It certainly didn’t cool the heat rising in him.
“Hold on,” he said, and nudged the gray into a canter. The motion of the horse made her clutch him more tightly, and her breasts rubbed in a tantalizing scrape over his back as she held on. Her hands knotted at his waist, just above his belt buckle, nudging his belly with every jolt. He was in torment. He should have let her walk. He should have walked. He should have let her wait there in the sun while he went to find her horse. If he had to ride all the way back to the ranch with her like this, he’d be in trouble.
No. If he had to ride all the way back to the ranch with her rubbing up against him, he corrected himself, he’d be inside her. And that wouldn’t do.
At the first grove of trees, Zack reined in. “Here,” he said tersely. “You ought to be comfortable until I catch your horse.”
Her hands moved away from his stomach, and the pressure of her breasts against him was gone as she dismounted. When she stood beside the horse, the feather atop her hat bobbed in the wind and he had to restrain the gray from bolting.
“Take that damned hat off,” he said when he got the horse under control. “I don’t know why white women have to wear such foolery.” The oblique reminder of what he was, their mutual past, made her look up at him. He felt the burn of her eyes, and it seared into him. The shade of the scrub trees dappled her face in light and shadow, and the wind pressed her skirts against her slender legs as she stared at him.
“To catch the attention of white men,” she said, the cool, clipped tones reminding him again of his mother, as they had that first day he’d seen her.
Zack leaned on his saddle horn, his eyes narrowed. “And what white man’s attention are you trying to catch, Miss Hamilton?”
“Mrs. Velazquez.”
“That’s a crock, and you know it. He was never your husband but in name.” Temper made his words sharp. He wasn’t certain why it bothered him that she laid claim to the title of wife to Miguel Velazquez, but it did. Just like it angered him when she let Dexter Diamond put his hands on her with that damned proprietary air, and kiss her.
Deborah shrugged. “But the marriage is legal, nonetheless.”
“And that suits you just fine, doesn’t it?” He scowled. “I never figured you for being so greedy, but it looks like I was wrong. You’ve got your hooks in the Velazquez land and you don’t intend to let go, do you?”
“It is not exactly a matter of my letting go. I’ve been asked to remain because it profits the family interests, according to Don Francisco.” She looked away from him, her eyes distant. She untied the ribbons to her hat and removed it before looking back at him. “Once the government changed the boundary lines, the necessity of their being American citizens precipitated my marriage. I am a wife of convenience, Mister Banning.”
“Mister Banning.” Zack fought his rising temper. “In case you don’t remember, we’ve been a bit too close for you to be so formal.”
“And you don’t mind me making that fact public? Somehow I had the impression that you wanted to keep that fact a secret as much as I do. After all, if the authorities find out it was you who kept me prisoner in a Comanche village, your life—or at the very least, your freedom—will be jeopardized. I hardly think you want me publicizing such information.”
“There’s no one around to hear you right now.”
“I’m not as good at leading a double life as you seem to be,” Deborah returned coolly.
“Maybe you need more practice.” Her eyes flashed. “I hardly think so.”
For a moment he didn’t say anything. What was it about this one woman that made him lose control? She did. And it wasn’t anything he could put his finger on that caused it.
“I’ll be back,” he said finally, wheeling his gray around and riding away without looking back.
By the time he found her bay, roped it, and rode back to her, the sun was a fiery ball in the sky. He dismounted under the scrub trees and squatted in the shade beside Deborah, feeling her curious gaze on him.
“You caught it.”
He shrugged. “Yeah. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“Oh no, I realize that you are a man who always gets what he goes after.” His eyes slid to hers, narrowed and irritable. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
She looked away. She’d removed her gloves, and was slowing waving her hat to stir up a cool breeze. “Nothing.”
“No, you meant something by it, all right. Are you talking about the two of us? I’d be interested in knowing if you’re gonna claim rape again.” Her cheeks suffused with color that had nothing to do with the heat or sunburn. She grew still, her voice cool.
“What would you call it?”
“Seduction, maybe. Coaxing. You wanted it, too. I may have removed your social objections for you with a bit of handy bartering, but you can’t deny you didn’t feel anything for me, Miss Deborah Hamilton.” Frustration made his voice tight, edgy, and he pulled his hat off and raked a hand through his hair. It was damp with sweat and fell across his forehead.
“No, I won’t deny that.” Her eyes came back to his, and he could see the shadows in them. He wondered what made her sound so—hurt.
He studied her face for a long moment, the pure cameo beauty of her eyes, nose, mouth, chin, and felt a peculiar tightening in his chest. He pivoted slightly on the balls of his feet, still in a crouch.
“Good,” he muttered, half-ashamed of himself for forcing her to an admission, half-glad she hadn’t denied it. He needed to hear that she’d wanted him, that he hadn’t been the only one to feel that raging desire. The same desire that pressed him so hard now.
Hugging her knees to her chest, Deborah began again the slow motion with her hat, the feather waving gently back and forth and back and forth, creating a cool breeze. The horses stood with heads lowered, resting, eyes half-closed in the shade where he’d tied them.
