Wildstar

by Nicole Jordan

  She fell silent, not wanting to be disloyal to her father. Yet she had to admit Riley had no business trying to work a mine on this small of a scale. Mining operations were usually the ventures—or playthings—of wealthy entrepre­neurs who'd made money elsewhere and had it to invest. An independent miner like Riley had little chance of suc­cess going up against the huge consolidated mines, which had the means to buy the latest technology and best equip­ment.

  "How much capital would he need to work it properly?" Devlin asked in a musing tone.

  Jess sighed. "Lots. Too much. There's an old saying . . . to work a silver mine, you have to have a gold mine."

  "And your father doesn't have a gold mine."

  "Nothing close. We can't even afford any com-pressed-air drills—we still use hand steels."

  "What about Haverty? You said he was a partner?"

  "Oh, he doesn't really own any of our claim. He gets twenty percent of the profits, if there are any—which isn't often."

  They kept moving, past two side tunnels that Devlin could see played out quickly. Some thirty feet into the mountainside, the main tunnel ended in a vertical shaft that accessed the lower level. There Jess came to a halt.

  Overhead was a hoist—a pulley-and-cable system— attached to an iron bucket the size of a large barrel. The bucket would carry ore up and men and tools down. Dev­lin recognized the setup from experience, since he'd once worked a gold mine in the Black Hills not so different from this one. And yet these conditions were much more primitive. The hoist was a hand-crank operation, for exam­ple, instead of steam-driven. And riding the bucket was far more dangerous than the more advanced metal cage de­signed to hold men.

  "Do you want to go down?" Jess asked as she leaned over to peer down the shaft. She sounded reluctant, per­haps a bit afraid.

  Devlin moved closer to inspect the shaft. Along the right side metal rungs had been driven into the rock at in­tervals to form a ladder, but he had no interest in exploring further. "No, not tonight. Where does Burke come in?"

  "Right after my father started the Wildstar, Burke bought the adjacent claim at a sheriff's sale, just to spite us. That had to be the reason. None of the rock around here ever yielded anything but low-grade ore. Yet two years ago Burke began expanding the Lady J, and he's al­ready developed three levels and blasted a dozen crosscuts. It's a waste of good money, if you ask me, but he has enough to throw away."

  She straightened just then, only to collide with a hard male body. "Oh!" Her soft exclamation was one of dismay and nervous awareness as she found her breasts thrust against Devlin's chest, her thighs pressing fully against his.

  Flinching, her senses screaming at the sudden shock, Jess tried to back away and nearly dropped the lantern. Reflexively Devlin reached up to steady her, which only prolonged the potent contact. Jess suddenly could think of nothing but the feel of him . . . the heat, the hardness, the vital maleness.

  He must have felt something, too, for his grip on her arms tightened momentarily, as if he found it difficult to let her go, and he swore softly.

  "Ex-excuse me," Jess stammered.

  "My fault," Devlin replied in a voice huskier than he would have liked. The feel of her lush female form press­ing against him had elicited an instant reaction in his body, but this was a hell of an inappropriate place to become aroused.

  Gritting his teeth, he untangled himself and stepped a safe distance back. Gratefully, Jess turned away and un­steadily retraced her steps along the tunnel, not caring at the moment if Devlin followed her. She couldn't stop thinking of their accidental embrace, or the weak, feminine way it had made her feel.

  She was still shaken when she entered the cabin. To think she had to spend the entire night with this man. . . .

  "You can have the bed," Devlin said from behind her as he shut the door.

  Jess's glance involuntarily went to the narrow cot and she froze. She would be alone with this man and that bed. Nervousness made her tone sharp when she retorted, "I suppose an Eastern dandy wouldn't deign to sleep on poor furniture like that."

  "An Eastern dandy would never have come up here in the first place," he replied mildly as he lifted one of the chairs and placed its back against the far wall, so it faced the door.

  Jess wished she could bite back the words. She hadn't forgotten what she owed Devlin. It was just that his mas­culine self-assurance disturbed her; he disturbed her. She'd never been tempted by a man before him. Never wanted a man to tighten his arms around her and hold her close. Never wondered what it would be like if he bent his head and kissed her. Back there in the mine she'd wanted Dev­lin to do just that.

