her between Gus and Dillon and Pamela, while Callie sipped her tea and fragmented further beneath the fire flash of her partner’s stare. The warmth in the room enveloped her. Her head felt heavy. His gaze swept her body. Perspiration heated her face.
No, no…don’t think about his kiss!
Callie swallowed and dropped her gaze to his mouth. Twice she’d been assaulted by those lips.
And both times they carved a hole in my heart.
Inconceivable craving for Jackson oozed through her veins. She tightened…everywhere, the passion coursed stronger and stronger. The image of him working Salvaje in the corral that long-ago afternoon, his chaps hugging his body like a second skin, everything flashed into recall. Her hand rose to her lips in a maddening need to stop their tremble.
She forgot about the cup balanced on her lap.
Forgot, too, the spoon resting in its oh-so-proper place. She bumped the utensil and sent honey-laced Darjeeling over the side of the china. As if in slow motion, the liquid slipped past the saucer’s gold-rimmed edge and puddled upon her lap. In less than a heartbeat, the scalding liquid penetrated the fashionable trappings to reach her skin.
Callie bolted upright with an explosive rustle of green silk. The rose-patterned teacup and saucer propelled skyward in a somersaulting display.
“Sonofabitch,” she shrieked, smacking at the blistering spot.
A heartbeat later, the dishes struck her dress, whooshing downward. With a juggler’s attempt, she splayed her hands wide, trying to catch each piece.
She failed. Disastrously. Delicate china crashed onto the weathered floorboards. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at the tiny porcelain icebergs amidst an amber sea. Adding insult to her insufferable misery, her demi-spoon clattered into the center.
The longcase clock in the hallway chimed the hour, underscoring her torment. Heat razed her cheeks.
Callie widened her eyes. She jerked her head upward, locking her gaze to Jackson’s.
Her breath caught in her chest with an agonizing squeeze.
He didn’t speak.
Nor did he bend forward to help.
In fact, he hadn�
�t even unsteepled his fingers. His gaze bored into hers. Amid his cool expression, his eyes exuded an intensity that unnerved her.
And then…his lips lifted on a smidgen of a smile.
Tears burned at the backs of her eyes, yet she refused to allow a single mortifying drop to fall in front of this man. Her jaw clenched even as her legs trembled. The earlier fabricated image of him stroking her limb while she bathed reappeared in her mind.
Every muscle tightened. On a gravelly rush, Callie released her trapped breath and hiked the heavy skirt to her knees. She didn’t give a damn if God or His entire Heavenly Host saw her under drawers. She only knew she must put distance between herself and this insufferable man.
She hurtled over the mess, then headed straight across the room. Each footfall swayed her hoops with such force that had she been a bell she would’ve fractured wider than Old Liberty. With a final, humiliating smack of crinoline against the doorframe, she swept from the parlor.
A quiet discomfort settled over the room.
Jackson eased out his breath in a slow push of air, then folded his fingers into tightened fists. Callie’s unexpected sensuality had ripped a hole in him, shredding layer upon layer of his self-control. He smothered the truth beneath a rush of anger.
You’re not some damn schoolboy.
But he felt like one…and it had been an eternity since he’d grappled with such feelings. Disbelief rolled in undulating waves through him as each heartbeat rammed home the gritty truth that he actually wanted this woman.
“Oh dear,” Pamela whispered.
Dillon dropped to a knee beside the glistening mess. “I’ll get this cleaned up.”
Gus slipped from his chair to join him. “Here, son, let me help.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Pamela said, laying aside her cup and napkin. “I—I’ll just go see if she’s all right.”
“Sit down.” Jackson’s voice emanated with such force the woman stopped in mid-rise. “I’ll go.”
With eyes as wide as saucers, she nodded, then sank to the sofa. “I—I’m sure she’s in my room…down the hallway on the left.”
“I’ll find her.” Jackson turned and headed for the parlor door.
Chapter Twenty
The bedroom door opened with a creak, yet Callie remained slumped in the chair, staring through the window into the pinpricks of light across the camp.
“I told you it would never work,” she whispered, her voice cracking. A soft thump closed out the faraway sound of dishes clanking in the parlor. “I—I’m so sorry, Pamela. There’s just no way to make a lady out of me.”
Jackson’s deep voice rolled across the room to splinter her melancholy. “And why, exactly, is that important?”
She sucked in a breath and bolted to her feet, swiveling to face him. “Wh-What the hell are you doing in here?”
He crossed the rug, decisive footsteps muffled by the thick, woolen weave beneath his boots. Scrambling to tamp down a rush of panic, Callie angled the chair between them.
He came to a stop on the other side, his legs bumping against the tufted brocade seat. “I’ve come to collect some answers.”
He pushed the tension through the air ahead of him and it smacked into Callie. She flicked her gaze down his imposing form. “Why don’t you just mind your own damn business and get out of here.”
His lips lifted into a smirk. “You are my business, remember? So start telling me why you’re doing all this.”
Her muscles went rigid. Here was her chance to ask him why he’d thrown the race. But somehow the reason didn’t matter anymore. Instead, Callie squared her shoulders and snapped, “Doing what?”
“This fancy bullshit.” Leaning forward across the seat, Jackson folded his fingers over the wooden top. With a hard shove, he thrust aside the chair and stepped closer. When the rush of his warm breath met her face, tingles registered.
