Beauty and the Beastmaster (The Masterson Series Book 1)

by Carol Devine

  "You don't have to be afraid," he whispered.

  He cupped the back of her head with a large hand. She screwed her eyes shut, wanting to believe him, but her problem wasn't faith. Much as she wanted to deny it, this man had already proven himself worthy of trust. What she worried about was her own susceptibility to his charms. Her profession required a cool head and a sterling reputation, not only in public life, but in private. Yet here she was, contemplating the impossible. An affair between a Beastmaster and a Tarkenton.

  She could hear the jokes already.

  Nevertheless, the warmth in her belly grew hot. The only thing that saved her from making a fool of herself was the fact that he didn't seem to notice. His murmured inanities were meant to soothe, not arouse. She tried to take them in the way they were intended, tried to pretend she only needed his protection and temporarily at that. But grown-up needs kept intruding.

  How long has it been since a man held her like this? Too many days, weeks, months, years. Never ever, she finished, reluctance replaced by a gnawing regret. Never before and never again because she couldn't allow it to happen. Feelings this good would rob her of ambition, of independence. As if to punctuate her thought, the hug became a flight into fancy. This man held her and funny things happened to her body. Wonderful things. Too wonderful.

  She tried to pull away. He wouldn't let her. Here he had the advantage, both in strength and purpose, and she yielded, relieved, yet ashamed of her relief. What had happened? Where was her backbone, her better judgment? Gone, she thought.

  Literally swept away.

  Tasha, she admonished. Remember Tasha. This was for the tiger. Bram didn't care about Amanda Tarkenton, the woman.

  Especially when that woman was suing him for half a million dollars. If she were smart, she'd never concede the lawsuit, no matter what she discovered on his ranch. If she were really smart, she'd tell him so right now, turn around and go home.

  Instead she sighed, the sound a whisper among the muted noises of the night. The ranch. She wanted to see the ranch. She wanted to see him there, surrounded by what he deemed important. Was it wrong to wish to know him better?

  Beneath her cheek his heart thumped steady and strong and for once in her life, she allowed that strength to fill and comfort her.

  For now.

  Chapter Nine

  Bram had never held a woman like this for so long without the expectation of raw sex driving him. He noticed things he normally missed in the heat of passion. The flutter of an eyelash at the base of his throat. The bone on her inner elbow nestled in his shoulder. The quiver of tendons stretched upward from her waist. The intimacy of these things bothered him. He didn't even like this woman. He would have ended their embrace abruptly except Tasha watched and Tasha would take such a move as rejection. Following his lead, she would never accept Amanda. Then the lawsuit would never go away.

  Despite her above-average height, Amanda was built narrow with a slenderness which caused him concern. Every time he'd touched her, he'd noticed it. She really should eat more. The scent of her hair mingled with the musky smell of earth and damp night, remaining elusive, disturbing him. He resisted the impulse to pluck the pins from the bound-up strands, to bury his nose in it, to sift its length between his fingers. That would send his noble intentions flying out the window. But there was no window. Only the magic of the night, making him think dangerously.

  He let her go by slow degrees, slipping his hands from her narrow waist. The slide of silk became a memory, one he put away when she pulled back and their eyes met. She looked different somehow, vulnerable, and a hardness shifted within his chest, a hardness he didn't want to lose.

  "This was a stupid idea," he said bluntly. "I'll go back to the car and call the ranch. Someone will come out and pick me and Tasha up."

  "But it worked. She'd not staring at us anymore."

  Stepping to the car window, Bram peered in. Behind the glass, Tasha sprawled, stirring only long enough to acknowledge him sleepily before her head flopped back on the armrest. I give up, she seemed to say. Have it your way. Which was exactly what he was afraid of.

  He set his hands on the car roof, his mouth grim. You sure you want to come with us now? It's getting pretty late."

  "We've gone this far. I may as well go the rest. You don't mind driving, do you? Suddenly I feel totally wiped out."

  He couldn't refuse, not when she admitted feeling as weary and defenseless as she looked. From that point on, he ordered her around like a martinet, especially when she knuckled her eyes after they got going and laid her head against the window. "Talk to me," he said to keep her from falling asleep.

