She felt him unfastening her bra. Closing her eyes, she reveled in the warm weight of his hands gliding around front to cup her breasts. The first electric contact teased her nipples erect, and she moaned.
“Permission granted?” he demanded.
Her breath quickened. She nodded.
“And how ’bout this?” he asked her, bending down to cover her neck with little kisses like erotic tickles.
She trembled as if she were cold. But she was not cold. Definitely not cold.
“And this?” His mouth met hers.
She responded to his probing kiss with more heat than she thought inside her. Only now—overcome by want and tension—did she realize the true depth of the desire that had been building between them for days now.
Even now, as she matched the passion of his kisses with her own, a cautious voice warned her that this, too, was only a form of “compensation.” A. J. Clayburn was her social and temperamental opposite. Later she might pay dearly for this moment of escape.
But the desire his mouth fired in her overcame all caution. Need was making her mindless, and right now mindless was what she wanted to be.
He pulled his mouth back from hers, only with an effort.
“Now I’m done asking permission,” he informed her, sliding his strong arms behind her back and knees. “Let’s get to it. In my sight, it’s been long overdue.”
Effortlessly he lifted her from the chair and carried her to the bed. He finished removing her shirt and bra. Moaning from her pent-up desire, she barely recalled him peeling off her jeans and panties.
He dropped to his knees beside the bed and hotly mouthed her torso while he took his own clothes off. His lips traced a moist path from her nipples to the taut ivory concave of her stomach.
The heat of his kiss moved lower, and she felt his strong hands on her inner thighs, parting them. When his greedy mouth tasted the wet heat of her sex, she felt melting waves of pleasure build and wash over her, each surge more intense than the one before it. Only now, as a powerful climax surprised her, did she realize how much desire for this man she had been suppressing and denying.
She cried out, subjugated by a deep sexual release.
Immediately she craved more pleasure, and when he stood to join her on the bed, she knew she would have more as she got a stunning view of his nudity in the golden lamplight.
His legs were long and muscular, his hips lean, with a stomach flat and hard as a board. Flat, hard pectorals met shoulders corded with muscle. Foreplay had left him hot and erect. A pulse at his temple throbbed with each heartbeat.
“So you really are a flesh-and-blood woman,” he whispered to her.
She felt strange emotion clog her throat. With a hunger she didn’t know she possessed, she tilted her lips and kissed him, proving her mortality and need.
Gasping, she took his hard length inside her. Above her he groaned. So he was mortal, too.
Consumed, she locked him between her thighs and ran her hands down his hard-muscled buttocks. He moved against her, cupping her bottom with his callused palms, driving deeper and deeper into her.
Orgasm racked her body twice before he gave his final thrust. Then she closed her eyes, savoring the sweet violence of his release, savoring her name upon his lips. But the lull didn’t last long. To her dismay she realized A. J. Clayburn was a strong and greedy man. His climax only seemed to drive him wild for more, like the scratch that only caused more itching.
Around dawn they took their peace. She drifted off to sleep, her naked, exhausted limbs intertwined with his.
For this one sweet night, and for this one ice princess, the cowboy had met his match.
Fifteen
“Dammit, Larry,” Eric Rousseaux snapped into the telephone, “you just don’t get it, do you? If we can leverage enough votes on the town council, it doesn’t matter what Hazel McCallum’s charter says. It doesn’t matter a frog’s fat ass. If the U.S. Constitution can be amended, so can Mystery’s township charter.”
Eric was doing dumbbell curls while he spoke to his business associate. As usual he’d left his shirt off to reveal his well-honed physique. Never mind that he was in his den where no one could appreciate it.
He frowned into the phone. “No, don’t change the subject by asking about Jacquelyn. You watch the news. You know damn well they haven’t returned yet, but that’s not what I’m talking about here. And I don’t want to hear you whine about Hazel. I’m not a man who likes to lose. Get those votes or you’re fired.”
