by Jule McBride
“You had a fight,” Luke concluded. And her wedding was only days away.
She nodded. “Maybe it’s a good sign that I’m not worried. If something bad happened, I think I’d get a gut feeling.”
“I think that’s shaky logic.”
She shot him a sudden, irresistible smile that remolded her classic features into something more impish. “I thought cops relied on hunches.”
“Old wives’ tale.”
But Luke did have a hunch. He and Claire would be explosive in bed. Pure dynamite. Together they’d blow off the roof. His gaze lifted to the master bedroom, then he glanced around. The house suited her, with lots of windows and plenty of room to move. Suddenly, his eyes narrowed. Ever since he’d ridden in through the arched front gates, the Lazy Four had seemed strangely familiar. Now Luke thought he knew why. He whistled softly. “This is the house you designed, Claire.”
Seemingly giving up on fixing drinks, Claire stood, stretching her lithe body in a way that made Luke far too aware of her. Just watching her aroused him, he admitted, fighting the telltale tightening of his body. Her eyes lovingly trailed over the unfinished house. “I didn’t know if you’d notice. Told you I’d have this place someday.”
Everything inside Luke suddenly ached, and he wished he’d never come here. “Yeah, you said you would.” But when she’d said it, Luke had been dreaming of building it for her. Years ago, when they’d met at the feed store, he’d watched her use up whole sketchbooks, drawing plans for this house. He couldn’t believe he’d only now recognized it.
She was smiling at him. “Things always turn out differently from how you imagine them,” she said. “You helped, you know.”
“Not really.” But during those long, hot summer afternoons in town, while she waited for Ely to finish his business, Luke had pored over the sketches, offering suggestions. “You added a deck,” he said. “More windows. But it’s still your dream place.”
“It will be, if it’s ever finished.” She shrugged. “Clive wanted something bigger, more like the main house.”
Luke shook his head. “A colonial?”
She nodded. “All white. I didn’t like the idea.”
It wouldn’t be to Luke’s taste, either. Forcing himself to push away images of her and Clive together, Luke said, “I guess you used your feminine wiles on Clive, so he’d build the place.”
Claire’s laughter brought a mischievous sparkle to her eyes; she looked positively delighted. “How’d you guess?”
Luke shrugged. “You’ve got a way with men, Claire.”
She tilted her head, eyeing him. “You really think so?”
He met her gaze. “You’re forcing me to repeat it?”
“Not forcing.” When her voice softened, he was sure she was thinking of that day in the woods when they’d come so close to making love, and he felt heat running through his bloodstream. “I don’t think I could force you to do anything, Luke,” she continued, another sudden smile tugging at her lips. “But I guess I’m daring you.”
“Dares are another matter,” he assured her. “So, let me just say it again. You definitely have a way with men.”
“You aren’t so bad with women, either,” she returned. A silence fell, and just when it became uncomfortable, she swooped down, this time pulling a bottle from a box. “How about some Wild Turkey? Since I’m such a siren, I figure I can charm you into having a shot with me. Or would that muddle your deductive mind?”
“Looks lethal.” Luke surveyed the whiskey. “But I have a strange method of thinking. Since I put things in the back of my mind and just let them stew, I figure I can handle a shot.”
“I’ll pour,” she offered helpfully. “All you have to do is drink.”
“Drinking sounds like a lot of exertion, but Wild Turkey might be worth the effort.”
She chuckled. “So, you think by not thinking, huh?”
“That’s a way of putting it.” Luke cracked another smile, running a hand absently along the countertop, lifting his Stetson by the brim, then setting it back down. “After I knock one back, maybe I’ll walk around outside. The drink ought to warm me up enough.” With the new snowfall, Clive wouldn’t have left footprints, but it didn’t hurt to look.
As Claire pulled up two shot glasses and the bottle, Luke suddenly wondered if the fight with Clive was more serious than she’d let on. Claire definitely wasn’t telling him everything, but he knew her well enough to suspect that questioning her wouldn’t help. He watched her lean against the counter as she poured the whiskey. Sliding a glass toward him, she then lifted hers, her expression becoming somber. He realized there was more meaning in her eyes than he wanted to see.