  She told him about a case she was working on, about how an eighty-two year old man had been beaten senseless and spent six weeks in the hospital, recovering. Now that the trial had finally come, she was afraid he'd die of old age before he could ID the perpetrators. Her concern came through loud and clear, prompting more questions. How they ended up debating the strengths and weaknesses of the legal system, he didn't know. He only knew he enjoyed the discussion immensely. He didn't often go out of his way to prove he wasn't the big, dumb jock everyone supposed.

  He also didn't like how he would glance over when he thought she wasn't looking or how eerily accurate his senses had become, especially where she was concerned. He didn't like how he shoved a glass of brandy in her hand as soon as he got her into the house and forced her to wait in the living room in front of the fireplace, curled up in his most comfortable chair while he put together a couple of sandwiches. He shouldn't be able to tell if her nerves needed calming. He also cursed the little bit she ate and the catch in her voice as he kept her talking, always talking.

  He didn't want to know she was tired, didn't want to worry about her driving that long way back to Denver. Speed was his only ally. In and out and off the ranch. The double entendre didn't escape him and he inwardly cursed, knowing it had sprung from his subconscious and was thus twice as dangerous. What he had to do was keep her at more than arm's length. He had to circumvent his attraction to her with every weapon he had at his disposal, to the point of meanness.

  He put his back to her by getting up to shift the crackling logs in the hearth. When she tried to pick up on their previous conversation, he answered in monosyllables, letting the silence become awkward between them. When he broached the tour, she jumped on it as though bored silly. Even that didn't make him feel better. He told her to wait a minute as he gathered the dishes to take them back to the kitchen and grabbed an extra coat from the peg by the back door. The midnight air was chilly.

  "Come on," he called from the door way, letting impatience taint his voice because she wouldn't know it stemmed from his remembering how golden she looked in firelight.

  She didn't answer.

  "Amanda?"

  He meant to say her name loudly but her silence conspired against him. His voice came out husky, tuned barely above a whisper. Exasperated, he rounded the chair, tossing the coat from hand to hand. he was asleep, her head propped against the winged leather back. Reflected fire tipped her nose amber and her high cheekbones a ruddy pink. Her hair mirrored the flames.

  "Amanda," he whispered urgently, realizing if he didn't wake her now, he never would. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he prodded, but couldn't bring himself to be anything other than gentle. After all she'd been through tonight, he owed her that much. Muttering, she shifted. He caught her head before it rolled forward and smacked the leather armrest.

  Now what? He stood like a gawky teenager, trying not to touch her except for cradling her head in his hand. He didn't need this. Dropping the coat, he knelt to check the depth of her sleep.

  Faint blue lines lay under the delicate skin of her eyelids. Bram traced them with his eyes, on odd pang in his chest. What had she said in the garage of her office building? That she'd worked a fifteen hour day? Judging by the fatigue bruising the skin under her lashes, fifteen hour days were a regular thing. No wonder she'd fallen asleep.


  Pulled by a memory, Bram touched her hair, knowing he would regret being caught in the act if she woke. He slid it between his fingers, the look of it like honey in the dancing firelight. He really should stop, wake her, give her the tour and if need be, drive her back to Denver. His truck was still parked on the bottom level of her office building's garage.

  Her unconsciousness tempted him into discarding the notion, at least for the moment. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. He spread his hand, letter her curls tickle his palm. His gaze wandered from her hair to her face. She had fine skin, the texture like smooth cream. A tiny mole alongside her mouth emphasized its perfection. He tried to picture the men in her past, whom she'd loved and how, but the images wouldn't come. He could no longer dismiss her by indulging in tawdry sexual fantasy. Her intelligence, her sheer dignity got in the way.

  Carefully he guided her head so that it rested against the chair back. Her eyes moved beneath the closed lids. Drawing her knees up, she turned on her side and snuggled deeper into the cushions. Bram held his breath, not wanting her to wake yet half hoping she would. If she woke, she'd go home. If she went home, he'd never have to see her again.

