by Anna Jeffrey
“Come,” he had whispered, but she couldn’t. Too inhibited, too exposed.
He stopped and withdrew, stretched and reached for something, lifted her hips. A cushion slid under her, a life preserver, its vinyl cover sun-warmed and buttery smooth, relieving the deck’s chafing. His hand slid up the backs of her thighs, hooked her knees over his shoulders. She was pinned, couldn’t move. Then, his whisker stubble on the insides of her thighs, his breath riffling her pubic hair, his mouth . . . his tongue . . .
Speeee! The scream of a hawk pierced the solitude. She soared to meet it, her own outcry echoing through the steep walls of Hells Canyon.
The burr and peep of the computer brought her back with a jump. She felt warm all over, her pulse drummed in her ears. She was throbbing down there, racing toward a cataclysm she had to force herself to stop. This couldn’t be normal.“My God,” she whispered, clasping her cheeks with he palms.
She rose and moved on shaky legs to the privacy of the bathroom. Her panties were damp and she felt hot and swollen between her legs. She removed the underwear and bathed herself with cool water, then dabbed at her arms and neck with a wet paper towel. The sweet scent of her moisture smelled strong in the airless bathroom, but she had no fresh panties to put on. Using hand soap, she rinsed them under the faucet and hung them on the towel hook to dry.
A supply of perfume and cosmetics stayed on a shelf over the toilet tank. She gave herself several sprays and glanced at her reflection in the medicine cabinet’s cracked mirror. She looked flush and unkempt and Luke would be returning soon.
Why do you care? You’re over him.
She washed her face and applied fresh makeup.
Why are you doing this? It means nothing.
She took down her hair. After being twisted and pinned up all day, it fell to her shoulders in soft waves. She brushed it vigorously, making it shine. Then she went downstairs into the store to wait.
“The accountant’s on the phone, Dahlia.”
Dahlia looked up from straightening the tomato display and glanced at the Pepsi-Cola clock mounted above the storeroom door. Five-thirty. “I’ll take it upstairs.”
She jogged up to the office, keenly aware, as she had been all afternoon, that she wasn’t wearing panties. Just as she hung up, thumps sounded on the wooden stairs. Luke.
She left her chair, switched on the bulb that lit the stair and stepped out onto the square landing. When he reached the landing, he handed her a box tied with a blue satin ribbon, leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“Umm,” he said. “You smell awful good.”
Her heart made a leap as she thought of being without panties and she quickly stepped back, bumping her shoulder on the door facing and stumbling. Both his hands jerked up to catch her, but she swung around him, out of his reach, leaving his hands suspended in air.
“You okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” She carried the box into the office and sat down on the sofa, pulling loose the ribbon. “You look hot. There’s cold beer if you like.” She nodded toward the small, square refrigerator on the opposite end of the room, then regretted offering him a beer. If he drank beer, he might have to go into the bathroom.
“That sounds fine.” He headed for the portable unit, stopping to look down at Joe. “Baby good today?”
“Yes, he’s good most of the time.”
He reached inside the refrigerator for a beer and cracked it open, then thumbed back his hat, propped his elbow on the filing cabinet and drank down half the can in one long swallow. Dahlia couldn’t take her eyes off the muscles working in his throat. “I’ve been thinking about dinner,” she said, freeing the box of its white paper. “It’s hard, going out of town. I cut some great filet mignon today. I’ll take a couple home and we can cook them on the grill on the back porch.”
“Okay,” he said, “if that’s more convenient.”
She could see the difference in his demeanor. He seemed stiff and reserved, not like himself, like he was putting one foot in front of the other until he could get out the door and on his way to the airport tomorrow morning.
She returned her attention to the box. Inside was the tiniest pair of cowboy boots she had ever seen. She looked at Joe, then up at Luke.
He smiled. “So he’ll start out knowing his roots.”
