by Diana Palmer
Her heart stopped beating. It actually stopped. She stared at him in amazement as the meaning of the words penetrated her mind.
Dark, ruddy color ran along his high cheekbones, but he didn't blink as he looked at her. "That's right, Lacy. It was my first time, too."
She could barely speak at all. "But.. .why?"
"You must remember how things were when you first came to Spanish Flats," he reminded her. His eyes lingered on her mouth. "I had too much responsibility. Then, the war came. There was so damned much horror." He sighed heavily. "Afterward," he said, averting his eyes, "I didn't care about women." He picked up a stick and twirled its roughness in his hands while he felt her eyes on his profile. "I wouldn't have hurt you deliberately, Lacy. I just didn't know much."
Tears stung her eyes. She lowered them to his long-fingered hands so that he wouldn't see. She could only imagine how much courage it took for him to admit that to her, with his black pride.
"I'm glad," she whispered fiercely, startling him. Her eyes lifted to his still face, her voice gentle but a little unsteady. She managed a watery smile. "If you'd told me that eight months ago, I'd never have left you!"
He scowled, searching her wide, misty eyes. "I thought you went because I'd hurt you, made you afraid of me."
She shook her head. "It was because I thought you'd only used me. I couldn't believe it was because you hadn't been with anyone else. Men these days.. .well, they're mostly sophisticated, like Turk."
He relaxed. The ridicule he'd dreaded wasn't forthcoming. He could hardly believe that she didn't mind his inexperience. He felt lighter than air as he looked at her. "I never had the chance to get sophisticated," he said simply. "My father's death was untimely. Besides all that, you know how I was around women."
"Yes," she murmured, with a dry smile. "Devastating!"
"Don't be cute," he said curtly.
"I'm not. I worshipped you from afar, but you were so aloof and unmoved by me that I thought I fell short of your expectations."
"Well, I'll be damned," he said half under his breath.
"I did everything but wear a sign around my neck," she whispered. It was hard to be honest like this. She couldn't look at him then; she was too embarrassed. "I thought you were the most wonderful thing since indoor plumbing."
He actually laughed. "You ran a mile to get out of my way!"
"I was afraid you'd see what a flaming crush I had on you."
"If I had, you'd have been in a hell of a lot of trouble," he said teasingly. "I thought you were a dish, Mrs. Whitehall. Long, elegant legs—"
"Coleman!"
"Excuse me. Limbs."
She gave him a hard glare, her face bloodred, and he just smiled.
He studied her slender body openly, his eyes dark and appreciative. Turk had said to act confident, to pretend he knew what he was doing. It seemed to work, too; it actually intimidated her, made her more feminine.
"Shy, aren't you?"he said softly, liking her reactions. He took off his hat and tossed it to one side, sprawling back to lean against the trunk of the big tree and stare at her with a purely masculine smile.
She felt her face going hot. This was getting entirely out of hand. She'd been the one doing the chasing back in San Antonio, and now she seemed to be the quarry. If he was that inexperienced, how did he know so much?
"Getting cold feet?" he taunted. "I thought you were the one who couldn't wait to share my bed."
"Cole..."
"What a red face." He chuckled. "The only delicious prospect about the whole thing is that you knew even less than I do."
"If it's such a nice prospect, why have you been spending the past few nights with your cattle instead of me?" she said, puzzled.
"You didn't seem to mind," he shot back.
Her head turned, blue eyes sparkling with temper. "No, I don't mind," she said shortly. "Sleep in the bunkhouse, for all I care!"
So she did care where he spent his nights. His thin lips drew into a slow smile. God, she was pretty in a temper. He felt his body going hot and taut, and he shifted so that she wouldn't notice. Talking about it was one thing. Being blatant was another. He didn't want to embarrass Lacy. For all her honesty, she was almost as reticent and reserved as he was.
