“Guy really knows Louisiana.”
She smiled. “He’s got another series set in Montana. He knows the cowboy life too.”
And they were on higher ground. Flood waters receding.
By the time dinner was over, Maggie was comfortable again, or as comfortable as she could be around a guy who looked like Tris Tremaine. She washed plates as they talked. Elroy’s snores echoed from behind the bedroom door, and knowing that she’d have no more to deal with or to explain on that front made her breathe easier. Tris knew the worst now. She grabbed the bottle of whiskey and poured him another shot.
“Nightcap, before you go to bed.”
“I’m about ready for that. Couch there looks comfortable.”
It wasn’t. “You are not sleeping on the couch when you have broken … everything.”
He glared at her. “I’m not taking your bed. You’ve already been too kind.”
She just hated the fact that she blushed. “Wasn’t anything.”
“I sure would like to do a more thorough washing up, though.”
Just then the lights dimmed and went out. “Elroy must’ve watched a lot of TV.” She moved unerringly to the Coleman lantern with the matches laid out beside it. “Water heater will keep hot for a while, though.” The lantern flared. She turned it down to a dim glow and put it on the counter. “Guess you’re stuck with just a washcloth. No bath with that cast on.” She didn’t like what the image of him washing himself all over was doing to her. Had she ever blushed so much in her life? Hope he can’t see it in this light.
“Even that’ll feel good. You go first.”
She didn’t protest. She had to get out of here and collect herself. She set the bottle of whiskey beside him and grabbed a candle and some matches. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s a good idea.”
*****
Jason stood in the parking lot of the diner. No one would tell him where Maggie O’Brian’s place was. The kid on duty at the motel didn’t know her. Jason saw no sign of a beat-up red pickup truck in the tiny town. He’d gotten some info about her and her father from the guy at the gas station. But everyone clammed up when he asked where she lived.
Prentice had called in, more than a little cranky. No sign of Tremaine and the girl and their piece-of-shit truck. Had they made it past Prentice? Did they take some back road in?
Or were they still out at Maggie O’Brian’s place?
Damn it! He couldn’t start shaking people down. The old woman didn’t like attention. He was feeling like a rat in a trap. Maybe he’d pretend to be in the market for horses. Girl had horses. The general store was still open.
He strode through the swinging doors. “Hear Maggie O’Brian has got some fine horseflesh,” he said to the geezer behind the register. “Now if I could only find her place.” General store, my ass. This whole town liked to play at being a ghost town from bygone mining days. This was just a bigger 7-Eleven in an old wood façade.
“You’d never find it in the dark,” the geezer said. “But tomorrow morning, you take the one-lane asphalt south off the second T-bone intersection. Then you turn right on the dirt road to her place. It ain’t marked,” he added as an afterthought.
What hicks. The old man was moving at half speed. “How far down the asphalt road?”
“Well, let’s see.” The old coot rubbed his chin. Then he pulled his earlobe. “Eight, nine mile? Can’t say as I know for sure.”
“Oh, that’s helpful.” He wanted to lunge across the wooden counter and strangle the old man. Instead he spun on his heel. “Any landmarks?”
“Not so’s you’d notice.”
Jason strode out over the dark, creaking floorboards toward the door and the night beyond. The old woman hadn’t called. But she would. The stupid Talismans wouldn’t keep her occupied forever. And he still didn’t have Tremaine. His ulcer gave a lurch and he fumbled for some Tums. Damn things weren’t doing any good now anyway.
He wasn’t waiting until tomorrow morning. He’d find O’Brian’s place, if he had to drive down every dirt road in Lander County.
*****
Tris listened to her run bathwater, imagining her sitting in that tub with steam rising around her naked body. Hello, hard-on. But he couldn’t stop the thoughts. He wondered what would have happened if he had kissed her tonight. He’d probably have a dislocated jaw as well as a bum leg and a bad shoulder. She wouldn’t want a guy like him. A stove-up biker with no purpose in life, nothing in common with her except that they both liked taking chances.
