His lips moved slowly, stringing the gentlest of kisses along the line of her mouth until she thought she’d scream in frustration. He was goading her. Or was he giving her time to demur? But she wasn’t the demurring type. She knew what she wanted. It wasn’t the sanest thing, but she did know.
Her lips parted, met seconds later by the fullness of Patrick’s kiss. Like his voice it was rich and velvet smooth, like his skin, warm and alive. He moved his mouth with the same riveting gentleness with which his arms held her, drawing a response from her most feminine depths.
When he suddenly drew back, she was bereft, but only until she caught the smoldering gleam in his eyes. “Jordanna?” he whispered unsteadily.
In answer, she reached up, threaded her fingers through the thickness of his sleep-mussed hair and drew his head down until their lips met once more. This time she found the force she’d expected before, but far from brute, it was electrifyingly wonderful, satisfying the very need she felt. Raising a hand to her throat, he caressed its smooth line as his tongue sampled the more varied textures of her teeth, her gums, her seeking tongue. He was as breathless as she when they separated.
“You’re so soft,” he whispered against her temple as his hand continued to stroke her neck. He slid a finger beneath the crew neck of her thermal shirt and traced a gentle arc along her collarbone. “How come you’re so soft?”
“My cream,” she said unsteadily, her sole concentration on that finger that seemed, with each slow sweep, to inch lower. Her breasts were taut, up-thrust, aching to be held.
“Your cream?” He looked down at her.
She swallowed hard under his lambent gaze. “Moisturizer. I’m an addict.”
His hand came to a rest over the hollow of her throat. “For business?”
“For me. I like taking care of myself.”
He dropped his hand, but left his arm around her back. “Is that a hint?”
“I hadn’t meant it to be,” she said, sobering now that the lure of his touch seemed a dream, “but I suppose it’s true.”
“You’re independent.”
“Yes.”
“No leaning on a man?”
“Not anymore.” Left unspoken was direct comment on her marriage. Patrick seemed willing to let the matter ride.
“Surely you’ve been involved with men since Peter.”
“Why surely?”
He studied her for several moments. Then he let out a sigh of resignation and, as if he’d forgotten her question, spoke on a different tack. “You’re a beautiful woman, Jordanna. I always envied Peter. You made him look good.”
She sat up slowly. “Funny, I thought it was the other way around.”
“No way. He may have had the trophies, but you had the class. Your business is proof of that.”
“You know about my work?”
He donned an endearingly sheepish expression. “Only what I overheard the guys saying tonight.”
She scrunched up her face. “You mean that while I slept they were talking about me?”
The gentle finger he placed on her lips quieted her more so even than his soft, “Shh. They needed to let off steam. A couple of them are still pretty miffed that you insisted on coming along.”
“Tough,” she spat, but in a whisper. “They’re a bunch of–”
“Uh-uh. Be generous. They feel awkward. That’s all.”
“Do you?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know you at all.”
“Are you sorry… that happened?”
She knew he was referring to their kiss, and could be nothing but truthful. It was her way. “No,” she answered softly. “I’m not sorry. Are you?”
“No.” He paused. “I wish like hell you weren’t Peter’s girl.…”
“I’m not! Why do you keep bringing Peter into this?”
“Because he’s there, damn it!” Patrick growled, surging to his feet.
“Weren’t you the one who said Lance didn’t exist anymore? Weren’t you the one who said there were no memories to fight?”
“Then it looks like I was wrong,” Patrick muttered, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “I lived in Peter Kirkland’s shadow for years and I’ll be damned if I’ll take his castoffs.” Turning on his heel, he stormed off, not toward the shelter but into the woods.
Mouth agape, Jordanna stared at his vanishing form. Only when night had swallowed him completely did she clamp her mouth shut. Her trembling limbs spoke of her fury, her wide eyes broadcast hurt. Oh, she was no novice to cutting statements, but coming from this man and on the tail of his spectacular kiss… it stung.
The worst was that he was gone, and there was absolutely nothing she could do by way of reply. She felt frustrated, impotent. She’d been wronged and was helpless to correct the situation.
As the quiet minutes passed, she cooled down, but the hurt lingered long after she’d returned to the shelter. When she finally fell asleep it was nearly dawn. Patrick had not returned.
“JORDANNA?”
A gentle hand shook her shoulder, then tentatively rubbed her back.
“Wake up, Jordanna.”
She heard his voice from far away and pulled the sleeping bag more tightly over her head. It was too early, pitch-black, and she was tired, so tired.
“Come on, Jordanna. Everyone else is eating breakfast.”
She slitted open an eye and searched the darkness, saw nothing, attributed the voice to a dream. Then she realized where she was. And remembered what had happened. On pure reflex, she recoiled from the hand on her shoulder and sat up, slowly lowering the sleeping bag to her shoulders.
To her chagrin, the sun was shining, which was unfair when she felt tired, disgruntled and stiff. Sure enough, the men were grouped around the small camp stove. She squinted at them, hoping Patrick would simply evaporate. When he remained squatting by her side, she turned to glare at him.
“You can leave now,” she said coolly, clutching the sleeping bag to her breasts. “I’m awake.” Twisting away, she dug a hairbrush from her pack.