She started to get to her feet. He reached out, one of those lightning movements she'd seen a few times, and caught her by the arm. He jerked her down into his hard arms and turned her so that she was lying on her back. He slid his hands into hers, pinning them above her head, and his darkened eyes went down to her breasts. Yes, there were the hard little peaks Turk had told him about, betraying her own arousal, and he thought he'd never felt quite as whole, quite as masculine, as he did then. His blood throbbed in his veins; his chest swelled with pride.
Her eyes widened, looking up into his hard, dark face, and she felt her body tingle with excitement. This was what she'd wanted all along, what she'd dreamed about. There was desire in his face, and she wasn't so afraid now that she knew how inexperienced he was. Intimacy was something they would learn together.
His fingers linked into hers in slow, exquisite movements, and all the time he stared down into her eyes. "You aren't afraid, are you?" he asked quietly.
"Not now," she whispered. Her lips parted on excited little breaths. The wind rustled the leaves above them, and the oak smell of the ground under her back was as pleasant as the tobacco-and-leather fragrance of Cole's taut, hard-muscled body.
His hands contracted gently where they held hers and his attention diverted to her soft mouth. He bent slowly, opening his lips as they poised over hers. As he watched, her own lips began to part. He moved down, fitting his mouth slowly to hers, tasting its warm moistness, feeling the very texture of her lips as he increased the pressure.
He felt dizzy as his tongue pushed into her mouth and felt the soft, shy response of her own. He groaned softly, aching for the warm nakedness of her body, aching to touch her in the most intimate ways. Would she let him? he wondered. And if he lost his head, would she wonder why he wouldn't let her touch him, or undress him?
The questions distracted him. He lifted his head, feeling her excited breath on his moist lips, and looked down at her. Her blue eyes were narrow, lazy with pleasure, her lips slightly swollen.
"Don't stop," she whispered huskily.
He searched her face. "Don't touch me," he whispered back. He let go of her hands, waiting to see what she did.
She lay quietly, her hands beside her head, her eyes steady on his dark face. She had suspicions about this side of him, too—about why he didn't want her to touch him or look at his unclothed body. But for now, she had to teach Cole to trust her.
He poised above her for a long minute, long enough to realize that she was obeying him without protest. His jaw tautened. "No questions?" he asked.
"No questions," she whispered. Her soft eyes searched over his face, adoring it. "Are you going to make love to me?"
His body tensed at the query. His lips parted and he looked down at her taut breasts. "Would you let me, in broad daylight?" he asked tersely.
"Yes."
He felt a fine tremor go through his aching body. God, he wanted to. He wanted to bury himself in her. This time, he wanted to make her cry and bite him as he gave her pleasure. He wanted her to feel what he was feeling, to give as well as take.
"You've never looked at my body," she said in a stranger's husky voice, challenging him. She was on fire for him now; she wanted everything with him. "You've touched it, but you've never seen it. Don't you want to?"
He shuddered. "My God, of course I want to!" he bit off. "But, Lacy, it's broad daylight—and my men do occasionally use the barn!"
If she'd been less dazed from his kisses, she might have laughed at the almost desperate note in his deep voice.
Even so, his reason was getting lost in the stormy urgency of his own body. He slid his fingers very slowly past her collarbone, watching how still she lay as he began to trace the soft slope of he
r breast. He felt her tremble, heard her breath catch. He slid his hand a little further, until the tips of his fingers touched the hard tip of her breast. She made a sound. It was staggering to watch him touch her so intimately. She had to fight not to protest, even now.
She was softer than he'd dreamed. He'd been too nervous and hungry to do much of this that night they'd spent together. Turk was right; it was better when she was vulnerable and submissive. It gave him pleasure that he could do this to Lacy. He looked into her shocked eyes. "I like that," he whispered roughly. "I like the sound you just made."
He rubbed his fingertips over the hardness, and she whimpered, biting her lower lip. If she died right now, it would be all right. It was so unbelievable to lie with Cole in the sunlight and feel his hands taking possession of her body, arousing her, enjoying her. And he was enjoying her. She saw his face, saw the pleasure there, and glowed all over with pride.