He was about to speak again when Stephanie suddenly appeared in the doorway, a bottle of cognac in her right hand. His wife visited him in his den about as often as Halley’s Comet passed overhead.
Great—she’s drunk and there’s going to be a scene, Eric thought. But making scenes was not her usual way. If anything, Stephanie’s self-control was downright scary.
“Larry,” he said brusquely, “we’ll wrap this up later.”
He set the phone on his desk, still watching Stephanie with a wary, expectant look. Oddly, though, her eyes seemed clear, and her little ironic smile was not in evidence. Ten at night, yet evidently she was still sober.
“Was that really Larry?” she asked him in her throaty voice. “Or Linda or Lucy or Lana or—”
“Very funny. Larry and I were just discussing details about Mountain View. What do you need?”
“What do I need?” Her tone mocked his words, but she was not being combative. “Don’t get me started, dear heart, because you won’t like the list. But I didn’t come up here to talk about my needs. I realize that topic is of no interest to you. I’m just curious, Eric. Our daughter is up in that pass, maybe fighting for her life. Do you care at all?”
The unexpected question left his face etched with annoyance. “What the hell’s this all about?” he demanded.
“You heard me. Here you are, cooking up shady business deals while your only child may be fighting for her life. It leaves me curious, is all. Your indifference toward me is perhaps understandable. I’m partly to blame. But what did Jacquelyn ever do to you that you could be so indifferent to her fate?”
“I am not indifferent, just busy! I love our daughter as much as you do…but what am I supposed to do? I called Hazel. You heard what the state police commander told me. A full-blown rescue effort can only be initiated after sure confirmation of an emergency. We don’t know that Jacquelyn is in any trouble. Frankly, she could be snug in a motel with A. J. Clayburn, for all we know.”
Stephanie stepped into the den. A strength appeared on her face that hadn’t been there before.
“You know she’s not that kind of woman,” she said. “And I know you know it, because you have more experience with that kind of woman than any man I’ve ever met.”
“Go to the kitchen,” Eric said, his voice becoming more caustic. “Go anywhere in this whole damn house, but don’t get in my face about that subject again.”
Stephanie raised the cognac bottle so he could see the contents.
“Normally,” she explained, pointing with one finger, “by this time of night the level would be down to about here. But I did something different tonight. I decided to stay sober and think about how I’ve been blessed with Jacquelyn. And you know what, my life is full of blessing. My life with you is not.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Eric crossed the den and took her arm, shaking her.
“What that means is I’m leaving you, Eric. When Jacquelyn returns—pray God that she does—I’m getting a lawyer and leaving you.”
“You’re crazy. This Clayburn fellow—I’ve been told that young man could hike straight through hell and come out without a heat blister. When she’s back, you’ll regret everything you’re saying tonight.”
“Even if she does come down safe from the mountains,” Stephanie pressed, “I will be leaving, Eric. I can’t save the world—hell I can’t even save my own daughter right now—but I can save myself.”
“Save yourself? What
the hell from?”
“You, Eric. You and me. Together we are poison, and we managed to poison our only child’s life as well. Neither one of us has thought of anyone but ourselves. Are you even aware, for example, that Jacquelyn’s been miserable for months now? That her heart was broken to bits back in Atlanta when Joe Colbert threw her over for that Gina Gallatin?”
Eric shrugged. “Ahh, young love…it’s combat of the heart, you know that. There are always casualties.”
“Yes, but when you’re badly wounded, some first aid would be nice. But neither one of us was there for Jacquelyn. We never are. She’s alone, and no amount of your money can right the wrong we’ve done to her. Not even all your money.”
The truth of her words pierced Eric’s heart like a needle. “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
Stephanie’s voice cracked with cynicism. “You know what, Eric? I can’t believe you care.”
Jacquelyn was the first one awake on Sunday morning, momentarily disoriented in the dawn stillness of the cabin.
