Born in Danger

by Susan Kearney

  But it sliced deep that she wasn’t what he wanted. And the pain burned to her soul. If she gave in to her trembling need, what would her future hold? Already his rejection hurt. If they made love she might not ever recover.

  No doubt she’d be better off keeping her pride, withdrawing and protecting herself, and pretending her love didn’t exist. Yet, wasn’t that the coward’s way out? Perhaps he could change his mind?

  The idea of shamelessly seizing the moment and creating memories to last a lifetime tempted her. Oh how he tempted.

  Every atom in her wanted to touch and be touched. To show him how good they could be.

  Before she could decide whether to yank off the blanket or pull it back up to her chin, Ford rose and veered toward the saddlebags. “How about dinner? You’ll feel better with food in you.”

  He’d given her a reprieve. Time to decide. But her mind spun in confusion. Without tasting, she chewed and swallowed the sandwich he gave her. She usually knew her mind, but she couldn’t put her whirling thoughts in order.

  He sat close by, stoking the fire between bites of food. The silence between them had a hot, sharp tension that hadn’t been there before. She wished he’d say something. Anything.

  He stared at the fire, his expression inscrutable. Several locks of dark hair spilled over his face. He needed a shave, but she found the shadow on his jaw darkly appealing. He pulled off his boots and socks, then set them by the fire to dry. From his purposeful search of the saddlebags, she guessed he’d come to a decision.

  He pulled out a small jar. Watching her, his blue eyes almost black in the shadows, he twisted the lid and sniffed. “We have to ride out of here tomorrow.”

  “I know. Somehow I’ll manage to ride.” Every muscle ached. Experience with severe bruising told her tomorrow she’d be even stiffer. Her bottom was sore, the bruise on her hip worse. But they had to keep moving to reach an airport before the Black Rose outflanked them. “Did Jacques pack pain pills?”

  Ford shook his head. “Not so much as an aspirin.” The strong spicy aroma of liniment filled the room. He approached, crowding her a little. “I rubbed down the horses. Now I’ll do the same for you.”

  “I’m not a horse.”

  “I noticed.” He stared long and hard, his lips curled in a sensual grin, and his eyes lit with a challenging energy.

  It irked her that he’d told her he’d never love again and then was coming on to her. And yet . . . her damn nerves leaped until she braced herself to prevent a tremor. If his slightest touch drove her wild, how was she going to stand a massage?

  As if unaware of her turmoil, he casually picked up the jar of balm. “This will help you heal, keep you from hurting. A massage will relax your muscles, and you’ll feel better.”

  At the thought of his long fingers rubbing salve into her muscles, she fought back a tremor. “But—”

  “You’re in no condition to refuse.” His tone hardened. “Now turn over while I hold the blanket.”

  She bit her lip. Her body was demanding relief from injury. Although no bones were broken, her legs cramped into severe knots. “I’m not sure I can move.”

  He lifted the blanket but held it between them, giving her privacy. “Take your time. Turn toward your good hip.”

  As she moved, the agony seared her side. Her face beaded with sweat. Despite her cramping legs, the weakness in her arms and the groan of misery she couldn’t hold back, she finally flipped onto her stomach with an unladylike grunt.

  Ford replaced the blanket over her. “Are your ribs hurting any worse?”

  “I don’t think so.” She relaxed as the stabbing, hot ache receded. Despite a bruise caused by the pommel, now that she’d turned over, lying on her stomach was more comfortable.

  “Good.” He stoked the fire and settled close to her side. “I’m folding the blanket to your waist, okay?”

  His question was rhetorical because he pulled the blanket back before she consented. Cool air lapped her back. She was lying without a thread of clothing, and she had no doubt he would look his fill. And then he would touch her. Exposed, she felt more vulnerable than she ever had. And sexier.

  Ford gathered her hair and twisted it over one shoulder. Just his fingertips on her neck caused her to quiver in expectation. Warmth stirred inside her, and she held her breath in anticipation of his first touch.