Luke bent over Joe’s crib, closed his eyes and placed a kiss on Joe’s forehead. “Sleep tight, pardner.”
A lump congealed in Dahlia’s throat as she stood in the doorway waiting. “I’ll, uh, make a salad.”
She had gathered two of the prime filets, some salad vegetables and baking potatoes, even a box of Texas Toast, which she loved, but seldom ate. When she had fed Joe a few minutes earlier, instead of watching and hanging onto Joe’s’s finger, Luke had disappeared into the bedroom where he had slept. Repacking, Dahlia assumed. She had felt his absence.
She had seasoned the steaks and put them on a plate. When he returned to the kitchen, he took them outside and stayed. As she put a finishing touch on the salad, he came back inside, carrying the cooked steaks, which looked to be done to perfection. He came to her side and idly picked up each of the three bottles of salad dressing she had brought home and read the labels.
When she could stand the heaviness in the air no longer, she spoke. “Do your daughters know about Joe?”
She could tell by the crimson fan that spread over his face they didn’t.
“I’m gonna tell ’em when I get home.”
Dahlia snorted. “Do you think they’ll be happy to have a bastard half-brother.”
Luke’s long fingers gripped her wrist and he froze her with a cold glare. “Don’t call him that. I won’t allow anyone to call him that.”
She glared back and freed her wrist. “I wasn’t calling him that. I was making a point. And the point is some things are out of your control.”
He backed off. “I’ll do right by him, Dahlia. I already told you.”
“Whatever,” she said.
Left jittery by the vehemence of his reaction, she sacked up the extra vegetables into storage bags took them to the refrigerator. “Here’s some beer Piggy and Bill left. It’s been in here for months. Do you want one?”
“Okay.” Luke took the can of Bud she handed him and popped the tab.
Luke ate, but she had no appetite, even for filet mignon. She couldn’t stop the anger that had been growing ever since his announcement he would go home sooner than planned. Nibbling, but not tasting, she stared at her plate, sneaking peeks at him across the yellow tabletop.
“When do you think you can bring Joe to the Double Deuce. Spend some time, let him get to know his sisters and brother, his grandparents.”
“Me? At your ranch, with your family? Do I look like I’m into self-torture?” She shook her head. “Oh, no, I remember the last meeting I had with your parents. Do you think I’d allow myself to being humiliated like that again?”
“You’d be a guest. Most folks think we’re pretty good hosts. I’m asking you for Joe’s sake.”
“You’re asking me for Luke’s sake.”
As if she weighed three hundred pounds, she flattened her palms on the tabletop, pushed herself up from her chair and took their dishes to the sink.
Rinsing the plates, she stared out through the small window over the sink. His family. What had he told them? He had already said his children knew nothing about Joe. And why ask herself these questions? None of it made any difference. She had no intention of ever returning to Callister, Idaho. For any reason.
Luke couldn’t be in a darker mood. For three days, Dahlia had kept him at arm’s length and danced around his efforts to make some ground rules about Joe. He prided himself on being a patient man, but she was testing him, for sure. He had tried to apologize, tried to tell her how he felt about her and their baby, but he just didn’t seem to know enough words.
He wrapped his hand around his third can of Budweiser. Three beers hadn’t made him drunk, but he wished they had. He hoo
ked his elbow on the back of his chair and stared at her working at the sink. He narrowed his eyes, homing in on her straight, slender nose and high cheekbones, her full mouth with its little crease in the center of her lower lip.
The light over the sink emphasized her hair’s clean shininess. That thin shirt defined the profile of her full breasts. He knew damn well she had worn that to tease him. And it had, all day long.
He finished off his beer and thought about what he knew about the fairer sex—how they knew tricks that ignited a man’s senses and dulled his mind, turned him into a fool; how marriage to one small woman had threatened his very survival as a man and how close he had come to losing the fight. But he hadn’t lost it. He had hung on and prevailed. Since then, his senses had been lit up plenty of times, but he had never lost control of the situation mentally.
