The Seduction Of Fiona Tallchief

by Cait London

  “I want to be in you, a part of you.... Kiss me,” he ordered arrogantly in his sleep, as if he had that right, as if he were her lord and master. The drawl was rich, sleepy, masculine and loaded with sensuality.

  Fiona shivered. While Joel was still sleeping, she was fully awake and too aware of the danger of the moment. His hand moved up to the back of her hair, toyed with the short-chopped lengths and gently urged her head down to his. Fiona resisted, pushing back.

  His lids opened slightly; he stared at her for a heartbeat, shook his head, as if to clear it. Then with a shudder and a disgusted groan, Joel sank back into sleep.

  Fiona stared at him, temper simmering. This bozo was dreaming of another woman, while he made love to Fiona!

  Incensed, Fiona held her temper. She couldn’t hurt an injured, probably delirious, dreaming man; it wasn’t honorable to pick on the defenseless. She lay upon him, aware that one big hand still claimed and caressed her bottom beneath her briefs. She slowly eased his hand out of her jeans and taking care, lifted her body from on top of his. Joel sighed deeply and reached out an arm, curling it around her waist. “Don’t leave me, not yet,” he whispered close to her ear and gently bit her lobe.

  Fiona lay very still within the circle of his arm, the comforter between them. All she needed in her life now was that her first turn-on should be by a man who obviously knew how to make love in his sleep, a man who thought he held another woman in his arms. “Listen, you—” she began.

  “Shut up. You talk too much. You’re giving me a headache,” he grumbled sleepily. He drew the sleeping bag over her, turned her as easily as a child and fitted his tall body to her back, spoon fashion.

  She lay very still, and when twenty minutes had passed, Fiona decided that if she wasn’t the woman he really wanted, she might as well take advantage of his comfortable warmth. In time she dozed again, aware of Joel sleeping deeply, holding her lightly.

  Joel awoke at noon. Every inch of his body hurt, and the stitched wounds in his head throbbed. He eased a hand to his side, pressed the bruised flesh and decided his ribs were not broken.

  For a heartbeat he wallowed in fantasy, dispatching himself from the shield he’d welded around his emotions. He inhaled Fiona’s fresh wildflower scent, wallowed in it and prowled through the other scents to the one that reminded him of babies. Hell, yes, he admitted reluctantly. He wanted babies, he wanted a house filled with them. He wallowed in the image of Fiona’s long, slender body filling with his child.

  A man who dealt with cold reality, Joel placed the image in a mental drawer. He might desire Fiona Tallchief, his body needing relief, but fantasy and babies weren’t for him. His ex-wife had said he was unromantic, cold and calculating. Patrice was probably right; he liked his life neat and uncomplicated. He gingerly touched the plastic square covering his cuts, remembering Fiona snipping the square and concentrating on securing the disposable diaper with duct tape.

  Joel turned slowly, his head pounding, to the old table near the fire, piled with the foodstuffs from his car, his leather bag and Fiona’s olive drab backpack. He’d dreamed that she’d stripped in the morning light, warmed by the stove that she had just stoked. He closed his eyes and the vision of long, feminine curved legs, backlit by the fire behind her, caused him to shudder.

  Her towel, one of the big lush ones he’d just bought, was tossed over the back of a chair.

  Joel groaned unevenly. His head wasn’t alone in pain; his body was throbbing, jerking to life when he remembered how she had heated water in the metal bucket, and used a cloth to soap her face, rinsing, and then proceeding to the sheen of her bare shoulders above the towel By the time she’d reached her long legs, bracing one on the chair, Joel’s fists had been wrapped in the sheets and his body was painfully aware that it had been five years since he’d—

  He frowned, the bruises on his forehead throbbing. He wanted more from Fiona than a fast sexual release.

  Her tight, white sweater had clung to every taut curve, her jeans molded to slender hips and long legs. She’d whipped a black leather vest over the sweater and jammed on her boots. She’d stood, bracing her long legs apart as she’d slid beaded earrings into her ears and looped a chain over her head, looking nothing like the slender boy who had claimed Joel.

  The light had flowed over her curves and words plowed through Joel’s throbbing head—ripe...feminine, sweet, savage, hot...and his, though she didn’t know it. Joel inhaled slowly, forcing himself to think. He hadn’t intended to find Fiona so quickly, but now that he had, she wasn’t—

  “You’ll be fine,” she had whispered over him, smoothing his hair back from the diaper square. “There’s canned soup when you’re hungry. Just stoke up the stove and then you should sleep. I’ll be back this afternoon. Rest,” she’d said in the tone of a woman who expected her orders to be obeyed.

  He’d never liked orders, nor the thought of a woman—or anyone—taking charge of him. Joel sat up slowly, ignored his bruises and the pounding in his head and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He was weaker than he thought and forced himself to walk to his bag, where he fished out a mobile telephone. He flipped it open, jerked up the antenna, punched in his brother’s number and hoped the high-tech telephone wouldn’t be stopped by a few sky-high Rocky Mountains.