Her voice was too throaty for comfort. “Here’s to us.”
He sure wished she wouldn’t talk like this. “Us?”
The way her shaded blue eyes bored into his stole his breath. “To what could have been, Luke.”
He suddenly wanted to protest, to say it wasn’t too late. His voice sounded rough as he lifted his glass. “Claire,” he said simply in an answering toast.
He watched as she quickly knocked back the shot, not even flinching, then he took the toothpick from his mouth, just long enough to toss his back. He felt the hot whiskey sliding down his throat, warming his blood every bit as much as she did. Maybe it was only because the raw heat of the drink felt so good on such a cold night, but Luke was seized by another wild urge to claim her. He saw himself grabbing the bottle, flinging her over his shoulder, carrying her upstairs and laying her down on the bed—Clive Stoddard be damned. Luke wanted to undress her slow, to lap the hot, burning whiskey from her navel and lick it from her thighs. Emotion reared up inside him, making him want to roar. This was supposed to have been their house. He’d helped her with the plans, and Clive didn’t even like the place. Besides which, Claire wasn’t acting as in love as an engaged woman should.
Abruptly, Luke stood. He had to get out of here. Turning away, he picked up his jacket and shrugged into it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Claire grab her parka. “That’s all right,” he said. “I’ll go alone. But thanks for the drink.”
“No, I’ll come.”
Experiencing the closest thing to real temper he’d felt all day, Luke clamped his teeth down hard on the toothpick, biting back a quick retort. Sometimes a man needed to be by himself. But no, Claire would never leave him be. It was probably why she’d gotten under his skin so much. There were plenty of folks Luke liked in this world. There was no woman with whom he couldn’t share a trivial flirtation; no man with whom he couldn’t ride. But only Claire had her hooks in him.
Luke headed through the kitchen door, letting it slam behind him. Outside, alone in the cold, he felt his mood darken further as he began slowly, carefully circling Claire’s dream house. The night had turned unusually still. The high winds had tapered, and the temperature had risen. Moonlight reflected on the Lazy Four’s miles of rolling snow.
“Damn you, Claire,” Luke suddenly muttered, the chill night breeze blowing long strands of dark hair against his face, making him wish he’d remembered his hat. But he’d been in too much of a hurry to get outside. The whiskey had warmed him, but it had also opened the door on emotions he’d carefully tamped down all day, releasing the darker, more passionate part of him he’d prefer Claire never see. The part of him that wanted to go back inside and possessively plunder those soft, plump lips, that wanted to drag her up that spiral staircase, take her hair out of that braid and rake his fingers through it until the soft, straight strands loosened. He wanted to devour her, to brand her in the house—the bed—that should have been theirs.
Not that Claire would ever understand why he didn’t. He wasn’t even sure he understood. But he feared he wasn’t capable of the kind of love she needed—the kind her big loving family had taught her and that came to her so
easily that she took it for granted.
Suddenly, he came to a stop. There it was again. Something he couldn’t quite name pulling at his mind. It had plagued him ever since he’d laid eyes on the front gates of the Lazy Four, where he’d never had occasion to visit before. His eyes narrowed as the winter winds rose again, and he scanned the rolling snow-blanketed land. A stand of trees surrounded Claire’s house, their dark boughs bending under a heavy weight of snow; closer, icicles hung from the eaves. But the memory still wouldn’t come. Cocking his head and still worrying the toothpick, Luke waited, as if the past might come to him in a sound.
And then he caught a glimpse of yellow. It was only moonlight dancing on the snow, but it reminded him of a memory he’d had at other times. It must have been summertime, he thought now, because the woman beside him was wearing a yellow dress, printed with powder-blue flowers. In the memory, Luke couldn’t see much of her, not even her face, just her side and part of her arm. Was that because he’d been a young boy, standing beside a woman? Who was she?
