Stranded with the Groom

by Christine Rimmer

  “That I like kissing you?”

  She pretended to consider that question—which, truthfully, required no consideration at all—and then at last, she said, “I think you should kiss me again—just to make sure.”

  “Ah. To make sure…”

  “That’s right.”

  He cupped her face—cradled it, really. His hands were warm and cherishing against her cheeks. And then he lowered his head again and his mouth touched hers and…

  Oh, there was nothing like it. Kissing Justin.

  Kissing Justin was everything kissing ought to be. His mouth played on hers and his arms slid around her to hold her close and she felt his heart beating, hard and steady, against her breasts, keeping pace with hers.

  That time, when he lifted his head, she said in a voice gone husky with pleasure, “I’m getting it now. You like kissing me.”

  “Yeah. I do.”

  And to prove it, he kissed her again—a hard, deep, long one that melted her midsection and turned her knees to rubber.

  She clutched his shoulders and sagged against him, feeling very aroused, totally shameless. She liked this feeling. She liked it a lot. There was so much she’d been missing. Not anymore, though. “I don’t know. If you’re going to keep kissing me, I might just have to sit down.”

  “Let me help you with that.” He grabbed the nearest chair, spun it around and dropped into it—pulling her with him, onto his lap.

  Her breath hitched as she landed.

  “Better?” he asked.

  “Oh, I think…”

  He nuzzled her neck, pressed a burning kiss at the place where her pulse beat close to the skin. A lovely shiver went through her and she sighed.

  “You think what?” He breathed the words against her throat—and then he caught her earlobe between his teeth. He worried it, lightly, as she clutched his shoulders and sighed some more.

  “Oh, Justin…”

  His tongue touched the place where his teeth had been, a velvety moist caress. He licked the tender hollow behind her earlobe. Briefly, with the very tip of that bold tongue, he dipped into her ear.

  She let out a low moan. She was supposed to be telling him…something. The question was what. “I…well…”

  He threaded his fingers up into her hair and he brushed a line of butterfly-light kisses along her jaw. “What you think…”

  “Think?” The word sounded alien. Not surprising. At that moment, thinking was the last thing on her mind.

  He cradled the back of her head, holding her still, bringing his mouth a breath’s distance from hers. “You were telling me…what you think…”

  “I…well…”

  One corner of his mouth lifted in a knowing smile. “Well, what?”

  “I forgot.” And she had.

  She’d forgotten everything. Nothing mattered, at that moment, but this man and the drugging pleasure of his hands on her body, his mouth so close to hers. “Kiss me. Again.”

  He obeyed. His mouth covered hers and she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back with boundless enthusiasm.

  This time when they came up for air, he took her by the waist and held her away from him. “We’d better stop.” His voice was rough—almost curt.

  She started to argue. She didn’t want to stop. But maybe he was right. Where could they go from here, except to the bed with the pineapple finials?

  Was she ready for that yet?

  As much as she liked kissing him and feeling his hands on her body…as much as she liked him…as much as she couldn’t help but start to think that there was something very special going on here, between them…

  That was a big, fat…maybe. Even given what she’d decided that morning—about the lack of sex of any kind in her life, about how she was going to stop being a cliché. Even given all that, well, they didn’t need to rush this, did they? There was nothing that said they couldn’t take their time. Though she was determined to get herself a sex life one of these days very soon—and with Justin—she was old-fashioned in some ways. She believed making love should be special. And it shouldn’t be rushed.

  He smoothed a wild curl of hair off her cheek. “Listen.” His eyes teased—and burned, too. “I want you to get up. And I want you to do it very carefully.”

  She frowned, and then she understood. Oh, my. Yes. She could feel him and it was just like out in the shed the day before. He was very happy to be near her.

  “Oh. Oh, well. You’re, uh—”

  “Katie.”

  “Uh. Yeah?”

  “We don’t need a lot of discussion here.”