  He stretched, switching on a nearby floor lamp. Harsh light spilled on her face but she slept on, although her brow wrinkled. It had the pale cast of someone who rarely saw sun. If she exercised, she must do it indoors, on a Stairmaster or stationary bike. No fun in that. No sun or fresh air or friendly competition. Only hard, monotonous work. Knowing her, she probably read legal briefs as she panted along.

  He remember the stacks of files in her office the rows of well-thumbed law books, the crumpled candy wrappers on the credenza behind her desk. Judging by what she ate tonight, granola bars replaced many a meal, probably while she burned the midnight oil in that no-nonsense office of hers.

  Bram sat back on his haunches. Her looks alone guaranteed a life of leisure on the arm of a wealthy man. Her name ensured it. He knew she was independently wealthy. Her famous father had left her a considerable trust fund. Why toil in the Denver D.A.'s office when she didn't have to? The question might be politically incorrect in the age of women's rights, but he thought the answer important. His ex-wife had made a career of living off the men in her life. What made Amanda Tarkenton different?

  Bram lowered his chin and rubbed it along his sleeve. She'd told him little about herself tonight. Instead she'd gotten him talking about values and ethics and moral dilemmas. Yet in all that talk, the issue of the lawsuit remained unresolved. He did have a legitimate reason to keep her here.

  Thoughtful, he knuckled his chin. In a roundabout way, he could leave the decision up to her. He could carry her upstairs to bed. If she woke, she'd insist on leaving, he knew. If she didn't, he'd let her sleep as long as need be. Sure, she'd be mad come morning. But he found himself looking forward to the fight. For once, he'd be on solid ground. She was the one who'd fallen asleep. And she'd get more rest here than she would after traveling back to Denver in the middle of the night.

  Rising, he eased one arm beneath her shoulders, the other under the crook of her knees. She stirred and whimpered, mewling like a kitten. The whimper made him life quickly, maybe too quickly. A slight shudder shook the thick muscles of his biceps and he realized too late that the strain wasn't about her waking. It was about the feel of her in his arms. Awareness grasped him, making him conscious of the silky spill of her hair against his skin, the woman scent of lotion, powder and secrets.

  He held her high against his chest and crossed the room. The crown of her head fit beneath his chin. He stifled a groan as the image came of her lying full-length against him in a much more intimate way. A tangle of legs, of skin against skin, flesh within flesh. Arousal made a mockery of his good intentions. He climbed the stairs with some difficulty, half annoyed, half bemused, realizing the joke was definitely on him.

  Admit it, Masterson. He'd made the mistake of a lifetime when he'd picked her out of the audience so many weeks ago. No one had ever driven him half as crazy.

  His unmade bed didn't help his fervent imagination. Without bothering with the overhead light, he laid her on the side nearest the bathroom, pulled off her shoes and wristwatch and covered her with the sheet, further nobility beyond him. Removing her clothes might be a considerate but an extremely dangerous gesture. The cold shower that had become necessary would be torture enough.

  Bram straightened. Moonbeams from the skylight above lined her tangled curls, giving them life against the navy blue pillowcase. He closed his fists, resisting the insane urge to plunge his hands there, to drag her up and awake, to bring her flush against his body and drive into her until mindless release came. For it wouldn't be release he found with her.

  He faded back, retreating from the moonlight. She flipped on her side. Her hand curled upon the pillow and he recalled how she was scarecrow thin, how she worked too hard, how she pushed and pried when she shouldn't, how contemptuous she was of wrestling, of what he did to earn his living.

  She took life too seriously. He didn't need that. He needed light and impersonal. Tomorrow morning, light and impersonal was what he would get.

  Chapter Ten

  Amanda snuggled close to the warm fur, tickled by the decadence of bringing her mink to bed. Why hadn't she thought of it before now? She hadn't realized how wonderful it felt to cuddle its warm, opulent length. Sliding a leg up, she buried her knee in deep. She frowned, suddenly aware that she was wearing panty hose. Since when did she start going to bed with hose on?