  The jar scraped the floor, and his hands rubbed together. “Tell me if you get cold.”

  He had yet to touch her, but her skin heated from the palpable energy radiating off him. Dizzy with the effort of hiding her reaction, she was grateful he couldn’t see her face and the effect of his hands on her.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. How had she gotten into a situation where she felt so helpless? Usually she had more sense. Usually she held tough. But Ford had a way of twisting her into snarls until she ended up fighting her own resolve. If she spent too much time around him, she’d end up a quivering mass of raw indecision.

  He used both hands on her neck and shoulders, finding and rubbing the tensed muscles of her collarbone. The sharp tangy aroma of liniment relaxed her while it lubricated the friction of his hands. With strong fingers, he massaged in sure, even strokes. She’d had no doubt he would be an expert masseur, and she wasn’t disappointed. He homed in on the sore spots like sonar.

  His thumb feathered over her neck with a lightness that made her want to do something embarrassing, like moan or squirm, and triggered fantasies entirely too graphic. He was all-business, while, fuzzy and light-headed, she drifted in a pleasant haze, and her stomach clenched tighter.

  “Relax. Let me know if I’m too hard on you.”

  He worked her neck and shoulders until the tension drained, his firm caress so delicious, she never wanted him to stop. He moved his hands in hypnotic, yet terribly stimulating, circles. He proceeded down her back, his thumbs digging into the hollow between her shoulder blades, loosening the upper joints and gradually circling downward. She almost relaxed, until hit by a sudden suspicion. “Ford, how far are you going?”

  “No more than you want. No more than you need,” he murmured in a husky tone.

  What the hell was that supposed to mean? Her pulse fluttered in unaccustomed panic. Making love with Ford could never be casual for her, and to allow him to proceed when he didn’t return her love would devastate her. Yet her body refused to listen, vibrating with a humming femininity she’d denied too long.

  As he dug his knuckles into the base of her spine, brushing closer and closer to the blanket, she resisted the urge to clench her fists. She gritted her teeth to hold back a moan of pleasure.

  As devil-may-care as if stripping a bed, he pulled the blanket over her bottom and down her legs. Cool air met sore flesh. The heat from her blush flared hot enough to warm the room.

  His thumbs dug into the small of her back and the heel of his palms found the crests of her backside. He moved slowly, working the soreness from the muscles in efficient strokes, kneading her bottom, chasing the stiffness away.

  “You’ve got a great butt, round, firm and muscular beneath.” His deep voice simmered with barely checked passion. “I’ve been admiring you ever since I took the key out of your pocket.”

  Relishing the combination of heat and desire in his tone, she concentrated on the pleasure he was giving her. She’d never realized how powerful touching could be. His palms curved to her flesh, and the only thing on her mind was what he might do next.

  His hands felt so good. He moved to the tops of her thighs, dangerously close to rendering the massage much more personal. Anticipation kindled in her tummy.

  How far was he going? How far was she willing to let him go? Her blood was singing, but Ford continued to knead in a most professional manner. Was the man made of granite?

  He worked down her legs with the cool efficiency of a r
obot. Another man might have covered her up. Not Ford. Irritated that naked she apparently didn’t tempt him, she wished she could read his thoughts. His breathing was a bit jagged, but from exertion? Or arousal?

  Although she didn’t dare, she wondered what he would do if she rolled onto her back and held out her arms.

  “Turn over.”

  As he spoke her thoughts aloud, her stomach flipped a triple somersault. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s time to turn over so I can do your front.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “That bruise on your hip needs tending.”

  “Ford, I’m naked.” And a virgin—no match for his experience.

  “I know you’re naked. I undressed you, and you’re not a sight I’m likely to forget,” he said with admiration and a bit of impatience. “I’ve already seen you, all of you.”

  That was supposed to make a difference?