Until now.
Dahlia had put a stamp on him again, like she had done last summer. And now, here she was, acting like she didn’t need him when he knew different.
Well, by God, since when did he back off pursuing something he wanted just because the road got rocky or competition challenged him? Nobody had ever called Luke McRae faint-hearted.
She and Joe were alone in the world. She did need him. And his kid needed him, whether she wanted to admit it or not and time was wasting.
Dahlia felt Luke’s eyes burn through her clothing. She heard the scrape of chair legs on the linoleum floor, then the soft thud of boot heels.
“Pretty soon, you’re gonna wash all the pictures off those plates,” he said, coming up behind her.
She turned off the faucet, reached for a dishtowel and pivoted to face him. The soft fabric of her skirt brushed her pubic hair as she turned and she thought of her panties hanging on the towel hook in the Handy Pantry’s office bathroom. The erotic episode in her office earlier had left her with a need that overlapped her brain and simmered behind every thought and deed. It had begun last night, really, when she bathed and perfumed herself and waited for him.
“I can do that if I want to. They are my plates.”
Luke stood a few feet away, his mouth grim, his eyes hooded and focused on her mouth. His palm flattened on the counter, a fist went to his hip. His John Wayne stance. She half expected him to call her Pilgrim.
“I believe you when you say you’re not doing it with anybody,” he said.
She blinked, stunned by his audacity. She tossed the towel aside and swept a sheaf of hair off her forehead. “What I do or who I do it with is absolutely none of your business.”
“That boy sleeping down the hall says different. Piggy told me there’s a couple of guys in town after you.”
Her jaw dropped. “What?”
A basket of fruit sat on the counter at fingertip’s reach. She thought of crowning him with an apple, but couldn’t summon such out-of-character aggression.
“I’ll tell you this much,” he said. “With either one of ’em, it’ll never be like it was with me.”
She gasped. The basket full of apples was alarmingly tempting. “You are so full of yourself.”
He stepped closer. His scent surrounded her. His gaze traveled down to her breasts and back up. “You’re a woman who likes fucking, Dahlia. And you liked it with me. You can deny it with words, but you can’t hide how you kissed me out there on that front porch last night. Or how your nipples are sticking out in that shirt.”
Her arms flew to cross over her breasts. Anger and embarrassment raced each other up her spine. “You’re the most arrogant jerk I’ve ever known.”
He backed her against the counter. His probing gaze held hers for several beats. “That may be, but I’m right.”
Breath left her. Her chest felt like a trapped bird flapped inside it. Her bravado collapsed. “Luke, listen—”
“No. No more games.” His hand cupped her face and tipped it up. His head descended and he covered her mouth with his.
She would not kiss him back!
His tongue nudged for entrance, her lips parted.
Well okay, maybe she would let him kiss her. . . . But she would not kiss him back.
His kiss was deliberate, his mouth gently suckling, his tongue rubbing hers in a slow, carnal rhythm. He tasted like beer, but no man had ever kissed her as he did. She hung there on the counter edge, weak-kneed and helpless.
He raised his head, frowning. She couldn’t tell whose breath was more ragged. “You didn’t kiss me back,” he said.
“Kissing you is more expensive than I can afford.”
“That day in the Forest Service parking lot—what if I told you I screwed up worse than I ever have in my whole life. That I’ve kicked myself a hundred times ever since.”
She knew his pride and ego. For him to admit he had been wrong was akin to his skinning a buffalo with his pocket knife. A tide of emotion rose from her deepest place. She gripped the counter edge tighter. “It’s too late.”
“Only if you want it to be, Dal,” he said softly and flicked the corner of her mouth with his tongue. “Only if you want it to be.”