  In agitation, she clasped her hands in front of her and went to the shuttered window, feeling trapped and uneasy. Maybe she had made a mistake in hiring Devlin. Certainly she had made a mistake in planning to stay up here with him.

  Behind her she could hear him settling into the chair.

  When she ventured a glance, she saw that he'd stretched his long legs out in front of him, with his Winchester rest­ing easily across his thighs. His Stetson was lying on the table, and his black hair shone softly in the glow from the lamp. He was watching her with something that looked like amusement in his eyes.

  "I'm sorry about the poor accommodations," Jess said in a tentative apology.

  "I'm not complaining . . . though I do admit having a preference for softer mattresses than that one. I'll be mag­nanimous and let you have it all to yourself."

  His tone was lazy, disarming, with a hint of teasing hu­mor in it. It only made Jess more nervous.

  "Why don't you go to sleep?" he asked. "There's no use in us both staying awake."

  Jess glanced again at the small bed. She was not about to lie down with Devlin so near. She wouldn't be able to sleep a wink.

  "I'm not going to attack you, Miss Jess."

  "I didn't think you would," she lied hastily.

  "I won't even touch you . . . unless, of course, you want me to."

  His glib, suggestive remark made color rise to her cheeks, and when she gave him a sharp glance, she found a bold and blatant mischievousness gleaming in his eyes.

  "I am not at all sleepy," Jess said, trying to sound un­concerned but only managing to sound stiff and formal. It was, she knew, the result of her training at Miss Grater's Academy in Denver, where she'd had all the social graces and refined manners of a lady drummed into her head. Her speech often became more polished when she felt vulnerable—like she was feeling just now.

  Trying to ignore the handsome devil who was making her feel that way, Jess turned away. For the next half hour, she wandered around the small hut, straightening the shelves that were already neat as a pin, closing the ledger that Riley must have been working on that morning when he was shot, generally pacing the floor with a restlessness that only seemed to grow stronger the longer she kept at it. With each pass, she sidestepped the large stain that viv­idly reminded her of how close she'd come to losing her father. She knew she ought to try to clean that dark blotch of dried blood off the wooden planks, yet she couldn't bring herself to touch it; simply looking at it brought back all the horror of that morning.

  Devlin watched her every movement, the soft sway of her hips beneath her skirts, the delicious curve of her breasts, the slender, work-reddened hands. . . . Seeing the condition of her hands aroused a tender urge inside him, in addition to the natural male feelings of lust that were flar­ing through his senses at the sight of a beautiful woman expending all that pent-up energy on walking the floor. He could think of a dozen ways for her to channel that energy, most of them in bed. Tenderness for a woman was not a usual emotion for him, but with this woman he felt protec­tive as well as possessive.

  His mouth twisted wryly at the thought. He'd never known a woman who needed protection less, or possession more. Miss Jessica Sommers needed a man to show her how to relax, how to enjoy life, how to let her glorious hair down. And he wished he could be that man, the one to set her free.
/>   I want you, lady, he thought, surprised at the depth of his hunger. Oh yes, I want you.

  Devlin shook his head, trying to remember the last time merely thinking about a woman in his bed had caused such a strong reaction. He wanted Jessica in the most elemental way possible, groin-ache elemental. But she wasn't a woman he could bed and leave alone. She was almost cer­tainly a virgin, one who wouldn't know the first thing about how to protect herself from unwanted pregnancies, one who probably didn't even know much about men. And while life in the West had roughened him around the edges, he was still enough of a gentleman to draw the line at seducing virgins.

  "You really should get some sleep," he said finally. "Af­ter the day you've had, you must be on your last legs."

  "I told you, I'm not sleepy."

  "Well, then, at least sit down. You're making me jumpy."

  She gave him a long look, but didn't respond.

  "See that chair. Miss Jess? Go sit down there. Now. Be­fore," Devlin threatened amicably, "I have to go to the trouble of carrying you there."