Thoughtfully sucking the toothpick between his lips, he started walking again, his boots crunching where the snow near the house was less powdery, packed and hard. He’d finished circling the house and was nearing the back door when Claire caught up to him.
“Find anything out here?” She peered from the raised hood of her white parka, the coat’s color blending with the snow, her lovely face shadowed by a dark fake-fur ruff.
Luke shook his head. “Just snow.” And memories.
Frowning, he glanced around again distractedly—over the long driveway leading from the front gates to the main house, then at the trees surrounding them. Claire had left the storm door open and now soft yellow light mixed with moonlight, spilling from the interior across the deck and onto the snow. Luke’s eyes lifted, settling on the stars that glittered in the clear sky, then he realized Claire was watching him. Sending her a sideways glance, he felt whatever anger he’d had toward her completely disappear. “Don’t get much more country than this,” he commented, his breath clouding the air.
Her voice seemed unusually vibrant in the crisp, still night. “Nothing like Lightning Creek, Wyoming, on a night like tonight, huh?”
With everything in him, he wanted to fight the quiet intimacy, but he couldn’t lie, “Pretty as a picture out here, Claire.”
“Cold, though.”
“They said it’s warming up soon.”
She chuckled. “Warming up to thirty degrees, maybe.”
He shrugged. “This year’s been milder than most.”
They stood for a moment, side by side, staring up at the moon and stars in the soft black sky, and Luke found himself wondering if Claire was thinking about last summer, too. The night after the bachelor auction, the sky had been dark and clear like this. Unusually deep somehow in its very blackness, it had looked like the richest, softest velvet. Everything seemed so quiet that Luke was half relieved when Claire leaned and plucked the toothpick from his mouth, breaking the mood.
He grinned. “Give me that toothpick. That’s my thinking toothpick, Claire.” Without it, he’d never find Clive. And for a second, Luke decided he didn’t really want to.
Claire laughed, stepped back a pace, then turned and simply ran, her boots kicking up loose, powdery snow. Catching her in two easy paces, he grabbed the back of her parka and simply hauled her to him. When she tripped, they both went down, sprawling into the snow.
“Guess you can’t think now,” she said with a breathless chuckle.
She was right about that much. Rational thought fled the second Luke pinned her to the ground. “I came here trying to help you,” he protested, fighting his response as she began squirming beneath him, her yielding flesh feeling as soft as the snow.
“You owe me!” she exclaimed.
Swiftly grabbing her wrists, he told himself that the sooner this tussle was over, the better. Thrusting her arms high above her head, he slid his gloved hands over hers and stretched his body out on hers as he futilely pried at her balled fists. “I don’t owe you,” he said. “We’re even.”
“You were bought and paid for, Luke,” she taunted, shaking her head. “You’re my slave now.”
“Slave?” he shot back, soft laughter escaping his lips. “Sorry, darlin’, but I’m on top of you.”
“Not for long.” With an undignified giggle, she struggled to escape, but he merely leaned harder into her body, his weight pressuring her. Breathless and flushed, she shot him a mock glare. “Can you think yet?”
“Yeah. And I think you’re in trouble,” he warned as she feinted right, then left, forcing him to wrestle her until he was panting as hard as she.
Gasping, she said, “Lose track of which hand your toothpick’s in?”
Hands. All Luke could think about was where he wanted to put his. The way every sweet inch of her was twisting beneath him made him remember how intimately he’d once touched her. Old memories turned his voice rough. “Claire, you can’t win against me.”
She wrenched away. “I’m doing pretty good.”
But she wasn’t. She was losing. Against his cheek, her quickened, excited breath was hot, smelling of rich, expensive whiskey, and her gorgeous mouth was too close, a scant inch from his. Long strands of his black hair lay against her pale cheeks and against her lips, so as she spoke, she was tasting them. Something about that—about seeing his dark hair in her mouth, touching the pink spear of her tongue, suddenly fired his blood, making him unbearably hard. He groaned as she bucked and writhed, then he let her win for a minute. Struggling on top, she straddled him, her thighs squeezing his hips as the parka rode up around her waist. Staring down at him, laughing and victorious, she looked more beautiful than he’d ever seen her.