“Jordanna?”
Her hand hovered, fingers gripping the brush handle.
“Look at me, Jordanna.”
Very slowly she turned her head, her face a mask of tension.
“I’m sorry for what I said last night. It was wrong of me.”
“You meant it. Why apologize?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you were one of Peter’s castoffs.”
“Then why did you say it?”
Looking down, he snapped a dried twig between the fingers of one hand. “I was feeling threatened. I lashed out. It was juvenile.” He sought her gaze again. “And cruel.”
“You’re right. It was both of those things, plus another – it was wrong.” Eyes flashing, she stared him down. “I was the one who divorced Peter, not the other way around. I was the one who was fed up, who wanted out, who wanted something more than he had to offer. I cast Peter off, if you want to know the truth.” She grew more skeptical. “And whatever would you have to feel threatened about?”
His eyes were a deep, deep brown that invited drowning. “You. The pleasure I felt when I kissed you.”
Fighting his appeal, Jordanna looked away and briskly worked the brush through her hair. “It was just a kiss. Nothing threatening about it.”
Strong fingers seized her chin and turned her face his way. “It was a super kiss. Don’t tell me you didn’t think so.”
She felt positively belligerent. “Of course it was a super kiss. You’re a pro, Lance. But it was only a kiss. Nothing to be threatened by.” She was goading him without remorse. “Now, will you please let go of me?”
Patrick’s features darkened. Very slowly he dropped his hand. “I hurt you, Jordanna, and I’m very sorry for that. If lashing back at me makes you feel better, go ahead.” He sighed on a note of what Jordanna almost thought to be defeat. “You can use the stream to wash up and change. I’ll keep the
guys here for a while so you can have some privacy.” Pushing himself to his feet, he turned and headed toward the others.
Determined to let him go his way, Jordanna busied herself with digging everything she’d need from her pack. Under cover of her sleeping bag, she tugged on yesterday’s running suit, then, as Patrick had suggested, headed for the stream to clean up and put on the fresh things she carried.
The air was cold, the stream a challenge. Holding her breath, then expelling it in involuntary little cries, she threw handful after handful of water on her face. The diversion was welcome. By the time she’d dried and moisturized her skin, sponged off her body and gotten dressed again, she was tingling all over. And confused.
She ate breakfast quickly, packed up her things and set out with the others, all the while wondering why she wasn’t furious with Patrick. She should be, she told herself. But she wasn’t. Hurt as she’d been by the insult he’d hurled in the dark of the woods last night, she did believe that he was sorry. His apology had been forthright, his manner sincere. And he was obviously as bothered by the past as she was. Knowing well the arrogance of Peter Kirkland, she could begin to understand the bitter pill Patrick had had to swallow for years. She could begin to understand – and forgive – and that confused her all the more.
As though made to order, the day’s route was demanding in terms both of strength and concentration. Once the group was twenty minutes into the hike, Jordanna’s legs weren’t the only ones to protest.
“Whew,” John breathed, calling to Patrick from the end of the line. “Is it uphill all the way?”
Patrick looked back with a knowing smirk. “For a while. Problems?”
“Nope! Nope!”
“Why’re you huffing and puffing like an old man?” Donald teased, directing his words to John, though catching Jordanna’s eve and winking at her in a show of friendliness that surprised her. “We’re all doin’ fine.”
“Speak for yourself, Don,” Larry groaned, collapsing onto a rock and tugging at his boot. “I think yesterday’s blister just woke up.”
Patiently Patrick helped him put moleskin on the offended spot. “We’ll take it slow,” he avowed as they started off again. “But you’ll earn your stripes today.”
Jordanna was grateful. Unsure as to how to act with Patrick, she welcomed the hard work he drew from them all. As the morning progressed, they followed the Black Angel Trail to Rim Junction, where five different trails met in an intersection as confusing as any Jordanna had ever seen. There were no street signs, no service stations or churches or McDonalds to distinguish one trail from the next.
But Patrick knew. At his direction they headed south onto the Basin Rim Trail. It was this trail that took them through stands of spruce and across ledges to the foot of Mount Meader.
“Doesn’t look so tough,” Bill observed, eyeing the wooded crest when they were still a distance away.
“Gettin’ bigger,” Donald commented sometime later.
“Man, this looks rugged,” was John’s accurate summation when they began the ascent.
It was rugged. Many of the rocky inclines called for teamwork in the scaling; packs were passed from hand to hand, freeing bodies to concentrate on handholds and steady footing. To Jordanna’s relief, Patrick kept his distance, seeming determined to let her hack it on her own. And she did. Ignoring muscles that clamored for a rest, she kept pace with the men through the steep climb. By the time they stopped for lunch on the scenic lookout ledges near the summit, though, she was grateful to crumple on a rock and lie back against her pack.
She wasn’t the only one. Four men collapsed on the ledges nearby. Only Patrick had the strength to move around from pack to pack, gathering and distributing Slim Jims, Triscuits and nuts.
“Is this exhilaration?” Larry asked, doubt written all over his pale face.