After a moment’s hesitation, Zack said gruffly, “We’ll go back as soon as the horses rest a little.” She nodded. “I thought as much. That’s all right. I’m comfortable here in the shade. And I’m certain Judith is being well-cared for by Tía Dolores.”
“And your sweetheart.”
“Dexter isn’t my sweetheart.” He glared at her baleful y. “Just what is Dexter, if he’s not your sweetheart?”
“What could it possibly matter to you? I believe you made it perfectly clear that you have no interest in me beyond a possible threat to your identity.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Her steady gaze held his. “I’m talking about the fact that I have not seen you since that first night I discovered you were anywhere near. Your absence is an evident statement of your disinterest.”
“What it is,” he said evenly, “is knowing when to quit while I’m ahead.”
“And your comment of earlier? What am I supposed to think when you say one thing and act like another?” Baffled, he shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean,” she whispered, “your saying I was your woman, yet pushing me away.”
“When did I do that?”
“Just a little while ago. You asked if I was Dexter’s woman, then said I was yours.”
He raked a hand through his hair. It was already dry from the heat and wind. “I didn’t exactly say you were my woman. Ah, God. I don’t want ties, Deborah. I don’t want to want you.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Damned if I do.” Frustration balled his hands into fists, and he stared down at them before he opened his fingers slowly. The brim of his hat was creased, and he spent a moment straightening it before he could look at her. “I haven’t forgotten how much I want you. But it won’t work. You’re not the kind of woman to live that way.”
“What way?”
He gestured at the hills. “Drifting. Moving from one place to the other, no goal in mind, no home to hold me. I’m too much like the hawk. I just beat my wings against the air and never stay too long on the ground.”
He sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah. But it would never work.” A smile trembled on her lips, and she slid her hand to the corded muscle of his biceps, where he was quivering with the effort to keep from grabbing her. “Hawk—Zack—I’ve thought about being with you, too.”
He closed his eyes briefly. She was pushing his restraint to the limits.
“Forget it. I said it wouldn’t work, and it won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
Her voice was soft and low, as if she had to force out the words. When he opened his eyes to look at her, he saw what it cost her to make this overture. Somehow, it made him feel even worse.
“Look,” he snarled, “I want to be inside you. I want to feel you around me and push myself up in you so deep that you can feel me against your throat, but that’s all. Dammit, that’s all. That’s all it can ever be, don’t you understand that?”
She looked wounded, stricken, her eyes reminding him of the injured horse he’d had to destroy—baffled by the pain. When a single tear slipped from one eye to track her cheek, he clenched his teeth.
And before he knew it, he was pulling her against him, his mouth hot and demanding against her lips, tasting the salt of her tears. Slowly, as he kissed her with all the pent-up frustration of the past weeks, he unbraided her hair until it fell in a silky tangle down her back. Then he put one hand in it, tunneling his fingers up to cradle the back of her head in his palm. His lips moved from her open, sweet mouth to the smooth curve of her throat, and he tugged on her hair to bend her head back further.
He concentrated on the tiny, swift pulse hammering in a creamy hollow while his fingers deftly unbuttoned the rows on her riding jacket. It fell open, and he slid a hand inside, frustrated by the thin silk of a blouse covering her.
Lifting his head, he studied the situation for a brief moment before surrendering to temptation. His mouth covered the silken swell of a breast, wetting the cloth, his teeth nipping at the hard little bead of her nipple. She moaned, and he felt her hands curve over his shoulders. That small sound spurred his desire higher, and he paused.
“How quick can we get this thing off?” he muttered, plucking at the blouse.
She didn’t answer, but sat back and slid her jacket down over her arms.
He watched, as aroused by the sight of that simple action as he was the shadowy jiggle of her breasts beneath the sheer material of her blouse. She undid the single row of buttons, and let the blouse drift in a snowy pile to lay atop her discarded jacket.
Zack stared at her, at the smooth flow of soft skin only partially hidden by her chemise, the enticing shadows beneath the thin muslin. For a moment he couldn’t move. His erection pushed so hard against the front of his pants that it was painful. He’d thought of her like this so many times, it was agony to consider restraint.
Then she looked up at him with desire glazing her eyes, and he forgot all about restraint.
He reached for her, pulling her up against him, dropping from a crouch to his knees, his legs spreading as he pulled her between them. She fit him so well, her body tucked into the angle of his as if made for him. He groaned at the feel of her body pressing against his groin.
She helped him lift her skirts, her hands shaking but eager, their movements hungry. Zack swore mentally when his hand encountered the barrier of her pantalettes, and he hooked his fingers into the convenient open crotch and jerked. There was the rending sound of tearing cloth and Deborah’s faint gasp, but he didn’t care. All he could think of, could focus on, was his driving need to be inside her, to feel her heat close around him.
He stroked a hand over the gentle mound of her belly then lower, his fingers seeking and finding the source of her pleasure. She moaned softly and pressed her face into his shoulder, shuddering when his thumb grazed her.
