TALL, DARK AND TEXAN

by Jane Sullivan

  Then he eased his thumbs over to stroke the crevice between her thighs and hips. She sat up straight. Gathering the shoulders of his sweatshirt in her fists, she took a deep breath of ecstasy and let it out slowly.

  More. She had to have more.

  Still gripping his sweatshirt, she pulled herself forward and whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry I almost saw you naked that morning."

  "You're forgiven."

  "Good. Then maybe you won't mind getting naked now."

  His hands froze on her thighs. She sensed his surprise, but if he was going to object he'd have to do it in a hurry, because she'd already grabbed the hem of his sweatshirt and was yanking it upward. Thankfully, he caught it on the way up and pulled it over his head, revealing that beautiful chest to her for the first time since the morning when she'd nearly fainted from the sight.

  As she slung his shirt down to the rug beside them, he was already tugging her shirttail out of the back of her jeans, and a second later, his cold hands lit against her bare skin. She gasped, laughing a little. He whispered an apology and moved his hands over her back, up and down and in big sweeping circles until they were as warm as she was, and she couldn't help arching against him because it felt so good.

  "Mmm," he said. "No bra."

  "You noticed."

  He slipped his hands from beneath her shirt, bringing them around to the front to cradle her breasts in his palms. Wendy felt a shot of self-consciousness. They were small enough as it was, and in Wolfe's big hands she knew they'd seem even tinier still, but then he was rubbing her nipples and strumming them with his thumbs. Even through her shirt they were growing hard and tight and agonizingly sensitive and she forgot all about her embarrassment and leaned into him, asking for more. As if he'd read her mind, he reached to the collar of her shirt and unfastened the first button.

  Yes.

  He was moving fast but not fast enough, so Wendy undid the bottom button, ascending as he descended, and when they reached the middle, she dropped her hands, allowing him to unfasten the final button. Slowly he spread her shirt open.

  He stopped. Stared. Wendy watched him watching her, and all at once self-consciousness overtook her again. She grabbed the edges of her shirt and tried to pull them together again, but he took hold of her wrists and held her in place.

  "No, sweetheart, no," he said quietly. "Don't do that."

  "I'm still not sure you like what you see."

  "Oh, I like it. Believe me."

  Slowly he opened her shirt, watching intently as her breasts came into view again. He circled his hands around them.

  "Don't you let anyone change these," he said. "Ever."

  "Can't promise that."

  "I swear I'll beat the hell out of any plastic surgeon who lays a hand on you."

  He passed his thumbs over her nipples, and she closed her eyes and drew in a small, blissful breath. "You know, I think I'm actually starting to believe you."

  "I mean what I say. Always."

  He moved his hands down to her waist and pulled her forward, kissing the space between her breasts, then tracing his tongue around her nipples, first one, then the other. The feeling was so intense all she could do was clutch his shoulders, gasp for air and hope she didn't pass out.

  Beneath her she felt the expanse of his muscled thighs and his erection straining against his jeans. She eased forward a little and shimmied her hips, pressing herself against him. She couldn't believe how hot and wet she felt already, as if she was melting from wanting him so much, and she kept moving because she just couldn't not move. As she bore down on him harder, a groan rose in his throat, a deep, masculine sound of utter satisfaction.

  Then all at once he grasped her by the waist, stilling her. He squeezed his eyes closed and held his breath for a moment before letting it out slowly. "Easy, sweetheart. You're inciting a one-man riot here."

  "That's kind of what I was hoping for."

  He sat up suddenly, and before she knew it, he'd pulled her off his lap and lowered her quickly but gently to her back on the rug. She felt a little swoop in her stomach that multiplied deliciously when he moved between her legs, towering over her. He stared down at her, his eyes full of wicked intent.

  "What now?" she said, raising an eyebrow, daring him to make his next move.

  "I want to see what you look like naked on the new rug." Wendy blinked slowly with delight, loving the sound of his voice. It was so strong, so powerful, so full of desire, and it made her want him now.