The sound of water sloshing was clear as she got in. It was like he could hear things he wouldn’t have heard yesterday. At least when it came to her.
He took a slug of the whiskey. Christ. This was going to kill him. Had he ever been harder? She began a nervous little humming. Think about something else.
What the hell was the matter with him? So he wanted her. Why was that so bad? Just kiss her and let nature take its course. He’d bedded a hundred starlets (not that he actually kept count—that was crass). And none was the worse for wear. Neither was he. Just use a condom.
He didn’t have a condom with him. That’s why he couldn’t consider doing it with her. That and the fact that he was a physical wreck. Couldn’t do the thing properly for Maggie with a cast and a sling. He shouldn’t even have an erection in his condition. That hadn’t stopped his cock in the hospital and it didn’t stop it now.
But there was another reason he couldn’t even consider bedding Maggie O’Brian.
She wouldn’t be able to bear to be bedded and dumped again. That Phil guy had dumped her, and even her mother had run out on her. Elroy had kinda run out on her too. And Tris would end up leaving her for sure. After the lust passed, all you were left with was annoyance and he wasn’t brave enough to stay in that kind of situation.
She’d want love. The capital L kind, not the sex-and-run kind. He was a realist, and capital L love was so rare as to be nonexistent, no matter what his mother believed. At least for a black sheep like Tristram Tremaine, disappointment extraordinaire.
He didn’t want to disappoint Maggie. Which he was bound to do if he bedded her.
So it wasn’t happening. Regardless of how kissable her lips looked tonight. God, there was another sloshing sound. She was getting up out of the tub. Bet the water was sluicing over her body, between her breasts, over her belly, through the curls between her thighs.
He heaved in a long breath. Let it out. Get hold of yourself. What’s wrong with you?
The drain gurgled as she pulled the plug. He shifted, trying to ease himself. How long had it been since he’d had a reaction to a woman like this? Since he was twelve? Ever?
It probably had to do with his fragile connection to the world. Yeah, a symptom of wanting to be really alive again. It wouldn’t last. He’d go back to LA, go to his mother’s birthday party, for God’s sake, check in at the shop, and he’d be on his way again.
But what was this feeling? Not just lust. It was a kind of longing for something he couldn’t explain. He should never have had that last shot of whiskey on top of the Vicodin.
The door to the bathroom opened. His head snapped around like it was on a string.
She’d left the candle in the bathroom. The doorway behind her glowed with a flickering light. Her hair was down. He could tell by her silhouette. He swallowed. Then he swallowed again. She was wearing a short cotton robe like a kimono, black with white flowers on it, and one or two pink splashes of a rose or something. Like the ones in the garden at The Breakers. The robe wasn’t meant to be sexy. But it revealed skin he’d never seen before: her chest in the vee where it wrapped around her, her legs, slim but curvy with the muscles she used for riding. The way it tied at her waist outlined her figure and the way her breasts moved under it.… Dear God, could he be getting harder? This erection was turning into a medical emergency.
She stood frozen for a long minute. Finally she cleared her throat. “Uh, your turn.”
Tris panicked. He was goin
g to have to stand up. She’d see the massive erection in his jeans. Just great. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” In a stroke of what he was pretty sure was genius he pulled his shirttail out of his jeans with his good hand. Like he was getting ready for a shower, right? She’d never realize his real purpose. He pulled his crutch over and pushed himself up.
“Can you … do you need help?” she asked uncertainly.
Damn. “I’m fine.” He could probably, maybe, get by on his own.
She looked doubtful. “Maybe I should just help with your sling.”
“That … that would be okay.” How bad could it be?
She approached him, coming into the lantern light. He stood very, very still. She reached for the buckle at his chest that held the nylon straps around his neck and unfastened it. The soap smell was stronger now, so much more delicate and sexy than the exotic and overwhelming perfumes the starlets always wore. Then there was the damp scent of her skin. When had he caught scents so strongly? Her breasts were maybe six inches from his chest. Too far.