One wall lamp had burned itself dry of kerosene, the other was guttering like a candle in the wind. She saw her clothes forming a puddle with A.J.’s beside the bed. The sight of her pink cotton panties dangling off one of his scuffed boots shocked her eyes wide open.
Oh, God in Heaven, what had she done?
Even though she had not gotten drunk last night, she felt the panicky regret that follows a wild bender—except that she couldn’t even blame her reckless decision on alcohol. A.J. hadn’t left her that option.
She chastised herself for her abandon, but her rebellious body sent little signals that it felt quite satisfied, thank you, by last night’s events. Her lips were swollen from his rough kiss. And when she carefully sat up in bed, an intimate soreness made her recall the…exuberance of their passion last night—and well into the morning.
When her bare feet hit the raw lumber floor, reality slapped her fully awake.
She gazed at the handsome man slumbering peacefully beside her, his face unlined in sleep. Last night they could not get enough of each other. Indeed, the urgency of their coupling seemed to suggest they resented being two separate bodies. But now, with this new day, all that seemed gone. Like a fist when you open your hand.
Her wanton passion had now turned into astute apprehension. She didn’t know how to face him again. What tone should she use? Intimate, or just friendly? Caring or impartial? There were too many choices and not enough time.
Sick inside, she wondered how he would act when he awoke. What would be his assumptions? He could not have expected the hot little siren she’d become last night—would he expect more of the same in the future, perhaps another taken-for-granted perk of his star status?
He muttered something in his sleep, and his voice galvanized her into action.
She quickly dressed and ran a brush through her hair. Then she poked the fire to life and soon had a pot of coffee perking. As the aroma deepened and wafted throughout the cabin, it seemed to prod him awake.
“Remember,” his sleepy voice called from under the covers, “it ain’t strong enough unless you can—”
“Cut a plug off it,” she finished for him. “I know, cowboy. I’m a quick study.”
“Well, if you’ve got all that under control,” he suggested, his deep voice lazy and thick, “why’n’t you hop back in bed?”
His tone made it clear he wasn’t suggesting extra sleep.
“Maybe,” she proposed in a neutral voice, avoiding his eye, “we should talk about plans for returning? I really do need to get back.”
It sounded lame and cold even to her, but it was easier to make obvious excuses than to figure out the turmoil of her feelings right now.
“Sure,” he said after a long pause. “We can talk about going back.”
If a voice could frown, his just did. Clearly he could not believe this was the same woman who had left fingernail scratches stinging his back.
Here I am again, she thought desperately. Freezing him out because I can’t find the words or courage that I need.
He pulled on his jeans and stepped outside for a few moments. When he returned, he poured himself a cup of coffee.
“It’s warming up quick outside,” he told her, looking her flat in the eyes. “The snow that’s exposed to direct sun will melt right away. But that’s only the first snowmelt. Most snow actually falls in shadow pockets the sun can’t reach too well. It takes longer to melt—usually days.”
He frowned and spat his coffee into the sink. “Quick study, huh?” He poured the rest of his cup out.
“Anyhow,” he continued, staring at her as if he were trying very hard to see something that wasn’t there, “we’ve only got two realistic options. From here it’s only a one-camp ride down into Mystery Valley. So we can move quick before the first snowmelt gathers enough force to choke off the fords—”
“Or…?”
He stared directly into her eyes, letting her see the challenge revealed in his tone.
“Or we wait a week or so up here for both melts. Maybe have that honeymoon after all.”
She felt the panic rise in her chest. “I couldn’t,” she spoke up too quickly, realizing too late he was only being ironic.
“Whoa, Your Highness, don’t get all spooky on me. Neither could I. I’ve got a business to run down in the valley. So we’ll pull out right away this morning. But I’ll warn you right now, we’ll have to make good time. I’ve seen heavy rainstorms flood Thompson’s Creek. That happens, it closes the trail just below the pass. Snowmelt could do the same, so we have to move fast.”