  “Oh. Well, no. Of course, we don’t.” She put her feet on the floor and stood, backing off a little. Her gaze dropped to—oops. Blinking, she yanked her chin up and gave him a nervous smile. “Is that better?”

  “Not really.” The chair legs scraped the floor as he turned to face the table—a deft movement, in spite of the pained grunt that accompanied it. Now his lap, and the obvious bulge there, was hidden by the tabletop. “In a few minutes, I’ll be fine.”

  “Well. Good.”

  He folded his hands on the tabletop. “It would help if you wouldn’t stand there looking so damn…thoroughly kissed.”

  Her wobbly smile widened. “But Justin. I am thoroughly kissed.”

  He commanded sternly, “Think of an activity. One that doesn’t involve kissing.”

  She pretended to give his request great thought. “Well, now…we could go out and visit Buttercup again.”

  He scowled. “Let me qualify. Something that doesn’t involve kissing or that mean old mare.”

  “Hmm. It’s a tough one.”

  He shifted in his chair, wincing. “Work with it.”

  An idea came to her. “I know. We could tour the museum.”

  “Why? I’ve seen it.”

  “Now, wait a minute. I’ll admit, you’ve seen about all there is to see in the central room. But the two side rooms…why, Justin, you’ve hardly had a look. And you know, on second thought, you’ve only slept in the central room. That’s not the same as a tour.”

  He let out a dry chuckle. “I’ve been up close and personal with that dinky narrow cot of mine. Isn’t that enough?”

  “Oh, no. You have to see it all. I insist. The rich and varied history of Thunder Canyon is right here, only a few steps away. You owe it to yourself to explore it.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Don’t get so excited,” she instructed, deadpan.

  He tipped his head toward his lap. “I’m trying.”

  She couldn’t help it, she burst into a laugh—and then she frowned. “You know, now I think about it, it’s not really fair that I always get the big bed.”

  “Katie. I’m fine with the cot.”

  “But still, it’s only right that we—”

  “Stop. I love that cot of mine and you can’t have it. Now, I want you to go on ahead of me, reconnoiter the display rooms, get your tour guide rap down pat. Let me, er, relax a little here.”

  She decided not to remark on what might need relaxing. “Hey, we could even take some rags in there, dust the display cases…”

  He sent her a pained look. “The fun never ends.”

  She was dusting a case full of old gold-panning equipment in the south room when he joined her. She handed him a rag and one of the two bottles of spray cleaner she’d found in the storage room.

  “I thought this was a tour,” he groused. But he was grinning as he took the rag and bottle.

  “The museum is a community effort,” she told him tartly. “We all have to pitch in.”

  “Hey. I’m all for that.” He saluted her with the spray bottle.

  They set to work dusting the cases. As they sprayed and polished, she explained about the Montana gold rush that had begun in Idaho, with the Salmon River strike. “Gold fever came to Montana in 1862. John White and company, en route to the Salmon River mines, found gold on the way—at Grasshopper Creek.” She paused to point out the e
xact location on the big laminated territorial map on the wall. “Bannack—” She pointed again. “—Montana’s first boomtown, sprang up during that rush.”

  “Just like in the reenactment Saturday.”

  “That’s right.” She beamed at him. “For a man who didn’t have the benefit of a Montana education, you’re a very good student.”

  “Thank you. I try.”

  “Shall I continue?”

  “By all means.”

  So she explained that the gold rush had lasted into the early 1890s, starting with placer mining and then, as the streams petered out, panning and sluicing gave way to hardrock mining. “There were a number of mines right here in the Thunder Canyon area. Caleb still owns one, as a matter of fact. It’s called the Queen of Hearts.”

  “So I heard.”

  “From Caleb?”

  “More or less.” At her questioning look, he explained, “I’m in business with Caleb. My people have gone over his books, with Caleb’s full knowledge and consent, of course. As a result, I know a lot about what his assets are, as well as which pies he’s got his fingers in. I understand the gold mine’s been shut down for years. ‘Played out,’ isn’t that what they say in the trade?”

