Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  She closed her eyes as his mouth touched hers, her lips fluttering under his kiss and he felt the fire grow in intensity. One kiss was not enough. He pulled her closer, wrapping his good arm around her, ignoring the slight pain the movement caused. A tiny moan escaped her lips. With ruthless precision, he used the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Their tongues met, thrusting and retreating, dueling for some unknown prize.

  He felt his manhood press against the soft flesh at the apex of her thighs. He could actually feel the warmth of her through the thin satin. Perhaps the prize was not unknown after all. He imagined how tight she'd be, how hot and tight.

  With a groan, he moved his mouth, trailing moist kisses down the side of her neck. She threw her head back, allowing him access, her eyes still closed. Pushing back the edge of her wrapper, he kissed the soft alabaster skin of her shoulder, his hand slipping between the satiny sides of the robe.

  He felt her nipple tighten as he rolled it lightly between thumb and forefinger, satisfied when she moaned his name. Exchanging lips for hand, he circled the taut bud with the tip of his tongue, enjoying the contrast between her nipple and the silken skin of her breast, his own body pounding for release. He could feel the fire building, threatening to consume him.

  Lifting his head, he found her lips again, his tongue invading the hot, wet sanctity of her mouth. She pressed herself to him and he placed his hand on her bottom, pulling her closer, nestling his shaft tightly against the hot crevice between her thighs.

  He tangled his other hand in her spun gold curls, feeling the fine strands wrap around his fingers, clinging with almost a life of their own. He wondered momentarily what it would feel like to wrap himself in her hair. God, she was magnificent.

  Cara tried to think rationally, but it was impossible. This was the stuff of her dreams. She moaned and pressed herself closer, feeling him hard against her, his heat burning through her robe. She wanted nothing more than to encase him, feel him drive deep inside her again and again. Her tongue mimicked her thoughts and she felt him answer her need with his own.

  She ran her hands across the warm skin of his back, feeling the hard muscle encased in sun-bronzed flesh. His beard rasped against her face and she reveled in the contrast of the velvety touch of his lips. The smell of him surrounded her, teasing her with its potency, pheromones hinting of things to come.

  His hands cupped her face and he kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her neck. Slowly, surely, he moved downward, until she thought she'd scream with the need for him. His lips closed again on her breast and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. He nipped and played, enticing the shy bud into an appearance. With each touch and tug, she felt the tightness within her ratcheting up another notch, until she was strung so tightly she thought she would explode.

  Her robe hung open now, her body exposed to his hands and lips. She ought to feel like a wanton, but instead she burned with a passion so strong it threatened to engulf her. His teasing hand finally reached the soft curls the guarded her secret place. Sensation shot through her and she arched against him, a moan escaping from somewhere deep inside of her.

  His mouth found hers, and she opened it freely, giving him everything she had. As their kiss grew more frantic, his hand grew more bold and she realized suddenly that she was actually hearing bells.

  Bells.

  Her mind slammed in gear and she jerked back, gasping for breath. "It's the doorbell." His breathing was labored, too, and the evidence of their passion was taut against the denim of his jeans. He ran a hand through his hair, looking as bemused as she felt. "There's someone at the door." She belted her robe tightly around her waist and tried to smooth back the wild strands of her hair.

  They both turned sharply at the sound of a key in the lock. Cara reacted first. "Quick, get in the bedroom."

  He stood rooted to the spot, watching the doorway to the mud room with narrowed eyes. "Who do you think it is?" The words erupted with a staccato burst.

  "My housekeeper. She probably just came by to drop off some supplies. Now, go." She tried to keep her voice on an even note, but a thread of anxiety slipped in. "She wouldn't endanger you, but to be safe, I think you should stay out of sight. I'll try to get rid of her."

  Michael considered her words and finally, with a terse nod, spun on his heels and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Forcing a smile, she walked forward ready to deal with Roberta.

  "Cara? Are you in there?"

  She came full stop, her mind shifting gears, confusion warring with surprise. Not Roberta. Nick Vargas. But he didn't have a key. As if to contradict the fact, the man belonging to the voice stepped out of the mud room, a key dangling from one finger. She frowned. How the hell had Nick gotten a key to her house?