  While she’d lain on her stomach, the evidence of her arousal was hidden. But if she turned over, he would read the anticipation in her taut nipples and swelling breasts, the quiver of her belly, and see her nostrils flare with a shortness of breath. Worst of all, he might suspect the yearning in her aching heart.

  All too humiliating when he’d told her how he felt about her. She knew some men separated sex from their emotions. Perhaps Ford was one of them. But she’d always dreamed of giving up her virginity with a man she loved and a man who loved her.

  Perhaps that was naïve.

  One glance over her shoulder into Ford’s approving eyes made her feel more like a woman than she’d thought possible. She’d waited so long for the right man, she’d begun to think she was incapable of love. Now she knew better. But the only man she’d ever wanted might never love her back. But she could have this memory.

  Damn. Why did she have to want him? Why did only he have the ability to warm her soul?

  She didn’t even have the excuse of her injuries. As painful as the cramps had been earlier, he’d worked out the spasms and charley horse, leaving only minor soreness.

  If she didn’t take this opportunity, if she spared herself from hurt, she’d regret her cowardice the rest of her life. The possibility existed that neither of them would live to make it back home. While she was torn in decision, flirty little sensations in her breasts urged her to let him do as he pleased.

  A discordant excitement swept through her. Her nerves hummed and tingled and tightened.

  The scrape on the floor indicating he’d picked up the liniment rattled her more than the clash of thunder outside. She visualized his strong fingers dipping into the cream, spreading it over her breasts, giving pleasure.

  He rubbed his palms back and forth, warming the liniment. His touch would be gentle, exquisite. “Devin? Turn over.”

  Her mind said no.

  Her body said yes.

  Her heart said, I don’t know.

  “Devin?”

  Chapter Seven

  FIRELIGHT FLICKERED over Devin’s silky-soft, supple skin. Her flesh had danced beneath Ford’s hands, making him yearn to learn every inch of her by touch. She’d been designed for pleasing a man. For pleasing him.

  As she quivered beneath his fingers, he sucked in his breath. She had wonderfully voluptuous breasts, broad shoulders and hips and a tiny, sexy waist. Her wild, willful hair was thick and curly enough for a man to lose himself in. And her legs were gorgeous, lean and toned, and long enough to wrap around him and give as much as she got.

  Desire, hot and hard, filled his loins until his jeans grew tight. He’d never thought a woman’s body could be so beautiful. He’d never known a woman so courageous. To find both attributes in one woman made his heart pound with a savage yearning.

  He could no longer touch her only to give comfort, to ease the stiffness from her muscles. He wanted to touch her the way a man touches a woman. But did she want him?

  When he’d spoken her name, a quiver had twitched down her back and had him biting back a groan of satisfaction that she’d responded to just the sound of his voice. When his hands had stroked her, he’d felt the wildness of her pulse, but was it desire? Or fear?

  He’d been thankful at first that she didn’t know she was turning him on. When she’d turned and looked at him, he’d thought about shifting his position so she could see the effect she was having on him. But as he’d worked out the stiffness in her muscles and assessed the physical battering she’d taken, he’d realized she wasn’t up to making love. She needed to heal.

  Restraining himself from sweet seduction, he bent and pulled the blanket over her. She turned to her good side, her eyes, full of questions, boldly locking gazes with his. The prolonged eye contact gave him his answer—not the one he wanted.

  She would refuse him.

  “I’m not about to make love with you.” Her voice was raspy with regret, yet threaded with fierce pride.

  “Are you hurting?”

  “The charley horse is gone. I’m much better, thanks. But I won’t—”

  “Why?” That her refusal had nothing to do with her bruises aroused his curiosity, stunned and disheartened him. He knew she wanted him. She’d reacted to his lightest touch. Even now her pupils were dilated with arousal. So why was she refusing him? Deep in his heart, he suspected she was not only rejecting him for tonight but was about to reject him forever.

  “You’re Rhonda’s husband.”