  “That’s exactly what they say—and I’ll bet you didn’t know that Caleb’s great-grandfather, Amos Douglas, won the Queen in a card game.” She sprayed and rubbed with her cloth. “Or so the legend goes.”

  “Fascinating.”

  She glanced his way, and found he was watching her. Her body went warm all over. “Less staring, more cleaning,” she advised.

  Once they’d finished in the mining display, she took him to the central room, where they dusted the tables and she told him the origins of the most interesting pieces.

  She gestured grandly with her dusting rag in the direction of the big bed with the pineapple finials and the heavy, dark bureaus, vanity set, bed tables and chairs that surrounded it. “This bedroom suite was used at the Lazy D during Amos Douglas’s time. It’s of the finest mahogany.”

  “Only the best for the Douglases.” There was something in his tone—something way too ironic, even cynical. She sent him a puzzled look, but he only shrugged and bent to dust a bedside table.

  And she had to agree with him. “It’s true. Only the best. For generations, the Douglases have been the wealthiest, most influential family in the area.”

  “Don’t forget to dust those pineapples.”

  “That’s right. If you don’t watch it, I may still have to throw one at you. I want it dust-free if I do.” She reached up—but the intricately carved end-piece was too high. She couldn’t get her rag around it.

  Justin stepped closer. “Allow me.”

  Her pulse kicked up a notch, just to have him standing so near, eyes gleaming at her with humor and heat. “Oh, by all means.” She bowed and moved back and he did the honors.

  Once every surface in the central room had been wiped clean of dust, they proceeded to the north addition, where the personal artifacts of life in Territorial and early-statehood Montana waited to be admired—and the cases that protected them, dusted.

  Justin went straight to the tall case containing a mannequin in a faded red satin dress. Cinched tight at the wasp-thin waste, the dress had a deep neckline and lots of black lace trim. The mannequin wore several ropes of fake pearls around her neck, a thick bracelet of glittering jet stones and an ostrich feather in her pinned-up hair. In one hand, she carried a black fan edged with lace. The other hand held the red skirt high, revealing a froth of red and black petticoats—and a fancy black silk garter.

  Justin wolf-whistled. “Love that red dress.”

  Katie grinned. “That dress belonged to one of Thunder Canyon’s most memorable early citizens. The Shady Lady, Lily Divine.”

  “Is this the part where I say, ‘Ooh-la-la’?”

  “That would be appropriate, yes. Back in, oh, 1890 or so, Lily owned the Shady Lady Sporting House and Saloon. The building still stands at the corner of Main and Thunder Canyon Road, though the place is now a restaurant and bar called the Hitching Post. The original bar from the Shady Lady is still there, in the building. And a very risqué painting of Lily hangs above it.”

  “Risqué, how?”

  “In it she wears nothing but a few wisps of strategically draped semitransparent cloth.”

  “I have to see that.”

  “And if it ever stops snowing, you just might.”

  He tipped his head toward the low case beside the mannequin in the red dress. “A few of Lily Divine’s things, I take it?”

  “That’s right.” Katie moved in beside him. They looked down at the tortoise shell dresser set in a gold floral design studded with rhinestones, at the black lace gloves and the faded filmy undergarments. There was even a corset—a black one, dripping with red silk ribbons.

  “It looks to me like the Shady Lady was a very fun gal.”

  Katie shrugged. “So they say. And not only fun, but a suffragist, as well. Or so some accounts claim.” He looked up from the case and when their eyes met, she realized she never wanted to look away.

  Back to the Shady Lady, some wiser voice in the distant recesses of her mind instructed.

  She tuned out that wiser voice. “Oh, Justin…” The two words escaped her lips, full of hope and longing, and having nothing at all to do with either the notorious Lily Divine, or with getting the dusting done.

  He whispered her name.

  Her heart seemed to expand in the prison of her chest.