Did he think she was last summer’s same silly fool? Even back then, it had been too late. She simply had been too blind to see it. A tear escaped, leaked down her cheek. She fought it, but a sob burst forth. Her shoulders quaked from the force of it. “Damn you, Luke. You—you broke my heart. . . . All I wanted was . . . to be with you . . . but you didn’t—”
“I know.” His hand cupped her head and pulled it against his chest. “Shh-shh. I know it, sweetheart. I’m a hardheaded ass. I know that, too.”
“That’s an understatement.” Her arms went around his ribs and she clung to him, weeping and spilling a year of pain and struggle. “You’re worse than that. . . . You’re contrary and single-minded and—”
“I know.” He ducked his head, his lips brushed her wet cheek.
“And—and manipulative. You used me—”
“No. I didn’t, Dal. That I didn’t do. Some of that other might be true, but . . .” He tipped up her chin and wiped her tears with his thumb. “I didn’t mean to hurt you so much. I’d take away every tear if I could. I wish I hadn’t been absent when you needed me. I’ll never be again if you give me another chance.”
He was so close. His breath touched her face in little, heated puffs. Pleasing heat was spilling through her, pooling in the tips of her breasts, in her belly and thighs. Her head burrowed up and she found his lips with hers.
A powerful arm banded her waist and he hauled her against him. They went at each other like starved creatures, tongues connecting at a violent, primitive level. The hard ridge below his
belt buckle pressed against her belly. She wriggled against it, seeking more.
The cranky old hen screamed from a distant niche in her brain. He’s going home. You don’t know when or if you’ll ever see him again.
She heeded it not, because somehow her belt had gotten unbuckled and had fallen to the floor and she was jerking loose the buttons down the front of his shirt. He stepped back and as he whipped off his shirt, she ran her hands down his furry chest.
He tossed the shirt away, then pulled her T-shirt from her waistband and at the same time, she unhooked the front clasp of her bra. Her breasts spilled free and her arms went up around his neck.
A keening sound came from his throat as his tongue plumbed her mouth again. The room spun. She whimpered, making no attempt to hide how much she wanted him.
“The neighbors can see us.” Her voice sounded faint, yet she had never felt more alert. Reaching behind herself for the switch near the sink, she clicked off the overhead light. The gloaming colored the old kitchen in pale gold and limned his bare, wide shoulders in amber. His gaze settled on her breasts. With a day’s beard shadowing his lean cheeks, he looked as solemn and menacing as she had ever seen him.
She kicked off her mules, hooked her thumbs into the elastic waist of her skirt and slid it to a pool around her feet, leaving her naked.
Still as a statue he stood. His darke
ned eyes raked over her body. She well remembered all that that look foretold and something in her stomach rose and fell. Ponderous seconds passed, but she didn’t waver. As much as food, water and shelter, she needed this. Now. With him.
The air conditioner cycled off, leaving the room in blaring silence except for the ticking of the antique clock. It resounded like cymbals from the living room.
He swallowed audibly, slid his arms behind her waist and knees and lifted her off her feet. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “It’s cold, your belt buckle.” She pulled his ear lobe between her teeth.
He carried her through the living room’s shadows. “But you’re not,” he said hoarsely. “You’re hot as a pistol.”
“It’s you,” she whispered and ran her tongue along the curve of his ear. “I never was until you.”
At the entrance to the hallway, he stopped. “Look at me, Dahlia.”
She looked into his eyes. “I’m sure….You know where my room is.”
Chapter 30
“I’ll get him.” Luke threw off the sheet.
They could hear Joe fussing himself awake. Dahlia had fed him late, then the little guy had done his parents a favor and slept the rest of the night.
“Hey, pardner,” Luke said, entering Joe’s room. Joe blatted and chewed on his fist. “Let’s get you cleaned up and ready for Mama.” Luke changed the infant’s diaper with deftness born of experience, then took him to his mother in the bedroom. She turned on her side, her arm crooked behind her head and Joe nuzzled and found her nipple.
“Isn’t he sweet?” She smoothed her hand over his black hair, bent her head and kissed his temple.