  "There you are, darling." He smiled beguilingly. "Why didn't you answer the door?"

  She eyed him warily. He was good looking in a smooth sort of way. All blond hair and tanned skin, his face youthful in appearance. One would never guess that he was over forty. "I was in the shower." She waved a hand absently at her robe. "How is it you happen to have a key to my house?"

  "I sweet-talked Roberta into letting me borrow hers." The smile broadened, impishly charming, intended no doubt to disarm, but Cara wasn't buying. She'd known Nick most of her life. As a young man, he hadn't paid any attention to her. She'd been little more than a child. But now that she'd returned to Colorado as an adult, things had changed.

  He'd been pursuing her diligently. Offering picnics in the mountains, moonlit hikes, even the pretense of being interested in her paintings. Until today, however, he'd been more of a nuisance than anything else. And despite it all, she'd managed to keep him at arm's length without being rude. But, just at the moment, he was pushing his luck.

  "Why would you need a key, Nick?" She tried to keep her voice neutral, but couldn't stop the tremor of anger that colored her words.

  "Why, Cara mia, you wound me with your suspicions."

  "Don't call me that."

  He reached out and twined a rebellious strand of her hair around his finger, tugging slightly so that she was forced to step closer. "Little Cara, always playing hard to get." His eyes raked downwards, stripping the robe off with a look.

  She pulled her hair free and stepped back, pressing the lapels of her robe together.

  "Nick, you haven't told me why you're here."

  He leaned against the counter, crossing his long legs, his perfectly creased pants riding up to show argyle socks. Cara sighed and waited.

  "I was worried."

  "Worried? About what?" She frowned, puzzled by the turn of the conversation.

  A loud thud echoed from the bedroom. Nick glanced at the closed door, golden eyebrows raised in question.

  "The cat." Cara plastered on what she hoped was a reassuring smile.

  "I didn't know you had a cat."

  She racked her brains for a reasonable answer. She had never been a good liar. "She's new—to keep me from getting lonely." She met his gaze, holding hers steady.

  He smiled slowly. "You don't need a cat, Cara mia. You have me." His tone was teasing, but the banter wasn't reflected in his eyes.

  She ignored the remark and the endearment. "I asked you why you were worried."

  He shrugged. "I was afraid something had happened to you."

  Well that was an understatement. She tried to keep her face pleasantly neutral, sort of the prom-queen-stuck-on-a-float look. "Why would you think something happened to me?"

  "Because, darling." He paused provocatively and the word ran down her spine, curling around her, suffocating her. "You stood me up."

  "I did?" She eyed him skeptically.

  "Yes. You promised to come by the bar." He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  "Oh God, Nick, I'm sorry. I forgot all about you." He had asked her to come by. They'd been supposed to have lunch. Yesterday.

  His face darkened, taking on a sardonic look. "And here I thought you might have nee
d of rescue."

  She held out a hand. "I didn't mean it like that. You know I'd never stand you up on purpose. Something came up and I forgot all about it. Forgive me, please." She might not be willing to jump in his bed, but he deserved better than a brush off.

  The anger faded and his lips twisted into an ironic grin. "I hope it was more than the cat that kept you away."

  "The cat?"

  "Yes, your new pet."

  Damn, she really had to bone up on this lying thing. "As a matter a fact, it was the cat."

  He waited patiently for her explanation, his foot swinging lazily against the cabinet under the counter.

  "She's a stray. I found her a couple of days ago out by the trash. She looked so pitiful. Skinny and lonely and, well, as it turns out, sick. She has ear mites. Kept her up all night, poor baby. So I spent a good part of yesterday in Del Norte at the vet." She shot him what she hoped was an apologetic look.

  "Ah, Cara, my angel. Always taking care of the misfits." He rose and crossed the space between them. "But now perhaps you can spare some time for me?" His words were a question, his tone was not.

  "Of course. Why don't I meet you in town, later."