His heart pounding out of control, Luke suddenly became aware of the cold, wet snow bunching behind his neck. Their hips were locked, and she had to feel how aroused he’d gotten. He could feel her heat, and it took away his remaining breath. Knowing he shouldn’t, he caught her waist and swiftly rolled again. Pulling her beneath him and settling masterfully on top, he let his legs fall between hers. He brought his lips close. His voice was husky. “Men can be dangerous when they’re not thinking, so you’d better give me that toothpick, Claire.” As if it hadn’t been lost in the snow long ago.
Beneath him, her chest was heaving. “You really think you’re dangerous, Luke?”
“Right now? Definitely.”
They were cheek to cheek, and she was lying flat on her back, her head nestled on the lining of the flung-back parka hood. Just beyond the hood, the snow was glistening like white gemstones. Luke’s eyes roved over her face. Suddenly, they weren’t playing anymore. Stray strands of his long hair had fallen across her mouth again, and when she licked at her lips, they caught on her tongue. Snow had dampened their jeans, too, and their body heat was starting to melt it. Chill air knifed to his lungs as he brought his lips a fraction closer, and when he shifted his weight on top of her, it brought desire flooding into her eyes. Suddenly, Luke couldn’t remember why he was here. To hell with the bed, he thought vaguely. He wanted to take Claire in the soft snow. He didn’t give a damn about her wedding.
“Luke.” The whisper sounded somehow raw. “Luke.”
A soft groan was torn from his lips, but her voice brought him to his senses. Thwarted, frustrated desire made pure temper course through him. “Why can’t you ever leave well enough alone, Claire?” He bit the words out, forcing himself to move his hands beside her shoulders and push himself up.
She hopped up just as quickly, dusting the snow from her behind. “You attacked me!” she declared with sudden, breathless fury.
He didn’t bother to respond. He couldn’t afford to. Right now, any kind of passion, even anger, might take him over the edge. Despite her engagement, he’d make love to her right now, if he wasn’t careful. Fe
aring he’d do something he’d sincerely regret, Luke stormed toward the house. He was almost there when he felt a hand clamp down on his shoulder. He turned, and almost wished he hadn’t when he saw how truly gorgeous she looked. Desire and anger had turned her eyes a flashing violet, and melting snow was sparkling in her hair, the crystals gleaming.
“Okay, maybe I started that,” she admitted. “But before I get married, you owe me an explanation.”
His heart was still beating too hard, less from exertion than from the unrelieved pangs of the amorous state she’d left him in, and the reminder she was marrying Clive was the last thing he needed right now. “For?”
Her gaze was dead serious. “For why you’ve never wanted to be with me, Luke!”
Luke tossed his head, fighting the gusts of wind that lifted the raven locks of his hair, blowing them against his cheeks. Attempting to ignore her honest anger, he told himself she was a rich rancher’s spoiled daughter. “I don’t need a reason,” he said. “And you’ve no right to be mad because I didn’t happen to fall all over you just now.” Knowing he’d already gone too far, he gentled his voice. “C’mon, Claire. Be honest. Why would you want to be with me?”
Her cheeks were flushed, by temper, embarrassment or the cold—probably all three. “The passion, for one thing,” she said, her glittering eyes making her look more alive than anyone he’d ever seen. “And the way we talked to each other that one summer.” She paused, swallowing hard. “I always thought it would grow to be more between us, Luke. And when we saw each other after the bachelor auction...”
The kiss convinced her the passion was still alive. His chest suddenly aching, Luke stepped closer, giving in to the unwanted emotion she always stirred in him. Stripping off a glove, he ran a caressing finger slowly down her cheek. “Take a good look, Claire,” he said, glancing around and allowing himself to trace her sculpted jaw for one brief second. “The Lazy Four’s your future. It borders your pa’s property, which means it’ll become one of the biggest spreads in this part of Wyoming. Clive’ll give you the kind of life you were born to, the kind of life you deserve.”