  And at that moment, not to kiss him…

  Well, that was impossible. It just wouldn’t do.

  She set down her rag and her spray bottle on the glass case beside her. He did the same.

  “Justin,” she whispered, thinking she should really try a little harder to resist the overwhelming urge to feel his lips on hers.

  “Katie…”

  A long moment elapsed. She looked at him and he looked back at her and—

  “Oh, Justin, I think we’re in trouble here.”

  He only nodded. His eyes said he knew exactly what kind of trouble she meant.

  “We shouldn’t,” she whispered. “We told ourselves we wouldn’t.”

  “That’s right,” he agreed, his voice rough and low. “No more kissing.”

  “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Things could…get out of control.”

  “Easily.”

  “It’s crazy.”

  “Wild…”

  “Dangerous…”

  “Oh, I know,” she said.

  And then he reached for her.

  With a glad cry, she reached back. His arms went around her and all doubt fled.

  Eager and oh-so-willing, she lifted her mouth to receive his kiss.

  Chapter Seven

  “We…have to…be careful…” He whispered the words between quick, hungry kisses.

  She nodded. “Oh. Yes. Careful. You’re so right.”

  His mouth closed on hers again, drugging. Magical. She slid her hands up his broad chest to wrap them around his neck, and he caught her wrists. He guided them down, so her arms were straight at her sides.

  His fingers slipped over the backs of her hands and he wove them between hers, lightly rubbing—in and out and in again, never quite clasping, flesh brushing flesh, little tingles of excitement zipping through her with every featherlight caress. All the while, as his fingers teased hers, he kissed her, his tongue sweeping her mouth, his lips hot and soft and oh-so-tender.

  She moaned as he finally twined his fingers with hers, tightening, curling his hands to fists, so her hands were cradled in his palms, her fingers captured between his. A thoroughly willing captive, she smiled against his lips as he guided her hands around behind her.

  Their joined fists resting at the small of her back, he kissed her some more. She sighed at the wonder of it, and gave her mouth up to his.

  After forever of the two of them kissing and kissing as if they would never stop
, he began walking her backward.

  She stumbled at first, surprised. A giddy laugh escaped her; he chuckled in response.

  Quickly, she regained her balance, and, as he guided her, she backed up toward the open door to the central room. It was like a dance, a beautiful, slow, erotic dance.

  He waltzed her through the open doorway, his mouth locked to hers. On they went, slow, delicious step by slow step, to the turn in the roped-off walkway, and then down toward the wide, high bed that had once graced a guest room at the Lazy D.

  There, with only a stretch of rope keeping them from the waiting bed, he paused. She swayed in his hold, her mouth fused to his.

  A small cry of loss escaped her when he lifted his head. He eased his strong fingers free of hers and stepped back.

  “We should stop now.”

  For a suspended moment, she gazed up into his gleaming eyes. And then, with a sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You know, you keep saying that.”

  His arms closed around her, tight and warm. She felt the sweet brush of his lips in her hair as she breathed in the scent of him: of the motel-issue shampoo they’d both used, of his clean skin and a faint hint of the inexpensive aftershave he’d found in the brown bag. “I know I keep saying it,” he muttered against her hair. “I just don’t seem to be listening to myself when I say it.”

  She lifted her head and captured his blue, blue gaze again. Boldly, she suggested, “We could just go ahead and slip under the rope. We could kick off our shoes, stretch out on the bed….”

  His arms dropped away. “And then what?”

  She swallowed. “Well, and then, we could…take it from there.”

  “Take it from there,” he repeated, gruffly. “I’d like that. Way too much. But we can’t lose our heads here. We’ve got to be sensible.”

  Now she was the one repeating after him. “Sensible.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “I have to admit, I don’t feel all that sensible recently. Not since I met you.”

  That brought a smile to his beautiful mouth. “All my fault, then.”

  She tipped her chin higher. “No. This thing between us, it’s fifty-fifty. You’re not leading me anywhere I don’t want to go.”