  "But you're here and I'm here, why not now?" He trailed a finger down her cheek. "Besides, as much as I love your company, Cara mia, I have some business I'd like to take care of."

  There was obviously no getting rid of him, but she be damned if she'd continue this conversation in her robe. "Fine. Why don't you make yourself comfortable and I'll get dressed."

  "Are you sure you don't want a little help?"

  "No, thank you, I can manage. I'll be back in a sec." She fled into the bedroom and leaned against the closed door, her breath coming in short gasps.

  "Who the hell is he?" Michael's whispered words made her jump.

  "Just an acquaintance."

  "He seemed a little more than that to me."

  She glared at him. Enough was enough. She was not a pawn for Nick and Michael to throw around like a football. "I think he'd like to be, but he isn't," she spoke quietly, through clenched teeth.

  "I'm sorry." His voice softened and his apology reached all the way to the crystal depths of his cobalt eyes.

  She smiled weakly. "Look, I've got to get dressed or he's going to come in here."

  Michael stepped back and waved at the room behind him. "Your room is mine."

  Suppressing a laugh, she walked to the dresser and began pulling out clothes with no thought as to what she was grabbing. Then, with garments in hand, she eyed him thoughtfully. "Turn your back."

  He raised an eyebrow, but didn't budge.

  "Unless you want me to go back out there like this, turn your back."

  With a rakish grin, he shrugged and turned away. She caught her breath at the clean strong lines of his bare shoulders. The man was a magnet. She simply couldn't quit staring. Even the white of his bandage enhanced his sexuality. With shaking hands, she quickly pulled on a pair of faded cut-offs and a tee-shirt.

  "You can turn around now."

  He spun around, the look of surprise on his face almost comical. "You're not going out there in that."

  "You sound like my grandfather."

  "Well, I shouldn't wonder if you insist on entertaining gentleman callers dressed like that."

  Gentleman callers? "You were expecting a ball gown?"

  "No. I was expecting something that covered more than the robe did." He glared at her, his gaze raking up and down her. Funny when he did it, she felt all hot and squirmy inside, but when Nick did it, she wanted nothing more than to slap him silly.

  "Cara?" Nick.

  "I've got to go. This will have to do." She pulled an oversized tee-shirt from another drawer. "Here, it wouldn't hurt you to cover up, too." She threw the shirt at him, watching as he snagged it one-handed. With a mock bow, he sent her a crooked smile that for all the world seemed a promise of things to come. She quelled a surge of desire. What had come over her? She waited until he moved out of range of the open door, then walked back into the living room, pulling the door closed behind her.

  "There, that's better. Sorry to keep you waiting." She sat on the arm of a chair. Nick traced the curve of her calf with his eyes and she actually felt herself blush. Maybe shorts hadn't been the best idea. "Can I get you something to drink?"

  He was settled on the sofa, one leg crossed casually over the other. He looked as if it were his home, not hers. Somehow the familiarity grated on her nerves.

  "I'll take a Scotch, neat."

  She was halfway to the cabinet when she remembered the Scotch was in the bedroom. What was left of it. Her heart couldn't stand another whispered conversation with Michael. She obviously was not cut out for subterfuge.

  "I'm out."

  Nick frowned. "What happened to the bottle I gave you?"

  Another of his annoying habits. He seemed to find great delight in stocking her house with delicacies he wanted to have on hand. Quite presumptuous really. "It's gone. Gin?"

  "Fine."

  He didn't sound fine, but frankly, she didn't care. She dropped a couple of ice cubes in a glass and mixed the drink, being careful to go light on the gin. No sense in adding fuel to his lust-filled glances. "You said you had business to discuss."

  She crossed to the sofa and held out his drink, a cheerful smile firmly in place.

  "I want to talk about the paintings." He touched the glass, but rather than taking it, he slid his hand down to cover hers. Unless she upended the drink, she had little choice but to join him on the sofa.

  "We've been down this road before, Nick." Several times.

  "Look. I love the series, and I want them. It's as simple as that." He reached for the drink with his left hand, keeping her fingers entrapped in his right.

  "You haven't even seen them. You saw The Promise once for maybe five minutes. How could you possibly love them?"

