by Cait London
Bust. Bosom. Kallista’s pale, soft—Roman swallowed and tried not to look at the shapely shadow painted on the shower curtain.
While Kallista’s unique cinnamony scent curled around him, mixed with that of her soap, Roman considered his need to carry her off and make her his own. A week in bed might ease his physical needs, but he wanted more for Kallista. Women were mystical creatures; he had never tried to see into their intricacies and now he was mired in a bog of feminine sensibility. He studied the rosebud wallpaper she’d selected, the dainty array of feminine brushes and bottles upon the vanity surface. He was a plain man, with little charm to offer. He bent to collect Kallista’s panties and bra and studied the fragile black lace within his hands, scarred and callused by work. He gently placed the lace on the counter, fearing that it would distract him from making peace with Kallista. He trusted her on a level that surprised him; he knew that she wouldn’t do anything to hurt Boone’s memory. She wouldn’t harm Cindi, or the other Innocents.
Roman ran a fingertip across a tiny, delicate fern and it quivered beneath his touch, just like Kallista. Would she walk away when she had learned all she needed?
Would she tear a part of his heart away and throw it into the dust? None of that would change his love for her.
Roman inhaled unsteadily and tensed as the shower water stopped and the soft green curtain was pulled back. After a slight wince, Kallista stepped from the steamy enclosure. She lifted her arms to smooth back her wet hair, and her eyes locked on him. Grabbing a lush jade towel, she pulled it in front of her as her face began to flush.
Roman Blaylock believed in magic at that moment. She looked like a woodland nymph, caught stepping from her flower petal, dew beading, glittering on her skin like diamonds. With a tenderness that far exceeded anything he’d ever felt, ever allowed himself to feel, Roman studied her shy blush, her gleaming shoulders and let his eyes wander appreciatively down to the thighs that had cradled him last night. He wanted to touch her there, feel that silky moist warmth and soothe her. “You’re moving like you hurt. Deep inside. Are you all right?”
“I am. I just found a few new muscles, that’s all. I’m an athletic woman...a power swimmer. I’ll adjust. Now get out of my bathroom.”
“I want this settled,” Roman said quietly and damned himself for wanting her when she was already aching. “Are you going to run away from me every time you get mad?”
“No.” She blew a drop of water from her lip. “I’m going to throw things at you. But don’t worry, Cindi won’t see me destroy you.”
“Last night was...” Roman floundered and smoothed his thumb across the drop of water on her eyebrows. “Special,” he said for lack of words to suit the depth of his emotions.
She shivered, glaring up at him, her fists locked in the jade toweling. “You know, don’t you? You know about—”
“The stepfather who tried to rape you? Yes. Boone told me. He told me that you were afraid of being held too tightly.”
“So you didn’t. You took me so softly I thought I’d dreamed each time. That wasn’t fair, Blaylock.”
He took a matching towel and patted the moisture from her face, her throat and shoulders. “I mean well,” he said simply and tried to avoid looking at the mirror behind her. He could almost feel her back in his hands, the curve of her waist between his hands, those soft hips undulating against him—he shivered and realized that moisture beaded his forehead and upper lip.
“Why are you building that addition?”
“Boone’s things need to remain as they are, for now. I wanted something you could claim for your own, the way women like to do...and I’m not certain if I can keep from carrying you to my bed.” He wanted a new home for Kallista, something untouched by his past life, or by his obligations to Boone. He wanted to be a part of the home, the making of it, helping Kallista make it her home, too. He had visions of that grand old furniture, refinished and gleaming in the firelight, while he held his wife, his love, close and safe against him. But lying next to her a futon would seem like heaven.
“That’s a lot of house for you when I leave.”
“That it will be. But I’ll have you to remember...and last night.” Roman eased her wet hair aside and reached to tie the ends of the ribbon at her nape.
When Kallista placed her hand on his cheek, Roman kissed her palm. “You’re all I want, that I’ll ever want for the rest of my days,” he said simply and drew the towel away from her, easing her into his arms.