  Ford rocked back on his heels, flabbergasted. Her normally logical thinking had gone haywire. “Rhonda’s gone.”

  “It doesn’t seem right to take advantage of her death.”

  Ford bit back his temper. “Rhonda was good and kind and wanted the best for everyone she knew. She would want us to go on with our lives.”

  “I know you’re right.” Devin shook her head. “But knowing doesn’t stop my guilt. A fling would be like a slap in the face to Rhonda’s memory.” While her words rang with the truth, he sensed there was more she wasn’t saying. Much more. What was she holding back? She hid behind memories of Rhonda, and he lashed out, his temper hot. “A fling? Is that how you think of me?”

  She met his temper with a calm voice but her eyes were eloquent with hurt and accusation. “You told me you’d never again try to replace Rhonda. What am I supposed to think except that your capability to love died with her?”

  Her words got through and ripped his gut. He swore under his breath, raked a hand through his hair and paced the confines of the cabin, wishing the storm would abate. He hadn’t thought this through.

  Damn it to hell! She was right.

  Devin wasn’t the kind of woman a man took to bed for one night. She deserved to be loved and cherished for a lifetime. No matter how attractive he found her, how much his arms ached to hold her, she deserved more than he had to give. He’d given all his love to Rhonda, and his ability to love had died with her. He’d made that mistake with Lyndsay. He wouldn’t make it again.

  Devin awaited an answer, but he had none to give. He removed the oil lamp from the nail on the wall, turned off the flame and set it within easy reach. In darkness, he shucked his damp jeans, hung them to dry and slipped into a sleeping bag.

  Lying on his back, hands laced behind his head, he stared at the ceiling. The howling of the wind matched his dark mood. For the past months an empty numbness had separated him from the world like a gauze shroud. He’d been determined not to crawl into a hole and lick his wounds like his older brother Craig. So Ford had operated on instinct, submerging the grief with days overloaded with work and nights at glittery social functions that held no meaning.

  Now he was alone with his thoughts. And Devin. Facing either wasn’t easy. An uncomfortable silence fell between them. She shifted, rustling the blanket on the sleeping bag. He should apologize, not for wanting her, but for not wanting her enough
. “I don’t know what to say to make things right.”

  “Words can’t always fix things,” she said in a choked voice.

  “We can’t go back to the way we were before tonight, can we?”

  “I can pretend, if you like,” she offered, sounding more composed than he would have wished. “Once we get home, we’ll both go our different ways.”

  “I want you to stay at my house until the Black Rose is captured. I have a good alarm system. I’ll hire bodyguards. And I’ll replace every window with bullet-proof glass.”

  “I don’t—”

  “You can have your own room.” He wouldn’t let her refuse. “I’m hardly ever there. You won’t see me often.”

  “But—”

  He wasn’t beyond using dirty tricks to protect her. He played his trump card. “Rhonda would want me to keep you safe.”

  She released a frustrated sigh. “Do you always win?”

  “Usually.” Her rejection was too fresh in his mind for him to turn cocky.

  “Ford, tell me something. During the past months, were there any attempts on your life before we came to Switzerland?”

  “No. Why?” His tone rose, letting her know he’d caught on to her change in subject.

  “According to the maid, a black rose was left on your pillow. If the assassin had a contract to kill you and Rhonda both, why didn’t he make another attempt at you?”

  “I don’t know. Dr. Henschel hired the assassin so we wouldn’t learn the fertility clinic had accidentally planted Rhonda’s egg in Brooke’s sister, Nicole. He knew if we found out Rhonda’s child had been born and raised by another woman, the clinic would have come under intense investigation. With outside scrutiny, Henschel’s scheme of overbilling patients would have come to light, and his career would have been washed down the tubes. He couldn’t risk finding out, because, as a member of the clinic’s board, I’d have both personal and business reasons to go after him. After Henschel was caught trying to cover his nefarious schemes, the assassin might have gone to ground.”