With a harsh breath, he pushed his palm gently against the hard nipple and swallowed her breast. Her lips parted and she arched, moaning, too far gone to care that he was seeing her blatant vulnerability to his caresses.
God, she was lovely! He'd never seen a woman's bare breasts before, except in pictures. He hadn't been able to see Lacy at all the night he'd spent with her. But he wanted to see Lacy like that, to open her dress and look at her. But he had to keep his head. Someone could walk by any time.
Lacy watched him through slitted eyelids. She thought that there had never been anything as sweet as his hand on her body. She arched it a little, pulsing with delight. It was all of heaven, this tender loving. And she hadn't thought him capable of tenderness.
"You.. .hardly touched me that night," she said jerkily.
"There wasn't time," he replied. His eyes fell to her soft, firm breast. His fingertips rubbed slowly at the nipple. "Lacy, what does it feel like when I touch you like this?"
"It makes me weak all over," she whispered, her voice husky. "It makes me... shaky."
His nose nuzzled against hers. She could feel his breath on her lips, quick and rough. His thumb and forefinger gently contracted, and she shivered.
"Did I do it too hard?" he asked softly, lifting to search her eyes as his hand stilled. "Did it hurt?"
"Oh, no," she whispered. She swallowed. "Cole...you—you could do it under my dress, on my skin."
He felt his body going even more taut and his eyes flashed. "Lacy, do you remember where we are?" he asked through his teeth.
"On the moon?" she whispered dizzily, reaching up toward his mouth.
"Don't I wish," he moaned against her mouth as his settled on it. His hand flattened over her bodice, slow and warm. It was like that day before he'd left for the army, when she couldn't get enough of his mouth. She melted in his arms, her nails biting into the nape of his neck as she tried to make him come closer still.
"Cole!" she whimpered, and tears misted her eyes.
He lifted his head, fighting for control. She looked like a virgin sacrifice lying there so submissive, and his body had begun to hurt. "I want more, too, little one," he said roughly. "More than you realize. But we have to stop now, while we can."
It was so similar to what he'd said years ago when he'd left her. The words echoed in her mind. Her eyes opened and she looked up at him with possession.
"It was like this before you went away to fight the Hun," she whispered. "Remember, Cole?You pulled me into your room and closed the door. We kissed and kissed, and you made me leave, because we were both trembling."
"I remember," he said. "Oh, God, I do! I lived on that memory the whole time I was away. It kept me going when I wanted to give up—" He stopped short.
She touched his mouth hesitantly. "But you wouldn't let me near you when you came home," she said sadly. "You pushed me away."
He drew in a slow breath and sat up, running a rough hand through his dark hair while he tried to breathe normally. "There were reasons."
She was just beginning to realize what they might be. Bits and pieces of conversation filtered through her mind while she lay there and looked up at him.
"Will you ever tell me why?" she asked softly.
He glanced down at her, his dark eyes kindling all over again. He looked away to the horizon. "Perhaps. One day."
"When?" she asked daringly, searching his dark eyes.
His teeth ground together. He stared down at her, hesitating. He wanted her mouth again. He wanted to touch her, to lie with her. He almost groaned aloud. "Don't rush me."
She forced herself to calm down, to smile up at him. "All right," she said, without arguing. "Don't growl at me."
"You get me so damned hot that I don't know what I'm doing or saying!" He laughed, bending to crush a hot, hungry kiss onto her smiling lips. "I happen to want you like hell, Mrs. Whitehall. But we've got to make haste slowly."
"Whatever you say, boss," she murmured dryly.
She watched him pull away from her again, his dark eyes intent on her body for a long moment before he got to his feet and busied himself rolling a cigarette; she dusted off her skirt and stood up, too.
"Cole?" she asked when she was beside him.
He turned, smoking cigarette in hand. "What, honey?"
"Do you think I'm.. .wanton?" she asked, with a frown, and seemed to be genuinely worried about it.