“You...I...the way you talk is—”
“Exactly how I feel about you.” He breathed unsteadily, holding her close, her hair fragrant against his lips.
“You were so careful last night,” she whispered against his throat.
“I was. It’s a powerful feeling I have for you, sweetheart. I was afraid I’d hurt you.”
She shivered as his hands caressed her back. “I don’t know what to do. I like Else and your family. It’s wrong to deceive them.”
“They know you make me happy.” Roman brushed her face with his, lightly, so as not to scrape her soft skin with his morning beard. “I haven’t had time to shave.”
“I want the truth from you, Roman Blaylock...when you tell me about Boone and when you hold me in your arms. Promise me that.”
“I do.” Roman stared down at the twin damp spots, left from her breasts, on his shirt and his body jolted into hardness.
She followed his gaze before he could look away, shield the desire within him, and slowly Kallista moved her hand lower, covering him. She’d been timid in their lovemaking and he’d tried to be gentle.
In his lifetime, Roman Blaylock had not been intimately caressed. He jerked, stunned by the fierce need to enter her, lock their bodies together and fly into the heat. “Damn it, Kallie, you can’t just reach out and touch a man.”
“Why not? You touched me.”
Roman ran his shaking hands roughly over his face. At this point, he wasn’t certain of his control with Kallista. When she unzipped his jeans, staring at him, Roman groaned. The sight of his body, heavy with desire, spilling into her inquisitive hands, almost took him over the edge.
“Be careful with me,” he said and then fought the wave of heat rising up his throat. He felt outdated and pure country, or like a lonely old wolf.
She smiled, and the impish curve to her lips delighted him. “Why? Are you delicate?”
“Damned delicate,” he admitted rawly and fought a shudder as the tip of her finger slid across him. “Where you’re concerned.”
The steamy mirror revealed her tapering back, her lush hips and before Roman knew his intent, he’d lifted her, bracing her back against the wall.
“Roman!” Her cry was startled and pleased him even as he entered her. Kallista’s legs held his hips tightly, and she curled her arms around his shoulders and kissed him as if nothing could stop her. He opened her lips with his tongue, his body thrusting heavily into her warmth, and with a muffled shout as his passion poured out of him, Roman realized that Kallista’s pleasured cry had mated with his own.
They stared at each other, breathing hard, hearts racing. “If you put me down, I can’t stand,” Kallista whispered unevenly. “What was that?”
He sounded dazed, “I don’t know.... I should have—I just look at you and I—”
“You are an exciting man, Roman Blaylock. Don’t you dare say you’re sorry.”
He grinned, feeling as if all the years had been lifted away from him. “I’d like to try that silly futon.”
“You wouldn’t fit.”
He lowered her feet to the floor, still wondering how they could come together so fast and hot like a summer lightning storm.
Her eyes were cool, shielded, reminding him of the lush grass in a woodland meadow. “That first time—I closed my eyes after one look at you. Then last night was in the dark, and it wasn’t enough and that terrifies me. But I’m not afraid of you, Roman Blaylock. I can’t make promises to stay. I wasn’t bred to home a
nd hearth and families, like you.”
Roman straightened his clothing, a little embarrassed that he’d been so hungry for her. “Else said I ought to be ashamed of myself for moving too fast with you. She hit me with her wooden spoon this morning—”
Kallista smoothed his hair, and he was encouraged by her soft look. Was it for him? But maybe that was her goodbye look? Her fingers flowed down his hair to his nape, caressing his skin, and Roman resisted the urge to shiver as he said, “She said I’d better marry you, and that I should have asked you about the addition. I’m used to making decisions for myself, and haven’t had time to consider how to make a woman feel good. You have her for a friend when you need—”
He looked down at her soft breasts snuggled close to him and his throat dried. “I don’t think we’d better...”
“You’re frightened of me, aren’t you?”
Frightened? He was terrified. “I’m scared stiff of myself... how I feel about you. Think of what just happened, there against that wall. Kallista, I’m afraid that I... I could hurt you when I’m...making love to you. Inside you is so sweet and close and tight that I—”
“You didn’t hurt me.”