  Nylon chafed her inner thighs, making her aware of other small hurts as well: rolls of fabric choking her waist; something sharp digging into the tender skin under her left breast. Amanda opened her eyes, realization dawning through her dreams. She'd fallen asleep with her clothes on, bra and hose included.

  Her vision focused on the fur. The mink's deep glossy brown of her imagination was actually a strange pattern of black and orange and white. She blinked in puzzlement as her knee rose without warning, driven by the shift of warm fur under her leg.

  Tasha.

  Amanda finally understood what was happening and screamed. Sheets and blankets flew. Her knees thudded on carpet and she bit her tongue while one arm stayed on the mattress, caught in percale, the geometric pattern an unfamiliar navy and maroon.

  Tugging frantically, Amanda tasted blood and put up her free hand in a paltry attempt to defend herself from the tiger. Beyond her trembling fingers, she spied Tasha sprawled across the full-length of the bed, head swiveling to regard Amanda with a sleepy eye. Yawning mightily, she rolled on her back into the spot Amanda had just vacated and stretched her chin to the ceiling before resettling into sleep. A wide, black-padded paw waved before bending limply at the joint.

  Swallowing, Amanda sat up.

  "Good morning to you, too," said a deep male voice.

  She turned and was faced with a pair of tanned and bony knees. V-shaped muscle drew the eye upward. She was saved total embarrassment by the rough blue towel which covered the rest of his massive thighs. Amanda quickly dropped her gaze.

  "Cat got your tongue?" Bram asked, his tone teasing. "And here I thought you two ladies had reached an understanding."

  Here we go again, Amanda thought and exhaled a gusty sigh. Morning he'd said. It was morning. Which meant she'd spent the night. What that meant, she wasn't prepared to contemplate. Her groggy gaze slid to the tangled sheets imprisoning her arm, took in the wide expanse of the enormous bed, big enough for a woman, a tiger and… a Beastmaster.

  Lord, what had happened? She remembered a cozy stone fireplace and a wide leather chair, the tang of wood smoke evoking a feeling of hominess. Sitting there, she'd munched a sandwich and listened while he'd waxed poetic on a wide range of subjects, the meld of corned beef and mustard luscious on her tongue. Masterson made a mean sandwich. He also knew how to hold up his end of a conversation. Despite her fatigue, she'd enjoyed the surprising exchange.

  After that, she remembered a wash of we
ariness but little else. She must have fallen asleep in that comfortable chair. How she'd ended up here, in this bed, she didn't know. He very well may have carried her. A shiver ran through her at the thought.

  "What did you do?" she asked. "Drug me?"

  "If you consider brandy and decent food a drug. You fell asleep in front of the fireplace. I didn't have the heart to wake you."

  "You should have," she retorted, nonplussed by his admission. Twenty-four hours ago she'd have sworn this man didn't have a heart. Now she knew firsthand he did. A large heart which encompassed both jealous tigers and tired women. Hard to believe anyone who tossed huge men around a ring could possess admirable traits like compassion and kindness.

  "You needed the sleep."

  "I needed to get home," she said, knuckling her eyes so she wouldn't have to admit he was right. Just hearing the concern in his voice gave her goose bumps. Admiring his body's perfection was one thing. Admiring his character, quite another. "I told you last night I had to leave at a reasonable hour. I've got too much to do this weekend and I'm not in the habit of sleeping in strange beds."

  "We're hardly strangers, Amanda."

  Her head snapped up at this confirmation of her worst fear. Shaving cream covered half his jaw. The pristine foam set off his tan and the mischievous glint of his eyes, sending an unwelcome thrill through her. Some men looked good in anything. Masterson was one of them.

  "We're hardly friends, either," she said.

  "Speak for yourself."

  He said it with such good humor, she knew he meant exactly what he said. But she chose to put the worst possible connotation on it. They were enemies, on opposite sides of a lawsuit. Somehow they had to stay that way no matter how decent and likeable he was. Otherwise she'd do something really stupid, like throw herself at his long, well-shaped feet.

  Stifling a groan, she lurched upward, smoothing her skirt down from hip to knee. Her most haughty glare only made him grin. Before she could protest, he reached out and hooked a handful of hair behind her ear.