She had finally managed to find the warm pullover she’d been seeking when a pair of wet denim legs planted themselves directly before her. Seconds later, Patrick was on his haunches and she raised her eyes.
“You look so damned sexy,” he whispered, making no attempt to hide the reluctance of his admission. It should have been a warning. But it wasn’t. The reminder that their mutual attraction shouldn’t exist did nothing to still the excitement his raking gaze sent through her limbs.
She sat still, afraid to move for fear he’d look away. It was improper. It was unwise. But she wanted him to see her. More, she wanted him to touch her. Her body cried for his touch in a way she had never experienced before.
She was almost relieved when he reached out to stroke her shoulders, then caught her breath when his hands fell to trace the fullness of her breasts, which strained against the constricting fabric, nipples hard and wanting. When his hands moved over her rib cage, she bit her lip in frustration, then held her breath again when he shaped his open palms to the flare of her hips.
Suddenly his touch was withdrawn and he tore at the buttons of his heavy wool shirt. In seconds the shirt was on the ground and his T-shirt over his head and tossed aside. Then he reached for her, bringing her to her knees and flush against him while his hands tugged her shirt up just high enough to allow her breasts to feel his naked warmth.
“Oh, angel,” he moaned in a tormented whisper, moving her ever so slowly against his breadth.
Jordanna thought she’d die at the intimate glory of skin on skin. Her limbs trembled wildly. She might have fallen back to the ground had he not held her so firmly. His thumbs found the undersides of her breasts, tipping them higher against him.
“Say something,” he urged in an agonized tone.
“I can’t. You… take my breath… .”
“Tell me to go away.”
“I can’t.”
“Scream. Cry rape.”
She was breathing in tiny gasps, sliding her hands along the muscled cords of his back in an attempt to know as much of him as possible in the few clandestine moments they had. “You feel… so good.…”
Suddenly their idyll was interrupted by loud laughter from the other side of the shelter. It was followed by a spate of guffaws interspersed with words enough to assure Jordanna and Patrick that they were, as yet, undiscovered.
Patrick flinched, as though something inside him had snapped. Burying his face in her hair, he groaned. “I’m going to touch you again, Jordanna. Not now. But later.” His husky whisper held a shadow of desperation. “I’m going to touch you and kiss you and look at everything I’ve only been able to lie awake at night imagining. And I’m going to make you want me so badly that you’ll never remember there was another man in the world. Then I’m going to make love to you, over and over again, in ways Peter Kirkland never dreamed.”
Against the inflammatory effect of his words, mention of Peter’s name was chilling. Patrick had intended that. She knew he had. And she wasn’t entirely sorry. Something had to bring them to their senses. What were they doing? Here, in a rustic shelter, with nothing to separate them from four other men but a line of wet clothes and darkness – here, in a make-believe world, temporarily isolated from a reality in which neither would want the other – what were they doing?
“Thank you,” she murmured, dismayed and suitably chastised. Belatedly pushing herself from his grasp, she tugged down her shirt and hung her head. Her breasts still throbbed, her body continued to burn where he’d touched her… and where he hadn’t. She took an unsteady breath. “I guess I got carried away.”
“I guess we both did,” Patrick growled, surging to his feet and turning his back on her.
Looking up, she watched the rise of his shoulders, the expansion of his back as he took an extended drag of air. She’d felt his body’s need, the tautness that moments before had spoken of his heightened state. She could imagine his frustration. Lord knew her own was great enough.
Averting her gaze once again, she sought her pullover and slowly drew it on over the thermal jersey. Then, with a diligence born of confusion, she directed her thoughts toward Peter, picturing his arrogant grin, recalling his preening narcissism, his selfish lovemaking. All were things she’d pushed from mind for years, unpleasant things, things she didn’t want to remember. Patrick Clayes made her remember.