  She smiled at him. "So I guess it's not so bad having me around after all, is it?"

  Wolfe's expression faltered. "Of course it's not."

  "You didn't say that a few days ago when I burned a certain dinner." She gave him a provocative smile. "But don't worry. I think you'll like me a lot better in the bedroom than you did in the kitchen."

  Wolfe went completely still. "What did you say?" She started to tell him that it was quite simple, actually. That she did her best cooking without pots and pans. Then she saw his eyes narrow with suspicion at the same time his mouth turned down in an angry frown.

  "Wendy?" he said sharply. "What are you doing?" Confused, she sat up slowly, pulling one of her legs over his and tucking it in front of her. She reached for him, but to her dismay, he slid away from her and stood up.

  "Wolfe?"

  He picked his shirt up off the floor and yanked it on over his head, tugging it down to his waist.

  "I was already going to let you stay longer. You don't have to give me sex to make that happen."

  For several long, shaky moments, all Wendy could do was stare at him, speechless, certain she couldn't possibly have heard him right.

  "What in the hell are you talking about?"

  "You get free food, free rent, and all you have to do is bring me a few cheap gifts and put out a little. No big deal, right?"

  Her mouth fell open. "You think that's why I wanted to do this? So you'll let me stay?"

  "You said it yourself. 'You'll like me a lot more in the bedroom than you did in the kitchen.' So what's the deal, Wendy? If one manipulation doesn't work, try another one?"

  She stood up, yanking her shirt closed, her stomach turning over with disbelief. "That's not what this is about!"

  "Right."

  His challenging expression filled her with desperation. Yes, she'd spoken those words, but she hadn't meant them like that. She'd only been teasing him, just as she'd teased him about a hundred other things. Couldn't he see that?

  Her heart felt as if it were crumbling, and she couldn't stop tears from filling her eyes.

  Wolfe made a scoffing noise. "Come on, Wendy. Cut out the tears. Do you really think I'm going to fall for that again?"

  "You're twisting everything around!"

  "Actually, I think I'm finally straightening everything out." He brushed past her and started toward his bedroom.

  Wendy grabbed his wrist. "Wolfe, please don't."

  He pulled his wrist away. "You know what? It's my fault for being such an idiot. I should have known something was up. After all, you're a beautiful woman. And beautiful women don't just throw themselves at a man like me."

  He strode down the hall and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Stunned, Wendy just stood there, staring at the closed door, the echo of it still reverberating through the room. How could he have done this? How could he have suggested that she had a list of ulterior motives a mile long, when nothing could be further from the truth?

  Suddenly she was right back to feeling the same way she had that first night—cold and lost and desperate—only now it was so much worse because she knew what warm and safe felt like. Her anger at him for hurling those accusations when she'd done nothing to deserve them didn't begin to match the pain she felt that he'd ever believe such a thing about her in the first place.

  She sat down on the end of the sofa where Wolfe usually sat. It was now bathed in lamplight, and she wondered how it was possible to feel so warm on the o
utside and so cold on the inside. She kept asking herself why he had done this and could come up with no answer at all.

  * * *

  Wolfe took off his sweatshirt again and threw it on top of his dresser. He paced back and forth a few times, then walked over and sat down on the end of his bed.

  He held out his hands. They were shaking.

  He dropped his head to them and ran his fingers through his hair, squeezing his eyes closed, feeling as queasy as if he had a case of the flu.

  He felt angry. Humiliated. That was why his stomach was all tied up in knots. He'd learned early in his life that if something seemed to be too good to be true, it probably was, so he should have spotted her true intentions at ten paces. Since they hadn't talked about how long she could stay, she was undoubtedly thinking that he was going to kick her out at any moment, and she wanted to make damned sure that didn't happen.

  I think you'll like me a lot better in the bedroom than you did in the kitchen.

  How stupid could he possibly have been?