“I could have—I did that first time.” The admission was raw and painful, that in his passion he feared he’d release his terrifying need of her. The knock that had just sounded on the bathroom door startled Roman. “What?”
A cultured Southern male voice asked, “Would a Miss Kallista Bellamy happen to be in there?”
“Channing! It’s you! How wonderful! I’ll be right out,” Kallista called and hurried to replace Roman’s borrowed shirt.
“Not like that you’re not,” Roman said as she wrapped a towel around her hair, turban-style. The delight in her voice nettled him. He studied the damp shirt over her breasts and reached to drape a large dry towel around her shoulders.
She reached to smooth his hair. “I’ve worked for Channing for years, but he’s my friend. Now you just be nice to him.”
When Roman showed his teeth, Kallista pushed a firm finger against his chest. “You...be...nice.”
“I always am, honey,” he stated grimly, already planning to evict the intruder who delighted Kallista.
She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, surprising him. “Not always, and that’s when I like you best. When everything is pouring out of you and you’re not holding anything back. I do like that,” she repeated.
In the living room, Channing Boudreaux the Third’s well-cut hair ran in dark waves to his silk collar, his tan revealing a man who spent time in the sun. Carrying a filled grocery sack, he was dressed in an elegant three-piece suit and wearing a grin as Kallista and Roman entered the living room. “Your shirt is wet, whoever you are,” he drawled in amused Southern tones and placed the sack on a table.
Kallista glanced at the two wet spots on Roman’s shirt and stepped in front of him. Faced with a man from Kallista’s past life, a man she thought of as a friend, Roman placed his hands on her shoulders. For just that heartbeat, she leaned against him, her soft body comforting him. The other man noted the action, eyes narrowing.
“You look...wonderful.” Channing bent to kiss Kallista and Roman tensed. Channing looked up with just enough amusement to cover the dangerous narrowing of his eyes. “Are you going to introduce us, Kallista?”
“We’re getting married next week. I’m Roman Blaylock.” Roman met Channing’s gaze over Kallista’s head, and drew her back to him.
“Two weeks,” Kallista corrected. “If his manners improve.”
“That’s fast. And explains the orchid in your hair. You carry that off quite well, old man. But then Kallista is like that, once she’s made up her mind she wants something. I hate to lose my best resort troubleshooter. She did a wonderful job at Nassau.... Darling, I’ve been worried about you,” Channing said, his cool eyes locked with Roman’s. “You didn’t come home last night and I made myself at home on your futon.”
“‘Futon,’” Roman heard himself mutter and grimaced as Kallista’s elbow jarred his ribs.
“Wonderful! You’re staying here, of course, with me. I’ll make coffee and we can talk. Sorry, not a biscotti around.” Channing’s “darling” was beaming up at the two men, obviously delighted.
Roman wasn’t in the mood for catch-up talk between Kallista and a man who looked as though he matched her. Biscotti weren’t ham and eggs and he was country to Channing’s polished good looks. Together, Kallista and Channing looked as if they suited each other. A lonely chill sank into the heart of Roman Blaylock. “I have work to do. Trying to get ahead of the wedding. I’ll want my bride to myself, you know,” he added pointedly to the man who had slept on Kallista’s futon.
“Nice meeting you, Mr. Blaylock.” Channing’s tone held just enough warning to lift Roman’s hackles.
Kallista crossed her arms and eyed Roman. “I think you could stay, if you wanted. After all, everyone is at your place building that addition, aren’t they?”
“Now, darling, I’m certain Roman has something he needs doing—”
Roman asked the question that had just slammed into him. “Is he staying here? At night?”
Kallista’s expression was cool; her tone was a challenge. “He certainly is. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
“Not a bit,” he lied tightly. He tried the word “darling” on his lips and it wouldn’t fit. Channing had used “darling.” Darling. What kind of a real man would say words like that?
The rumpled futon mocked him.