Patrick Clayes. He’d been Peter’s longtime rival. He was a man who’d strived for glory as Peter had done. She shouldn’t want him. Shouldn’t want any part of him. But she did.
At the sound of a snap, then a zip, her eyes shot up. Patrick had turned back to her and was in the process of wrenching wet denim from his legs. Though his face was shadowed, she felt his gaze. And she couldn’t look away.
He said nothing, simply freed himself of the heavy jeans, tossed them onto a bunk, then approached his pack wearing only a pair of dark briefs.
He was the image of uncompromising masculinity, every bit as perfect of form as Jordanna had somehow feared he’d be. Swallowing hard, she reached for dry pants of her own and leaned back to slip them on. Though the men continued to talk on the far side of the line, it was heartstoppingly quiet in the small space she and Patrick shared.
“Pat?” she whispered, hearing the rustle of clothing as he dug into his pack.
“What?”
“I… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have let that go on the way it did.”
She waited in a silence broken at last by the rasp of his zipper as he pulled on dry jeans. “I meant what I said,” he announced quietly.
When she looked over at him, he was thrusting his arms into the sleeves of a thermal shirt. The snap of his pants lay open; it was all she could do not to focus there. Mouth dry, she pressed her lips together and tried to think of something sensible to say. Nothing came. For a fleeting instant she wondered where the self-confident, worldly-wise woman she’d thought she was had gone. Then time ran out and Patrick was on his haunches again.
“It’s too late, Jordanna,” he whispered. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His brand was intangible, inevitable. “You should have fought me. But you didn’t. So I know. I know that you want me. And I’ll have you, mark my words. I’ve been a competitor far too long to turn down a challenge. And when it comes to the prospect of besting Peter Kirkland, no challenge could be sweeter.”
Unable to believe the twist of his thoughts, Jordanna was astounded. “I don’t believe you said that,” she breathed, more hurt than anything. “You’d take me… to best Peter?”
His expression unfathomable, Patrick stared at her for a minute, then pushed himself up and stalked away under the clothesline without saying another word.
OF THE CHALLENGES Jordanna had herself faced, none was greater than acting calm and collected through a lively dinner with the guys. Though the trout was delicious, she was able to make no more than a minimal dent in the portion Larry had triumphantly presented her. Rather, she pushed it dutifully around on her plate, hoping none of the men would notice. They did.
“Jordanna’s not eating,” Don observed. “She doesn’t like our trout.”
“Maybe she doesn’t like fish,” John reasoned.
“No,” Bill countered. “She just doesn’t appreciate the effort that went into this particular meal. She should have been out there with us, freezing her butt off at the edge of a godforsaken river.”
“The fish is fine,” she insisted.
“Then why aren’t you eating?” Larry asked.
“I’m not hungry, I guess. You all did do more work than me today. It’s no wonder you’re famished. It really is delicious. Honest. I’ve just had enough.” She avoided Patrick’s gaze for all she was worth.
Bill grinned. “They had a fight. I told you there was something going on behind the clothesline.”
“Bill…” John warned.
But Donald was on the same wavelength as Bill, fascinated by the way Jordanna had involuntarily flinched at Bill’s remark. “R
eally, Jordanna,” he said, lips twitching as he leaned close in a brotherly way, “you’ve got to be careful of guys like Clayes. They’ve got one thing on the mind. Must have something to do with the locker-room mentality.”
They were teasing her, enjoying her discomfort. She shot a glance at Patrick. His smug grin didn’t help. Then again, perhaps it did. “You got it,” she quipped. “Locker-room mentality. As a matter of fact, I’m surprised you fellows aren’t worried yourselves. I hear homosexuality is–”
“Homosexuality?” Patrick yelped.
Larry chuckled. Donald and Bill laughed aloud. Only John looked from Jordanna to Patrick in speculation.
“She got us, didn’t she?” Bill mused, then shook his head and laughed again. “I say it again, Clayes. You can have her. She’s got an answer for everything, hmm?”