  "I know what I like, Cara mia." He shrugged. There was subtext here, but she be damned if she knew what it was.

  "Well I'm flattered. But I've told you, the paintings are no longer mine to sell. They belong to Solais."

  He leaned forward, tightening his fingers, a shadow of anger passing across his face. She winced and he loosened his grip, the shadow dissipating almost before it began. "You've already sent them?"

  She pulled her hand free, absently rubbing it against her shorts. "No, although I should have. I've gotten most of them crated for shipping, but I need to finish up. I was planning to get in to the studio yesterday, but —"

  "I know, you were unavoidably detained. Well, you'll simply have to tell them you've changed your mind."

  "I can't do that. It's the Solais Gallery, and you know as well as I do that it's a miracle they wanted them in the first place. If I were to back out now, I'd never sell to them again."

  "Well, we'll simply have to find a way around that. You can name your price."

  "I'm sorry, Nick. I can't. I intend to honor the contract with Solais."

  "Damn it, Cara, you're not being reasonable."

  "I'll paint you something else."

  "But I want those paintings, Cara." He grabbed both her wrists in his hands.

  She tried to pull away, but his grip was too strong. "Nick, stop it. You're hurting, me."

  He leaned forward, his glacial eyes boring into hers. "My dear, I simply won't take no for an answer." The icy fury in his eyes scared her. He was close enough now she could smell the gin on his breath.

  "I believe the lady said no."

  If the situation hadn't been so frightening, it would have been absurd. Michael stood in the bedroom doorway clad in his jeans and her tee-shirt. What had served as a nightshirt for her, barely fit over his broad shoulders. The cotton clung to his muscles, outlining the hard lines of him and displaying the grossly distorted figure of Tweety Bird across his chest.

  Nick rose, dragging her with him, then froze, obviously completely thrown by the man in the doorway. Cara jerked free, and took a step in M
ichael's direction.

  "Who the hell are you?" Nick's normally elegant voice was lost in his anger, his classic good looks marred by the rage etched on his face.

  "The cat."

  Cara watched as Nick pulled himself together, schooling his face into the social equivalent of bland, his gaze going first to Cara, then Michael, then back to Cara again. "And does the cat have a name?"

  Cara opened her mouth to answer, but Michael was faster.

  "Michael Macpherson. And I think it's about time that you were going."

  Nick's mouth twitched at the corner, the only sign that Michael's words affected him. With a shrug he focused his attention on Cara. "I'm sorry if I upset you, Cara mia. I'm afraid I got carried away." He moved to touch her, but Michael moved faster, stepping neatly between them.

  "I said it's time for you to go."

  Nick was in full control again, cool composure masking any hint to his real feelings. "Very well. We'll talk later."

  Cara poked her head around Michael. "I'm not changing my mind, Nick."

  "I understand. I shouldn't have overreacted. It's just that I wanted them so badly. Forgive me, darling?" He actually managed to look contrite.

  Cara smiled weakly. "Of course." Anything to get him out of here before Michael throttled him.

  With a last blistering look at Michael, Nick strode into the mud room. A few seconds later the door slammed behind him, rattling the windows.

  Cara blew out a long breath, her eyes meeting Michael's. "He wouldn't have hurt me. He was just angry about the paintings."

  "Maybe not, but I didn't think it was worth taking the chance."

  She sank onto the sofa, grateful for its support.

  Michael sat in the easy chair, leaning forward, his blue eyes filled with concern. "Are you sure you're all right?"

  Cara smiled. "I'm fine. Besides, isn't that supposed to be my line? You're the one who got shot." She leaned back and closed her eyes. "Maybe we should clarify a few things."

  "Fine by me. I'll start. Tell me about your paintings, the ones that Nick wants so badly."

  Cara opened her eyes, surprised at the turn of the conversation. She'd been expecting him to talk about being shot not her artwork. "There's not much to tell. Once when I was a kid, I stumbled on the ruins of an old mine up in the mountains. It was a long way from here. Straight up the canyon, something like five or six miles past the tunnel where I found you. I'm not good at distances.