She swallowed, then speared him with a piercing look. “Well—why not? You’ve been harping at me to wear a damn dress ever since you got here.” Her chin rose. “Now I have, so you can shut the hell up about it.”
Their gazes locked, and an agonizing second later a scowl thinned his lips. “I thought you had more gumption than to kowtow to someone else’s expectations.”
“By someone else’s, you mean yours.” Anger pulsed through her, accompanied by an unnerving excitement, something she dared not revisit.
“Yes,” he said. A shadow darkened his eyes. “Mine.”
“You said we were supposed to get along.”
“But we aren’t getting along.” An odd sharpness gleamed in his gaze. “Instead, you’re changing.”
“I am not changing. I’m…expanding my perspective.”
“Perspective, my ass.” Jackson inched closer. She refused to back down. Cool stucco met her back and chilled her as his hands propped against the wall on both sides of her body, corralling her inside his arms. A tight laugh fell from his lips. “You’ve no idea the power you hold, do you?” His dark lashes swept downward, his gaze spilling over her breasts before reconnecting with hers. “This isn’t the tough-as-grit girl I’ve come to know…and respect.”
Another rush of heat spread through Callie, and her heart missed a beat. Surely to God she wasn’t falling for this bigger-than-life beast. Was she?
“Y-You don’t know me at all,” she stammered, angry at him for flinging the stupid dress-up exhibition in her face, angrier at herself for the catch in her voice.
“I know you enough to know you don’t know what the hell you’re doing tonight.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She was cold to the bone, yet she burned to the core. The raw reflection she’d seen in his eyes in the parlor returned. Her heartbeat, rapid and high in her throat, nearly strangled her.
“Let’s see…what did you say? Ah yes…you made this sweet and delectable, just for me. Then you were disappointed I wouldn’t sample what you offered.” He loomed nearer. “Never utter something suggestive if you’re not prepared to follow through with it.”
The low-burning lamp across the room spilled shadows across his face and the strong line of his jaw tensed. She bit her lower lip to stop its tremble and prayed he would just go away. But the glint flickered behind his eyes and brought an unexplained burst of anxiety inside her to the surface. Callie surged right in a rustle of silk, but his arm lowered, blocking her exit.
She pitched left.
Again, he blocked her way.
Her hands rose and pushed against his chest. How could she have forgotten she could sooner move a tree?
The room closed in on her as her fingers curled into soft, faded cambric. In rapid-fire puffs, her breathing rushed in and out. She stared at the hard planes and angles of his face.
His eyes were mysterious pools.
Something pulsed, then leapt to life inside…sweeping downward. The frantic madness that had careened through Callie in the parlor seized her once more. She tugged on his shirt, ripping a seam at his shoulder. She knew she should scream…she needed to scream.
But, she couldn’t scream.
His hand rose between them. The pads of two fingers caressed the curve of her cheek. Each stroke summoned rippling waves from deep inside her as if a stone had been tossed into the murkiness of her empty life. Jackson opened his palm, then sank his hand into the hair at the nape of her neck.
Pins scattered…along with her futile resistance.
Her elegant chignon uncoiled.
Tresses tumbled down.
When he wrapped his hand in her curls and gently pulled, Callie gasped. He brought her face upward. Her gaze tumbled into his. She was hopelessly lost in the hunger that radiated from their smoldering depths.
Jackson leaned closer and the faint trace of whiskey enveloped her. In a breathless tone, he rasped, “What you search for has nothing to do with dres
sing up or tea parties and everything to do with finding your way back to this—” With all the force of a life-altering storm, his mouth came down upon hers. Before she could protest, he pulled her up against him in a breath-stealing embrace.
The burn of his kiss robbed her of all logic.
Yearning flared inside her, unbelievable and exhilarating. Her mind reeled. She knew only one blinding need—how best to answer his questing lips.
With a will of their own, her hands coursed up his chest, then over his shoulders in a desperate dash. His mouth shifted across hers—demanding and nipping and wild. Hers answered with equal fervor, softening, then parting for more.
A rap on the bedroom door resonated somewhere in the recesses of her mind. A moment after that Jackson released her and Callie stumbled back against the wall.
Another knock and he spun to face the door.
Pamela swept into the room. “Is everything all right in here?” the coquette asked, her gaze skimming from Jackson to settle upon her. Callie swept back curls tumbling across bare shoulders. Instant awareness widened the eyes of her mentor. “Oh my, I’m…so sorry to have intruded.”
Gus cleared his throat as he stepped from behind the woman. “My Dejarlin’s gettin’ cold, suga’dumplin’,” he mumbled around the cigar clinched between his teeth. His gaze traced Callie from head to toe, and savvy old eyes brightened with understanding. From behind the old wrangler, Dillon’s tall form darkened the doorway. “I’m still mighty thirsty, ma’am,” the young scout said. “How ’bout you come back out to the parlor and pour me some more of that tea.”
Mortification blistered Callie’s cheeks. Her gaze lanced back to Jackson and she saw a flicker of understanding in the dark depths of his eyes. He stepped in front of her as if to shield her from the others, but Gus just laughed.
“Too late to hide things now, son.” A wide smile flooded his face.
Humor replaced the concern in Jackson’s eyes and he stepped sideways. “You’re too damn nosey for your own good, Gus.”