She worked at the other buckle to the strap that went around his back, then pulled the sling away gently and laid it on the table.
“Uh, thanks. I’ll … I’ll get it from here.”
“And your shirt?” She didn’t wait for an answer but began unbuttoning it. “You might be able to unbutton it, but you can’t get it off.”
He tried to breathe normally. He didn’t dare move. As she reached to unfasten the first button her fingers brushed his chest. Electric shocks coursed through his flesh, shooting straight to his groin. He almost groaned. But he didn’t. That would frighten her. And he didn’t want to frighten her. His damn cock was pulsing against the zipper of his jeans. All he could think about was her knuckles brushing against the hair on his chest. She got really intent, not looking up at him, not saying anything.
She pulled his shirt apart. Oh, God, she’ll see the hard-on. How could he have forgotten? She eased the shirt over his good shoulder and pulled the sleeve down. She took his sling hand to hold it in place while she brought the shirt over his bad shoulder. The feel of her small, strong hand on his wrist was the most erotic sensation he’d ever encountered, and that included having his cock buried and pulsing in a hundred women. What was wrong with him?
Was … was she blushing? She was. He absolutely felt like he was twelve.
No. That wasn’t true. He felt like a man for the first time in a long time. And all over a girl who rode rodeo. Who would ever have guessed?
*****
Maggie hadn’t taken a breath in what seemed like forever. If she did, she might faint from what touching this man was doing to her. The sight of him without his shirt was disturbing to say the least. His shoulders were wide and bulky with muscle, one still bandaged. His skin was fair, except for the technicolor bruises and the scrapes here and there. The dark hair curling over his chest stood out in contrast. Even as she watched, his nipples tightened in the evening air from the open kitchen window. His muscled torso could have served as a model for some statue. His oblique abdominals disappeared into jeans slung low across his hips, where they would cradle … she shouldn’t think about that. But she did. Oh, yeah, she did. And, and what was that bulge in his jeans? Was he…? He definitely was.
She jerked her gaze up and was grateful it was caught by his tattoo. It covered his good shoulder with intricate knots of blue and green. Her fingers strayed over it, not touching because that would be rude, but wanting to touch. “It, uh, it looks sort of Celtic,” she whispered.
“Tremaine,” he said, his voice husky. “Celtic name.”
He’d had a symbol of his heritage tattooed on his skin, when he felt like he didn’t belong in his family? Whoa. He must want to belong pretty badly, somewhere underneath his disdain. “It’s beautiful.” You’re beautiful is what she meant, of course. But he didn’t need her to tell him that. A thousand women had told him that with their eyes. Maybe ten thousand. As her gaze strayed over his body again, she saw more knot patterns, in red, solid blue, on his abs, low by his hip, and his pectoral. And scars. Lots of them. How had he gotten those? Maybe the same place he got those scabs he had the first time she saw him at Jake’s. “You look like you get into pretty frequent scrapes,” she said, just to say something.
“Yeah.”
That was it? That was all he was going to say? Couldn’t he do his share to break the tension that was so thick she was having trouble breathing? Evidently not. She was going to have to step away from him, out of touching range, before she did something she’d really regret. Like put her palm on his chest and rub it across his nipple. No, no, no, no. She shouldn’t even be thinking about that. Elroy was right. Maybe she was a tramp at heart. Okay. Then her only choice was to control herself. That was all there was to it.
She wrenched away and turned her back. “Sit down. I’ll take off your boot.” Her voice was as rough as his had been.
She heard him sit before she turned back. She pulled his one boot off unceremoniously, looking anywhere but at the zipper of his jeans, but acutely aware of what must be beneath it all the same. “You’re on your own for the rest,” she managed. No way she was taking off his pants. “I left a clean washcloth and towel in there for you.”
He got himself up. Did his muscles have to move under his skin like that?
“You got some clean clothes in your bag?”
“Should be some boxers and some sweats I can get on over the cast.”
“I’ll get them for you.”
“Thanks.” He limped on his crutch over to the little bathroom and shut the door.