  Suddenly he was assaulted by images of the beautiful women he'd admired from afar over the years, the ones who'd looked away from him the second their eyes met. He'd gotten to the point where he wouldn't even try to strike up a conversation with a woman he didn't know because of the look that always came into her eyes. The one that said hell would freeze over before he'd ever lay a hand on her.

  Then Wendy had shown up in his life. She had looked him right in the eye, smiling, laughing, seeming to want him with a kind of intimacy that had given him hope, acting as if the gentlest touch from him was like heaven to her. For a few brief minutes tonight he'd been deluded enough to think that had meant something. Now he knew the truth. She was a good actress. After her performance tonight, he had no doubt she'd be a star, right after she screwed up her body with big breasts and blond hair and all that other crap that no self-respecting woman would ever consider doing to herself.

  He felt angry at being used. So damned angry.

  Then cynicism crept in. Maybe he'd been stupid to push her away. After all, if she wanted to sleep with him, what difference did it make what her motives were? He should have just said thanks for the gifts and had hot, screaming sex with her on that rug and considered himself lucky. A nice tradeoff, right? She'd have a place to stay, and he'd have a warm body in his bed. He'd had plenty of sex in his life just for the sake of sex, so what was wrong with doing it this time?

  He dropped his head to his hands again, knowing the answer to that question.

  Because this time, with Wendy, he'd wanted so much more.

  * * *

  Chapter 11

  « ^ »

  When Wendy woke the next morning, a few moments passed before she remembered what had happened between her and Wolfe. She turned over and looked at the clock on the coffee table. It was just after seven. What was she going to do now?

  With the advance on her salary Ramona had given her, she could afford a cheap hotel for a day or two. But how she'd get to work, she didn't know. And she had no idea what she'd do when her money ran out.

  She sat up slowly and looked around the apartment. Hopefully Wolfe had left already and she would be spared having to deal with him. She could sit down, have a cup of coffee and think about what to do next.

  She rose from the sofa and went down the hall, surprised to see his bedroom door still closed. Then she went to the kitchen and saw his car keys lying on the counter.

  Damn. He was still here. And the worst part of it was that she was caught in the middle of that one nonnegotiable necessity that was going to force her to have to talk to him.

  She went back to his bedroom and knocked on his door.

  "Go away," he shouted.

  "I have to get into the bathroom," she called out.

  There was a long silence.

  "Come in."

  With a deep, nervous breath, she opened the door, intending to ignore him completely and walk straight to the bathroom. But then she glanced over to see him lying on his back, blankets pulled up to his waist, his arm resting on his forehead and his eyes closed.

  "Make it fast," he muttered in a harsh, raspy voice.

  Wendy stopped. Stared at him. "Wolfe?"

  "I said move it."

  She came closer to his bed. "What's the matter?"

  He moved his arm and looked up at her. His face was drawn and tight, his eyes droopy. His skin was uncharacteristically pale, but his cheeks were flushed red.

  "You're sick," she said.

  "I'm fine."

  But as he put his forearm back over his eyes, she saw his chest rising and falling with increased respirations, as if he truly was in pain. She stood there a moment, unsure what to do, but eventually the sight of this tough-as-nails man so ill displaced her anger enough that she eased over to his bed and sat down beside him.

  "Wendy. Go away."

  She rested her palm against his cheek. It was on fire. "You've got a fever. Are you sick to your stomach?"

  He pulled his forearm away from his eyes and put his palm against his stomach with a shaky sigh.

  "Looks like the flu," Wendy told him.

  "Yes. I've got the flu. Now will you just get out of here and let me die in peace?"

  "You shouldn't be alone when you're this sick."

  "It wouldn't be the first time. I can manage by myself."

  "Do you have any medicine?"

  "I don't know."

  "Food you can eat that won't make you even sicker?"

  "I don't know."

  "I'll go to the grocery store."

  "No! Damn it, I don't need you!"