  Jessica had the distinct impression he meant what he said. He was giving her one of those charming smiles that could melt rock, but he'd spoken with the cool assurance of a man who inevitably got his way.

  "I am a bit tired," she admitted, preferring to give in graciously rather than press the issue. Crossing to the chair, she sank down and folded her hands on the table. "I'm not usually this fidgety."

  "You have good reason to be."

  "Next time I come up here," she said after another min­ute, "I'm going to scrub that bloodstain out."

  "Quit thinking about it."

  "I can't."

  In answer she heard the scrape of Devlin's chair. Quiz­zically, she watched him rise and lay the rifle on the table. Jess tensed as he moved around behind her, and nearly jumped when she felt his fingers gently squeeze her shoul­ders.

  "Hold still. I'm just going to give you a shoulder rub. You're as taut as a bowstring."

  "I don't . . . need . . . a . . ."

  She ought to complete the protest, Jess knew, but the magical feeling of Devlin's hands made the words die on her lips. The slow, gentle stroking of his fingers was com­pelling and soothing and entirely irresistible. He had no right showing her such kindness, now, when she was at her most vulnerable, but she didn't want him to stop.

  She could feel the tension and aches draining away as he massaged the tight, weary muscles of her shoulders and neck, molding his long male fingers in a languid motion that was warm and rhythmic and sensual. She had no de­fenses against such gentleness, such tenderness. Closing her eyes, Jess gave a deep sigh. No one had ever taken care of her like this.

  "You should relax more," Devlin said softly after a mo­ment. "Not work so hard."

  "I can't," she murmured. "I have too many things that need doing."

  He smiled faintly at the conviction in her tone. She'd probably spent a lifetime denying her own needs, a life­time of self-sacrifice, doing for others. He let his stroking hands move lower, along her spine, in an intimate caress. In response, Jessica arched her back, while a soft groan was dredged from deep in her throat.

  Devlin felt a sharp, insistent sting of desire at the primal sound. He wanted to have her groaning for him as she wrapped her long legs around his waist, as she bucked wildly beneath him in the throes of passion, as she melted in his arms. His fingers tightened involuntarily at the im­age of this woman melting for him.

  Jess, dazed by his sensual touch, did feel like she was melting. The seductive promise in his fingertips, his palms, the heels of his hands, no longer resembled the im­personal, soothing magic of his initial touch. This was skilled and expertly arousing. She shivered with each stroke of his fingers.

  Somewhere in a dim corner of her mind a small voice was shouting a warning at her, but she couldn't heed it. Helplessly, she let her head fall back.

  Standing above her, Devlin had an intimate view of the lush swell of her breasts bound repressively by the dark fabric of her bodice. His hands ached to reach around and caress her there, yet he knew that territory of her body was off-limits.

  But he could do the next best thing. With one hand he slowly reached up and drew the hat pin from the small, se­vere felt construction on her head. Tossing it on the table, he proceeded to take down her hair, removing the pins, one by leisurely one, from the mass of twists and knots.

  The woman beneath his hands didn't even seem aware of his unusual ministrations. In fact, she seemed half asleep. Gratified to be meeting no resistance, Devlin in­dulged his pleasure, combing his fingers in the thick mane till it streamed down her back in a flowing river of honey.

  "You have beautiful hair," Devlin couldn't help but murmur, his voice rusty and low.

  His observation brought no response from Jess.

  "I should put you to bed."

  The mention of the bed was an unwelcome intrusion into Jess's drowsy senses. She opened her eyes and looked up at him in confusion. "You make it sound . . . like I'm a child. I'm not. I'm a full-grown woman."

  He smiled one of those beautiful smiles as his gaze drifted lower to her breasts. "Full-grown, perhaps . . . but not entirely a woman."

  The implied insult stung. "What is that supposed to mean?

  Have you ever bedded a man, angel? "Just that you're inexperienced."

  She wanted to deny it, but when she frowned up at him, she found herself trapped by his gaze. They were danger­ous eyes, the gray deep and subtle like smoke from a wild­fire. But then he was a dangerous man. Dangerous as sin.