Whew. That was better. She took a deep breath and went out to the porch to get his bags. Fumbling through his clothes felt intimate. Her fingers were still shocked from the touch of his skin. Maggie-girl, you better get hold of yourself. She found the boxers and the sweatpants and marched over to the bathroom door. Big girls don’t blush just because they know a man is in there getting naked so he can run a soapy washcloth over his chest and belly and down to his genitals. He’d be erect, she was sure, his balls tight and high...
Her strategy of being in total control wasn’t exactly working out. She opened the door a crack and shoved his clothes in as far as she could. “I’ll just toss these over by the sink, okay?” Without looking of course.
“Yeah, thanks.”
Fine. She shut the door. It was fine. Now she could make up the couch with some sheets and be in bed by the time he got out. That way he couldn’t protest about taking her bed.
She fumbled through his hospital discharge pack and found a bottle of antibiotics. Holding the bottle to the lantern she read the instructions and shook out two pills. With the bottle of Vicodin and a glass of water, she stalked into her room. She’d only slept in the sheets once since she’d changed them. He’d just have to deal. She didn’t have time to change them again and make up the couch. She plumped up the pillows and pulled back the covers. Then she lighted a candle on the nightstand and left the door open so he could see his way.
Why the hell did he have a hard-on? He was jacked up on Vicodin and three shots of whiskey (at least. Who knew how many he’d had while she was in the bath?). He had broken bones, for God’s sake. And her robe was decent. Came almost to her knees. She wasn’t beautiful, like the women he would normally take to his bed.
He must be one highly sexed dude who hadn’t had any in a while. He was desperate.
Her reaction was much more understandable. After all, he was only the most attractive man in the state of Nevada right now, bruises or not. She made up the couch briskly, trying not to listen for sounds in the bathroom, trying not to wonder how he was getting his jeans down.
Fail-ing.
She doused the lantern, pulled off her robe in the dark, got into bed, pulled the sheet up to her chin, and … waited. The bathroom door finally opened. Tris filled the doorway, chest still bare, the light of the candle flickering over his body. It lighted his green and blue tattoo. His bruises were mere shadows.
She closed her eyes to slits so he’d think she was asleep. He hobbled on his crutch over to where she’d left his sling. Darn. She forgot he’d need it to secure his arm before he slept.
But he buckled the strap that went around his neck, slipped it over his head, and slid his arm into it. Well, that would probably do, even though the back strap wasn’t buckled. He stilled, looking over at her for a long moment, then limped into her bedroom. She breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis averted. For now. She was going to spend all day tomorrow with him in the cab of his truck. She had absolutely no faith in her ability to continue averting crises.
CHAPTER TEN
He was sleeping in her bed. Or not sleeping. She’d been thoughtful. A candle. A glass of water and his meds. The wind-up clock had a dial that glowed in the dark. And the sheets were pulled back. Now his nose was filled with the scent of her in the pillows, the sheets. His erection wasn’t exactly soothed by the aroma. And tomorrow he was going to spend the day sitting two feet away from her in her truck?
Gods give him strength.
Strength. But wasn’t strength what he’d found since he met her? He’d pulled back, painful as it was, from the abyss. Or maybe it was Maggie O’Brian who had dragged him from the edge.
That made her important. Too important to take lightly.
He pulled the coverlet up to his chest. The Vicodin (and tell it true—the shots of whiskey) kept the pain in his leg, his shoulder and collarbone, his ribs in check. But the pain was lurking, ready to pounce if he let the drugs lapse for even an instant. He’d find what sleep he could tonight. And by tomorrow night he’d be back at The Breakers. Great.
*****
“Rise and shine.”
Tris blinked his eyes open, feeling like he’d finally fallen asleep only minutes ago. The sight of Maggie, fully dressed and holding a candle in an old-fashioned holder, jerked him up on his good elbow, wincing. It was still dark. “What time is it?” he muttered. He’d turned the clock away so he couldn’t see the hours tick by.
01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin Page 11