“Shake hands, sweetheart,” Kallista ordered. One look down at her set face and Roman stretched out his hand. He didn’t find it easy to extend a friendly greeting to a man Kallista adored, who made her voice lilt with delight and made her eyes light—but if she wanted...
Channing lifted his hand to meet Roman’s, amusement in his honey brown eyes. “You’re an unusual choice for Kallista. She’s very...cosmopolitan,” he said quietly, “but I think you’ll do. You look like a man who gives his word as a solemn promise. You’d die for her, wouldn’t you?”
“I would.” Roman caught the slender hand that Kallista had just placed in his and brought it to his mouth. He retrieved his hat and summoned his pride to leave his bride-to-be with a man she adored.
“Adieu, sweet prince—uh!” Channing’s dashing farewell was cut short by Kallista’s sharp elbow.
It was crystal clear to Roman Blaylock as he stalked across the field back to Boone’s house that he’d never before been jealous, and that jealousy wasn’t an emotion he enjoyed. But he hadn’t loved a woman, either, and he could take whatever she gave. him. She’d given him everything in that steamy bathroom, shattering, clenching him, her desire as immediate as his own. He settled into a determined mood—the woman he loved was living with another man... a good-looking, smooth mannered, continental playboy type. In the next two weeks, he didn’t have time to be sweet. He had a house addition to build and he was behind on Boone’s business. He wanted to hold Kallista in his arms, but if he did, he’d want more. He glared at Rio, who was grinning, and because his brother needed a taste of humility, Roman leaped upon him.
A rap from Else’s wooden spoon didn’t feel like a caress and after rolling on the dirt, Roman and Rio began laughing.
“She’ll either show up for the wedding, or she won’t,” Roman said to Else, who knew everything about him.
“She’ll show. You two are a match.”
Roman clung to that small bit of information, until he caught Else alone later. “What do you mean, we’re ‘a match’?”
“I changed your diapers and watched you grow up. Watched you hurt and bleed, and now you’re glowing, Mr. Roman Blaylock. She lights up when she looks at you, and you can take that to the church.”
For the two weeks, Roman grabbed that glimmer of hope with both fists, repeated it to himself as if it were a litany, and ached for Kallista. It was then that he discovered that telephone calls from an intended bride could be torturous...
and erotic.
He’d come for her five times, waiting for her in the night, waiting to carry her to his sleeping bag. Only the soft surprised cry of her delight, her body clenching his, her arms and legs and mouth fusing their passion, kept him sane. Then the dawn would come too soon, and lying in his arms, Kallista would turn to him, already soft and warm and hungry....
Ten
Kallista held tightly to Channing’s arm as they walked slowly down the flower decked aisle to the altar, where Roman waited. As best man, Rio stood next to him; Dan, Logan, James, and Tyrell stood all in a row, equally tall and dark, black hair gleaming in the light from the stained-glass windows.
Panic ran through her in an icy stream; what was this traditional wedding leading up to? She wasn’t used to traditions; content to fly in her own world, free from tethers, she had lived so differently from Roman’s sisters-in-law. There would be expectations of a Blaylock wife—could she meet them?
She touched the cameo at her throat. Other women had worn it, loved it. Blaylock women. Mothers of Blaylock children, the matrons in charge of keeping a family safe and strong. A Blaylock wife. She’d be Roman’s wife. What did “wife” actually mean—in assigned duties...?
At the altar, Roman waited solemnly, the white collar of his shirt a contrast to his deeply tanned skin. With his hair neatly brushed, he looked like someone she didn’t know—couldn’t...couldn’t...
You’ll be fine, Kallie-girl. Big Boone’s voice curled gently around her and she faltered, shaken. I’m right here beside you. But Boone wasn’t here, not to hold her and keep her safe, and she had to run away.
“You’re crushing my best Armani,” Channing whispered.
“What am I doing here?” she whispered, the veil over her face fluttering with her breath. She tried to smile at Cindi, who was hurling flower petals at the Simpson boy, rather than the carpet. This was a church meant for families, for marriages that lasted, and...