  Sin__

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth, but it was a moment be­fore she became aware just where his face was in relation to hers. Devlin had moved subtly, positioning himself be­side her chair, angling his body as he leaned over her. His fingers were still twined in her hair, and when he bent even closer, she could feel his warm breath against her lips.

  He was going to kiss her, Jess thought dazedly an in­stant before their lips met.

  A dozen physical sensations shuddered through her. His mouth was cool and yet burned her. His touch was feather-light and yet more powerful than a blow. His masculine scent, his heat, made her senses swim. She felt excited and breathless, as if she'd run a great distance, and yet she hadn't moved. How could she when he had wrapped his hands in her hair, anchoring her head and holding her face still for his kiss?

  Jess trembled. It was erotic, being this helpless while a hard, beautiful man made love to her mouth. She had never experienced anything like it. His tongue, warm and wet, traced the outline of her lips, sending a starburst of fiery pleasure spreading through her. She couldn't believe she was actually letting him do this to her. In a minute she would make him stop. In a minute . . .

  His touch was so intoxicating, so tantalizing, that she ached to touch him in return. Hesitantly she reached up to place her hand along the side of his warm neck. His black hair felt thick and silky where the ends caressed her fin­gers.

  At her tentative gesture, Devlin deepened his kiss. Ev­ery nerve in Jess's body flared and tightened when his tongue slid inside her mouth, coaxing, arousing.

  Did he know what he was doing to her? she wondered dizzily. He had to be aware of the slow thudding of her heart, the sudden throbbing of her body.

  Devlin felt a surge of triumph at the soft whimper he coaxed from her. Arousal, hot and heavy, flooded through him. Deliberately he loosened his hold on her hair, untan­gling one hand from the tawny silken tresses so he could touch her more intimately. His fingers stroked her collar­bone, then slowly descended, to find and cup her breast.

  He felt her stiffen, heard her soft startled gasp, yet he took advantage of her parted lips to drive his tongue deeper inside her mouth.

  It was with a sense of surprise and pleasure that he felt her hand clutching at his left thigh. Her fingers climbed upward uncertainly. Her movement was awkward and fumbling, showing her innocence and inexperience, but no practiced woman's touch had ever excited
him more.

  With a guttural sound of satisfaction, Devlin slanted his head to attain a better angle, his tongue gently forcing her mouth to open farther so he could assuage his hunger. It took a minute for him to recognize the feel of cold steel jammed into his midriff.

  The barrel of his Colt revolver.

  She had drawn his own gun on him.

  The realization was like ice water splashing over his heated senses. His muffled curse was loud in the sudden silence as he pulled back to stare down at her. Her golden hazel eyes were on him, soft, self-conscious, wary, full of distrust, but her grip on the revolver was entirely steady.

  Devlin swore again under his breath. He couldn't be­lieve he had gotten so carried away by a simple kiss that he'd never guessed what Jessica was doing. He hadn't even heard the gun clear leather. Hell, he hadn't been that careless since his first visit to a Chicago parlor house, when he was fourteen.

  Or that aroused. He hadn't expected that kind of weak­ness from himself. He hadn't expected to lose all aware­ness of who she was and who he was. He hadn't expected to be left this hungry for more of her.

  "I'm paying you," she said a bit breathlessly, "to guard our mine, Devlin. Not to kiss me."

  He inhaled, striving for control. "A good thing, angel. It wouldn't be worth the price. You kiss like a child." He had tried to deliver the insult in a cool, languid drawl but it came out in a husky rasp that proclaimed his still-acute state of arousal.

  His accusation seemed to startle her at first. Then her cheeks colored with a flush of embarrassment and anger. "How am I supposed to kiss then?" she demand-ed, per­haps before realizing what she was saying.

  "With your mouth open. With your tongue. With your hands and body. A little passion wouldn't hurt, either."

  Her flush deepened.

  His rough chuckle softly mocked her discomposure. "It's obvious why no one's ever shown you how to kiss." His gaze dropped to the revolver still aimed at him. "Do you threaten to shoot every man who tries?"

  "No, of course not!"

  "Just if he gets too close, then? You know what I think? You're afraid to let yourself enjoy being a woman."