He held one arm around her back to keep her against him, his other hand moving with quick, erotic flicks that drew small cries from her. Her fingers dug into his biceps, clenching and unclenching, and her thighs parted as his hand moved with the certainty of satisfaction at his fingertips.
“Oh, God,” she said in a gasp, and he smiled against the fragrant mass of her hair that tumbled over his chest and smelled of lilac. When he slid a finger into her to test her readiness and she shuddered, then convulsed, he felt it, too. He couldn’t wait any longer.
One hand moved to his gunbelt and unbuckled it, then unbuttoned his pants, freeing himself. He put his hands on her waist, lifted her, then brought her slowly down on him, groaning at the exquisite slide of pleasure. She was hot, so hot, heated silk and velvet rose petals, clenching around him like a supple glove.
For a moment he just held her there, unable to move for fear he would explode, then his arms flexed and he lifted her again, bringing her back down in another delicious stroke of pure sensation. She was panting for breath and so was he. He couldn’t think beyond what they were doing. The need to fill her completely overwhelmed everything else.
He lifted his head from the curve of her neck and shoulder and caught her eyes. Desire glazed them, and made her lips part to show her small white teeth, the soft pink of her open mouth another temptation, as tantalizing as the feel of her around him. He kissed her, fingers digging into her waist as he lifted her again, then brought her hips down in a swift motion that made her cry out as he pushed deeply inside her. He stifled her cry with his mouth, fiercely determined to fill her with himself, a primitive, ancient compulsion that gripped him too hard to ignore.
Grinding her hips down against him, he wanted to consume her with the same passion that devoured him, that rose up so high and hot that he wouldn’t have been surprised to collapse in a shower of ashes and sparks.
Lifting her again and again, bringing her down hot and so hard he heard her gasp, Zack brought them both to release at almost the same moment. His muscles corded with the strain, and he wanted to wait for her, but didn’t think he could. Then she made a high, keening sound and dug her nails into him as she exploded into a series of contractions that shattered his control.
He groaned and stiffened as her body convulsed around him, then shook violently with the force of his own release.
Deborah sobbed softly, collapsing against his chest and wetting his shirt with her tears. He held her as he brought his breathing back to normal, then shifted her a bit to see her face.
“You all right?”
No answer, just an averted nod of her head. He felt a twinge of guilt. She was worth more than this, more than a roll in the dirt. But he had no promises in him, no heart for words he didn’t mean. Promises he couldn’t keep. His hand closed on the back of her head, and he stroked her hair with gentle, soft motions that must have comforted her. After a moment, she sat up a little, still on his lap with his body inside her. He could feel himself getting hard again, and was amazed that he wanted more so soon.
“Zack . . .”
“Shhh.” He kissed her and began the slow, rhythmic motions of sex all over again. This time, there was no sense of urgency, but a calmer, deeper emotion that drove him. And he saw from the slumberous droop of her eyes and her slow, languid movements as she clasped her hands behind his neck and took control, that she felt it, too.
He hadn’t thought it possible, but this time the act was even more satisfying than the last. Maybe it was because Deborah regulated their movements, lifting her body, then sliding slowly down, keeping her eyes on his face as if gauging his reaction, her lips curved in a slow, sensuous smile that mesmerized him. Her hair swayed with her movements, dark fire framing her pale face and naked breasts in a sultry invitation.
God. She was like a volcanic glacier—ice on the outside but raging fire at her core. Sensuous, passionate, Eve after eating the apple.
She
leaned forward, her small pink tongue flicking out to tease his lips, tracing them with a damp heat that made his breath come faster, but when he tried to hold her still for a kiss, she evaded him.
“No,” she murmured, kissing one corner of his mouth, then the other.
He closed his eyes, and felt his body swell inside her, surging up and up in that close, damp heat. She kissed him finally, gently at first, then with an insistent urgency as she sucked on his bottom lip, drawing it into her mouth while his hands teased her breasts and made her hips rock harder and faster against him.
Then, curling her fingers around his biceps, she leaned back so that her hair swung free, her eyes closed as he sought the needy peaks of her breasts, first one and then the other. And when her soft internal muscles clenched around him in a shuddering grip, she cried his name, over and over, her voice echoing on the wind.
“Hawk . . . Zack . . .”
As he lost himself inside her, the searing knowledge that she accepted him as either man, branded into his soul.
Chapter 18
Dark shadows lay over the Velazquez hacienda when they returned. Deborah felt Zack’s gaze on her, and shifted in her saddle. She was embarrassed by her lack of control, her wanton behavior, and he seemed too quiet. She wondered if she’d shocked him that badly. He hadn’t said much of anything on the ride back. Now she was there, and lights blazed against the purple shrouds of dusk.
“Looks like they’re waiting on us,” Zack drawled, and she flicked him a quick glance.
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to tell them?” Startled, she half-turned, and saw that he was staring at her. “The truth—well, not all of it, of course.” His lips twisted. “Of course. I’m not eager to have a rope around my neck.”
“Why do you say that?”
His brow slanted up at a mocking tilt. “Do you think Don Francisco would be glad to welcome me to the family? No, no more than he wants Diamond.”
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