He smiled, his dark eyes warm and oddly affectionate. "No, I don't think you're wanton. But you're all woman."
She flushed a little and folded her hands neatly in front of her as she walked alongside him toward the house. He had a long, elegant stride that made almost two of hers. He walked like an outdoorsman. What he'd said so casually made her glow with pride. "You're pretty exciting yourself, barnstormer," she said huskily.
She heard him laugh softly as her blue eyes scanned the long horizon, the familiar lines of the house in the distance. Texas was so big, she thought. Big and sprawling and still reminiscent of the old frontier.
"Taggart said that the Mexican Army came through here on the way to the Alamo," she said out of the blue.
"It did," he replied. "They camped just out there." He gestured toward a long space between clumps of mesquite trees.
"So long ago," she sighed.
"Not even a hundred years ago,"he taunted. "Just yesterday, in fact."
She laughed up at him, her face radiant. "Which one of your grandfathers was Comanche?" she asked curiously.
"Dad's father," he said, smiling. "The old man wouldn't live on a reservation when they came along. He hightailed it up into the mountains after he got shot in a fight and came upon a lone white woman, a widow, with two small sons. As the story goes, she nursed him back to health and hid him from the cavalry, but she used up her meager store of weapons and the snows came. She and the boys were starving. My grandfather had left, but he came back to check on them and found them starving. He took it on himself to provide for her, and them, despite her objections. Eventually he married her. My father was one of the children she bore him. They died within five months of each other. Devoted to the very damned end."
"He must have been a special man," she remarked.
"He was a renegade," he said. "He loved to invite my father's college friends over and serve them dog and snake and any other damned shocking thing he could find for my grandmother to cook. He never truly accepted the white man's ways, and when I came along, he practically kidnapped me and brought me up like a Comanche. He and my father fought constantly about who I belonged to."
She searched his hard face. "You never talk about your father, Cole."
His shoulders lifted and fell. "He was a hard man. Much harder than my grandfather, in his way. He gave Mother hell all his life. She was never strong, but what spirit she had, he crushed.
She stopped walking. "Did she love him?"
"She couldn't have loved him. Not the way he treated her," he said, his eyes dark and fierce with memory. "He was the coldest human being I never knew. He touched and was touched by no one. Not even his own
children. He wanted me for no other reason than to keep me away from my grandfather."
"Perhaps he cared about you and just didn't know how to show it, Cole," she said.
He looked down at her. "I don't show things, do I, Lacy?" he asked quietly. "I can talk about my father's coldness with such ease, but I've inherited it."
She shook her head slowly. "Not in many ways," she said. "You're a passionate man." Her face flamed and she looked away.
"I've always hated that side of my nature "he said, his voice deep and cutting. He moved closer to her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body, smell the tobacco scent of his shirt. "I hated you, at first, because you aroused it."
"Do you still?" she asked demurely.
He touched her waist with his lean fingers, drawing her slowly to him. "I feel light-headed when I make love to you "he said under his breath. "Young and uninhibited and full of ginger. Today I gave in to it for the first time in my life, and I'm still floating. Does that answer your question, Mrs. Whitehall?"
Her eyes searched his. "I love you, Cole," she said softly.
He breathed slowly, deliberately. "Do you?" he whispered unsteadily. It made him feel light-headed, hearing her say that. Did she mean it, or was it a residue from the passion he'd stirred in her? If only he could be sure!
"Cole, what are you keeping from me?" Her voice was soft, tender, her eyes steady and warm.
His pulse jumped. She saw too much. His fingers traced over her cheek. "Dark secrets, Lacy," he said bitterly. "Things I don't want to remember. Things I don't want to face."
"They won't matter," she said.
He drew in a slow, sad breath. "They will," he replied flatly. "Perhaps all too much."
"Tell me, Cole."
He stared down at her mouth. "Not now."
She wondered what they were. Perhaps something he'd done in the war had made him withdrawn and ashamed. Or perhaps it had something to do with his reluctance to undress in front of her... Maybe he was deformed in some way.