“Almost,” Patrick said, his good humor obvious with the gleam in his eye. “Almost.”
Only Jordanna – and Pat – knew she’d lost that round.
Long after the coffeepot had been drained, the men continued to sit around the stove reminiscing about past trips, past adventures. Jordanna sat on her bunk with a book in one hand, a flashlight in the other. She tried to get comfortable, but neither the Ensolite pad nor her sleeping bag seemed to provide much of a cushion against the hard wood. She wondered how she’d ever sleep and wished she hadn’t napped that afternoon. She was wide awake and alert, though she’d read the same page four times without absorbing a word.
It didn’t help that Patrick sat on his bunk not six feet from her, turning page after page of his own book. Nor did it help that each time she dared a glance at him he met her gaze.
There was a purposefulness to him. She felt that quality in the very fiber of her being. And she was all the more confused. When she’d first set eyes on him three days before, she’d instantly associated him with Peter’s world, only to find unexpected differences. Patrick was softer, more sensitive, more generous. She’d thought. Until this afternoon.
Strange, she mused, how his words had stirred her at first. She’d never had a man announce his intentions so bluntly, with that hint of fierceness that made it all the more exciting. Lord knew Peter hadn’t spared the effort, but then Peter had always gotten what he’d wanted when he’d wanted it.
Turning the page, she stared blindly at the printed words. Oh, yes, Patrick’s aggressiveness had excited her… until he’d thrown in that remark about taking sweet revenge on Peter. Something had turned sour in her stomach then. The thought had never occurred to her that Patrick might be using her.…
A tiny moan of dismay slipped from her throat. She shifted restlessly on the bunk. She felt Patrick’s eyes on her and studiously avoided them, feigning intense interest in the book in her lap. When she could take the pretense no longer, she clapped the book shut, snapped her flashlight off, pushed herself from the bunk and wandered to the front of the shelter.
The rain had eased to a drizzle. The air was raw. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she turned back, gave the men a passing glance and returned to her bunk, where she stretched out in her sleeping bag and prayed for the sweet escape of sleep.
It eluded her. An hour passed. The men one by one went to bed. Patrick had long since turned off his flashlight to lie, much as she did, silent in the night.
Another hour passed. The campsite was quiet. The only raindrops to hit the roof now were those dislodged from branches overhead by the breeze.
One of the men began to snore. Jordanna twisted on her bunk, drawing her sleeping bag to her ears in an attempt to drown out the sound. When the tactic failed, she shifted again.
Then there was a hand on her shoulder and an accompanying whisper. “Jordanna?”
She didn’t budge even so much as to free her face from the sleeping bag. “Mmm?”
“The rain’s stopped. Want to go for a walk?”
“No,” was her muffled reply.
“Why not?”
“After what you said before, how can you even ask that?” She gave a harsh laugh. “You’d drag me to the nearest rock and ravish me. And you’d be right. Peter never did that. He wouldn’t dream of taking a week off and going into the woods with me. No press.”
“That’s what I want to talk about.”
She remained silent for a minute. When he didn’t continue, her curiosity bested her. “What?”
“Peter. And you.”
“No.”
Again there was a silence. When Patrick spoke again, his voice held that vulnerability she couldn’t ignore. “We’ve got to, Jordanna. Too much is happening. You need to talk… and I need to hear what you have to say. Come on. We’ll just talk. I promise I won’t lay a finger on you.”
She wanted to say no, then realized how childish it would sound. After all, she couldn’t sleep. Evidently, neither could Patrick. And he was right. She’d come to understand the depth of his feelings because of what he’d told her of his past. Perhaps if she explained about her past, Patrick would understand her better.
Very slowly she lowered the sleeping bag from her face. “Just talk?”
“I promise. Please?”
In the end, she agreed only in part because of the exquisitely gentle nature of his plea. The greater part reflected her own need to share that aspect of her with him. Extricating herself from her cocoon, she reached for her jacket, pulled on her shoes, wool hat and mittens and let Patrick lead the way from the shelter.