“Sure,” Bill said, reaching for the plastic container of peanut butter Patrick offered. “You’re just out of shape. I told you to build yourself up before you came.”
“I did. I did.”
“How many knee bends?” Donald asked, squirting a blob of jelly from a plastic tube.
“Enough,” Larry mumbled.
As always, Jordanna was slightly apart from the others. Patrick sank to the ground by her side. “You’re doin’ fine,” he observed casually.
“It’s fun,” she replied cautiously.
“Not mad at me anymore?”
She thought for a minute. “I think I walked it off.”
“That’s good.”
Unwrapping a Slim Jim, she bit off a piece. “I like the exertion.”
“Not tired?”
“I didn’t say that.” After listening to the men’s talk with half an ear, she spoke again. It was time she explained herself. “Backpacking is an adventure I’ve never had the opportunity to take part in before. When Craig called, the time seemed right. Things were only mildly chaotic at the office for a change. I needed a vacation. Winter will set in before long, and I’ll be stuck inside.”
“You don’t ski?”
“No. Do you?”
His lips twitched. “I tried. I wasn’t too good at it.”
“A professional athlete? I can’t believe that.”
His eyes went cold for an instant. “I was a professional athlete. Past tense. And being good at one sport doesn’t imply skill at all others.”
“I didn’t mean that,” she said softly, then corrected herself. “Well, maybe I did. You were super-coordinated on the field. You’re a pro here in the hills. I guess I assumed… well, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were sensitive.”
He popped a cashew into his mouth. “I’m tired. That’s all. It was bad enough in my playing days having to constantly compete with… the other talent on the field. Now people expect me to compete with the man I was then.” He raised his eyes to hers. No longer cold, they were nonetheless earnest. “I can’t. I don’t want to.” As though unconsciously punctuating his words, he flexed his shoulder, rubbed it, then dropped another nut into his mouth.
“Does it hurt?”
“Not competing?”
“I was thinking of your shoulder, but I guess the question could apply to that too.”
“Both. On occasion.”
“Does your pack bother it? Your shoulder, that is.”
He crinkled his nose, looking almost boyish. “Nah. Well, maybe once in a while. It’s okay.”
Again they sat in silence, taking their turns with the peanut butter and jelly, then the Tang. Jordanna found herself thinking of what he’d said and feeling touched by what appeared to be nicks in his armor. Peter had had no nicks. He’d been perfect. Bright and shining. Invincible. And, as time had passed, totally obnoxious.
“What do you do?” she asked, searching for fodder to further delineate Patrick from his archrival. When he looked up questioningly, she gestured broadly. “Job-type thing.”
He hesitated for a minute. “What do you think I do?”
The sudden twinkle in his eye evoked even greater indulgence on her part. “Oh, no. You’re not getting me into trouble with that one.”
“Come on,” he coaxed, seeming fully at ease. “If you were to imagine what a football-playing has-been would do, what would it be?”
Ironic she mused, how he could still feel such bitterness toward Peter, yet toward his career’s demise, none at all. It gave her courage. “When I first saw you yesterday, I wondered if you were either coaching or broadcasting. But you’re so determined that the days of the Lance are over that I’d have to rule those out. Which also rules out the probability of living off endorsements.” As Peter did, she was going to say, but prudently caught herself. Her eyes narrowed on Patrick in speculation. “You could be selling cars or clothes or real estate.” She arched a brow. “Some former greats own restaurant chains.” Her gaze fell to the remains of the Slim Jim in her hand, then skipped to the Triscuit Patrick was about to dunk in the peanut-butter tub. Gourmet fare? “Forget that. No restau
rants.”
He chuckled. “No restaurants. Try again.”
“You’re very good with people,” she reflected as her gaze encompassed the men nearby. “Management? Personnel? Wait. I’ll bet you’re a psychology professor.”
“You were closer before,” he said softly. “I’m in business.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “Venture capitalism.”
“Oh.”
He laughed aloud at her comical change of expression. “What’s wrong with being a venture capitalist?”
She scowled. “Nothing. I suppose.”
“Come on. Out with it.”
She took a breath. “I went to a bunch of investors when I was first setting up the business. They turned me down cold.”
“Maybe they didn’t think you could make it.”
“Obviously.” She gave a sly smile. “They must be choking on their Scotch now.”
“We don’t all drink Scotch.…”
“True,” she admitted, realizing she probably sounded as bigoted as those she accused. Relenting, she shrugged. “You must do some good.”
“I think so. In the six years my group’s been at it, we’ve set up several dozen new businesses and put any number of others back on their feet from states of near bankruptcy.”
“Have any of those businesses been women-run?” she asked skeptically.
“Several.” His eyes held meaning. “We don’t discriminate. If a woman’s got it all together, we’ll take her on.”
“Your investors agree?”
“They trust us.”
“I see.”
“Come to think of it, we’ve never gone wrong with a woman. Those few disasters we’ve had have been male-run all the way.”
“Perhaps there’s a double standard at play,” Jordanna mused, unable to help herself. “Women have to work twice as hard. They have to be twice as good. Isn’t it possible that to be accepted by your group she’s got to be far superior to everyone else out there?”
Forever Instinct, The Page 4