  She gave him a stern look. "Listen up, Wolfe. In spite of the fact that you were such a jerk last night, I owe you a lot. I'm not about to leave you here alone when you can't even lift your head off the pillow."

  "Wendy—"

  "Get well first, and then we'll talk. Right now it wouldn't be a fair fight."

  She rose from the bed, then turned back and pointed a finger at him. "And if you think I'm doing this just so you'll let me stay here longer, you're dead wrong, so don't even go there."

  He covered his eyes with his arm again. She had no idea whether he believed that or not, but she wasn't going to worry about it now. She went to the bathroom and got dressed. Then she grabbed the keys to the Chevy, told Wolfe she'd be back in thirty minutes and left the apartment.

  * * *

  Now Wolfe knew why he'd felt as if he had the flu last night.

  Because he did.

  He didn't get sick often, but he remembered the last time with painful clarity. He'd felt positively wretched for three days, hot and restless and hungry because he had so little food in the house and he couldn't bear to get out of bed to go get any. It had been a good thing that he'd been too weak to lift a gun to his head or he'd have probably just put himself out of his own misery. But even that paled in comparison to the way he felt now, so by the time Wendy returned from the grocery store half an hour later with chicken soup, bananas, rice, applesauce, flu medicine and aspirin, he was well on his way to wishing he were dead.

  "What about your job?" he asked when she came back into the room.

  "I called Ramona and told her you were sick. She said you probably picked up something from her. Doesn't she ever stay home sick?"

  "She hasn't since I've known her."

  "Lonnie told me yesterday that she's had everything but the bubonic plague."

  Bubonic plague. Maybe he could catch that. It was bound to be an improvement over the way he felt right now.

  "If you stay here," Wolfe said, "you'll get what I've got."

  "Not a chance. I come from a family of eleven. I've been exposed to so much stuff that I've got antibodies against every germ on the planet."

  Wendy sat on the bed and put her palm on his cheek again, pursing her lips with concern. She made him drink some liquid that was supposed to help relieve the flu symptoms, then draped a cool washcloth on his forehead.

  "We
ndy, you don't have to—"

  "Don't give me a hard time about this, Wolfe. You're in no condition to argue."

  He closed his eyes, the cool washcloth countering some of the heat radiating from his body. No matter how much he protested, it felt good. It was embarrassing to be so weak and helpless, but Wendy hovered around him as if it was no big deal, and eventually he gave in and let her do whatever she wanted to, never asking for her help but never turning it down, either.

  Over the next several hours she changed that washcloth about fifty times so it would always be cool. She fixed him chicken soup and toast and bananas and cups full of ice chips, telling him that those were things that even she couldn't screw up and that he wouldn't throw up, encouraging him to eat when he didn't think he'd ever be able to face another bite of food as long as he lived. She turned on the portable TV in his bedroom and handed him the remote. He kept telling himself that no matter what she'd said, she'd do anything to have a place to stay and that was why she was helping him. But he couldn't shake the feeling that when she touched him, it felt like so much more.

  He dozed off and on most of the day, flipping restlessly in bed as the buzz of news and talk shows droned in his ears, feeling calm only when Wendy came in periodically to bring him medicine and something to eat. Late that evening he fell asleep, and when he woke, his room was dark. He figured she must have shut off the TV and the lights before going to bed herself. He rolled over, his stomach still in turmoil, sweating and feeling chilled at the same time. His clock said two-twenty.

  He collapsed against the pillow again. Just then the door of his bedroom squeaked open and Wendy appeared in the doorway. She wore one of his shirts, its tail grazing the back of her knees. Light from the room beyond the door placed her in near-silhouette.

  "Did I wake you?" she asked.

  "No. I was awake already."

  "Your fever was high when I went to bed. I woke up and thought maybe I'd better check on you."

  She came into his bedroom, and he felt that heavenly little dip in his mattress as she sat down. He let out a silent sigh of pleasure at the feel of her cool palm against his face, wishing he could take her hand and hold it there forever.