The woods were quiet after the storm, its evidence the gleaming of wet branches in the moonlight and the soft squish of the ground underfoot. At a low boulder some distance from the campsite, Patrick spread out his poncho and gestured for her to sit. When she’d done so, he joined her, leaving ample room between them as proof of his promise.
“Tell me about it, Jordanna,” he said then. “About you.”
She shrugged. “Where do I begin?”
“With Peter.”
Nodding, she looked off into the distance. Her mind followed suit. “I was nineteen, just finishing my freshman year in college. I was at a party. He made an appearance with someone else. Naturally, we were all enthralled. He was a national hero, a football star in the big time. I was as curious as the rest. He was a celebrity. And very good-looking.”
“How did the two of you get together?”
She frowned. “I’m not really sure. I mean, I was enamored of him from the start. What he saw in me, I wasn’t so sure. I was a nobody – oh, attractive enough, I guess, but I’d come from nothing and was at college on scholarship simply hoping to get my degree and some kind of a stable job.”
“You wanted a career.”
“What I really wanted was a husband. And kids. But having grown up in a household where both my parents worked out of necessity, I assumed I’d be doing the same. I wanted that kind of security.” She paused for a minute, trying to express herself as honestly as possible. “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I had dreams of marrying a wealthy prince. You know – the Cinderella syndrome.”
“But you didn’t have a stepmother and three ugly stepsisters.”
“No. My mother was – is – lovely. And I was an only child. But young girls have dreams.” She paused. “Anyway, by the time I’d entered college I’d pretty much gotten over them. Then Peter came along.”
“That party.”
“That party. For whatever his reasons, he singled me out. Later he told me that it had been my, uh, my innocence that had appealed to him. I was quieter, more shy than most of the women he’d known.” She hesitated. “I was a challenge, he said.” She emphasized the word, knowing she’d scored a point against Patrick when he winced. “He asked me out. We became an ‘item,’ so to speak.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“Oh, it was mind-boggling, all right. ‘Renowned football hero falls for small-town college girl.’ The understatement. It was more like a sack. I didn’t have a chance. He knew all the right things to do and say. He had me perfectly psyched. It was seducti
on in its most perfect form, and I fell for it hook, line and sinker.”
“But he did love you.”
“Uh-huh.” Her voice softened. “He did. That was the one thing I always knew. That was where my true innocence came into play.”
“What do you mean?”
“Knowing that Peter loved me, knowing that I loved him, I was totally vulnerable. Carrying on a long-distance affair was devastating. When he asked me to marry him, I was thrilled. He wanted me to be his wife, to be with him always. Giving up school seemed like nothing compared with the prospect of being full-time with Peter.” She stopped then, recalling those early days of happiness.
“What happened, Jordanna?”
“Oh, it was wonderful at first. A storybook wedding, complete with a long white train, hundreds of guests, flowers and photographers galore. My parents were proud as punch that their daughter had married a man who could take care of her in the style they’d always dreamed about.”
“And you?”
“I was proud too. I was Mrs. Peter Kirkland. I went everywhere with the man I adored. People recognized me, respected me. It was everything I could have hoped for.”
Patrick read her pause well. “Except…?”
“I was Mrs. Peter Kirkland. That was all.”
“And it wasn’t enough.”
She lowered her head and spoke very softly. “No. It wasn’t. I was bored.”
“With Peter?”
The barest hint of awe in his voice was revealing. With a wave of insight Jordanna realized that though Patrick might have deeply resented Peter for having stolen the limelight time and again, he nonetheless couldn’t deny his admiration for the other man’s achievements. In other circumstances, she sensed, Patrick would have revered Peter as many another had done. It was a clue as to Patrick’s self-image… and the nature of the battle he’d had to fight over the years.
Forever Instinct, The Page 8