She nodded, relief surging into her. They had to move fast now, and that meant less time for talking, less time for analyzing, less time to manufacture goodbyes.
She started gathering her things together, but something he’d just said prompted her to ask, “You mentioned a business you run in the valley? But Hazel told me you were helping a friend who operates a rodeo school?”
“I do, but that’s just a favor.” His eyes dismissed her.
She asked no more questions. Remorse was already setting in as she realized how wrong the morning had turned out. And it was her fault. The ice princess had returned, and she didn’t know how to make her go away.
They ate a hasty breakfast of leftover biscuits spread with honey. Neither one of them seemed to know where to look while eating, and her own feeble attempts at conversation died on her lips. He wasn’t interested, and why should he be? Last night she had literally climbed all over him; now she was scared and keeping him at arm’s length. From his perspective, she must seem like a Jekyll and Hyde of the heart.
After eating, they quickly rigged the horses for the homeward journey. At one point, still tormented, she almost got up her courage to break through the ice floe.
“A.J.?”
She watched him raise a stirrup out of his way and tighten the girth. Resentment was clear in the strong set of his features.
“Yeah?” he said, eyes never leaving his task.
Experience was a cruel master, and she feared what might happen if she gave up the safety of her own controlled isolation. So often, when she’d tried to open up to Joe, she’d only been crushed for her efforts. For her the best defense had become more defense.
“Nothing,” she finally replied. “I’m ready to ride.”
“Long as you got what you came for,” he said ambiguously as he swung into the saddle.
The downhill riding, once below the snow slopes, was far easier for their return trip. Yet, if anything, Jacquelyn found the descent into Mystery Valley even more awkward than their ascent to Eagle Pass.
Nonetheless, there wasn’t as much animosity simmering between them now, at least not so openly. Their conversations were stilted and at times peppered with sarcastic innuendos, true. But at least they got beyond a mere trading of insults.
“You asked me about my family,” he reminded her during their first stop to spell the horses. “And all about Jak
e’s. So what about yours? I mean besides the fact that your old man is trying to pave our cattle ranges. What’s it like growing up pretty and privileged?”
She took no offense at the “paved ranges” comment. On that score, at least, she felt the way he and the rest of the locals did.
She delayed answering for a few moments, breathing deeply of the clean, cool air. Narrow and winding Eagle Pass lay well above them now. She watched the horses stretch their necks toward a stream to drink, their muscles sharply defined in the coppery sunlight.
“I guess some people have called me pretty,” she told him, mustering a smile. “As for the ‘privileged’ part—my father loves to remind me there’s no such thing as a free lunch. For your information, he doesn’t give me a dollar of my money. I waitressed for four years in college to pay my living expenses. And I’ve worked since I graduated.”
“You sure stay busy,” he conceded, adding reluctantly, “and you do top-shelf work, too. Pardon me saying so, but I wish your pa cared as much about Mystery as you seem to.”
“He’s got different priorities,” she said, treading carefully.
He definitely seemed to be in a listening mood. So she tried to make him truly understand how difficult it was growing up the daughter of Eric Rousseaux, hypercritical perfectionist. How she had to be perfect all the time or face his devastating disapproval. But she couldn’t find the right words to fully convey what it was like, as a child, to die a little inside each day. Just as her mother had done.
“I guess,” he commented as they mounted their horses, “you can be an orphan in more ways than one. Tell me something else.”
She looked directly at him now, but he chose to feign interest in something out ahead of them on the trail.
“Maybe I will,” she replied. “What do you want to know?”
“Seems to me I remember past summers where some tall, tennis-player type used to fly out here to hang all over you. Haven’t heard about him being around this summer.”
The irony of that one made her flinch. “Not this one nor the next,” she assured him. As they rode on she told him a few succinct details about becoming the odd-woman-out for Joe and Gina.
The Cowboy Meets His Match Page 13