  After Rafe answered, Joel said, “I’m at the ranch. Fiona Tallchief has...nabbed me. See what you can find out about what she’s been up to, will you?”

  “Are you okay?” The Palladins always took care of each other, and Rafe’s tone said that he’d be at Joel’s side if needed.

  “Just peachy,” Joel answered grimly. Drop a detail in Rafe’s lap and he’d run with it. He didn’t want Rafe or any other woman-hunting male anywhere near Fiona. “How’s Cody? Still mad at me for jerking him away from his street pals and installing him at Mamie’s?”

  “He’s peeved, but Nick and I are keeping him busy, doing all those things we didn’t get to do as kids. Reminds me of when she reined us in.” In the background, Rafe was already punching computer keys, “Nabbed you? Was that what you said? Fiona Tallchief? Don’t tell me you’ve met your match, the great swashbuckling Joel Palladin.”

  “There was a bit of trouble. And you know I tossed my swashbuckling into the bushes long ago,” Joel said. Rafe knew Joel’s weaknesses too well, and being saved by a woman hadn’t helped his Iron Man image: “I was weak as a baby. She had me hauled out of there to safety like a bag of potatoes. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.” Joel clicked the telephone off, killing the sound of Rafe’s roaring laughter.

  “He’s mine...I’ll take him,” she’d said as though picking out a ripe tomato on a vender’s cart. Then she’d proceeded to tell him about her needs as a virginal savage, a woman of action, which was enough to send him into a permanently hardened ache. She liked everything on her terms, purring along according to her directions.

  The novelty of a woman claiming him, giving him orders caused him to frown. Fiona Tallchief had lessons to learn....

  Three

  Fiona nudged open the old door with her shoulder and carried in the two sacks of groceries. The daisy bouquet tucked under her chin hadn’t suffered from being tied to her saddle horn. She lifted the small potted fern stuffed onto the top of the grocery sack and carried it to the old sewing room.

  She placed it on the floor and studied the wonderful light she had shared with Mrs. Watkins. It was only five o’clock in the afternoon. She’d closed Hummingbirds early and hurried to her apartment above the shop. She’d had a quick, but luxurious shower, stuffed a change of clothes into her backpack, then hurried to the grocery store and on to Birk’s to pick up Dante.

  “You’re all fired up and easy to read,” her brother had said. “Since you came back in December, you’ve been busy setting up Hummingbirds, but something was missing and now it’s back. You’ve got that sharp, hunting look. You’re on a mission to save someone, something,” Birk had stated flatly as he handed the reins of Joel’s horse to h
er.

  “It’s handy to have brothers at times. In addition to keeping Morning Star for me, you provide such good day care for other horses,” she had tossed at him.

  “I don’t recognize this horse.” Birk had stood, looking at her as if he knew every molecule of her plans. After years of experience with Duncan, Calum and Birk, she recognized that Black Knight look—one eyebrow raised, arms folded across his chest and long legs spread.

  Because Birk had looked so worried, Fiona hurled herself at him, kissed his cheek and patted it. “His name is Dante. I love you. I’m safe, I’m well, and you can back off,” she had ordered pleasantly.

  The problem with overly protective brothers like the Black Knights was that they sometimes cramped her freedom.

  Her forty-five-minute ride across the old mountain trail to the homestead had allowed her plenty of time to think. The objects of her crusades—Eunice and Joel—were in their designated places, and Danny’s call informed her that all hell was breaking loose at the zoo. Fiona told him she wanted hell to simmer for a while, before exposing the intended sale of Eunice to the notorious Timba Simba Land, which had already been found guilty of exotic animal negligence. She didn’t mention that Danny’s rig had a few scratches caused by her bashing into a convenience store.

  Despite her collecting Joel, things were perking along fine. Eunice was safe in the barn, pacified by Fiona’s battery-operated radio. Though Joel’s horse wasn’t pleased at first with Eunice’s snout investigating his body, he’d begun to accept the snout’s actions as petting.

  Lying on the bed, Joel looked as if he hadn’t moved, his bare back turned to her and his shoulders tanned and gleaming above the expensive comforter. Fiona eased the sacks onto the table, pushed aside a clutter to make room and swung her heavy backpack down from her shoulder.

  In that morning’s dim light, his face had been swollen, the bruises starting to bloom into a glorious purple.

  “You’re a slob, Joel,” she remarked pleasantly after glancing around the room. She stuffed the daisy, baby’s breath and greenery bouquet into an old fruit jar and added water from the drinking bucket. She surveyed the room slowly. He’d been up: his T-shirt and shorts lay on the floor with a towel; a pan crusted with hardened soup was proof that he’d eaten; and he’d tossed the diaper square used as a bandage onto the floor. He’d rummaged through his overnight bag, and an array of silk boxer shorts overflowed onto the table. The opened bottle of aspirin had been used often, some of the tablets spilled on the table. He’d left the dipper from the bucket of drinking water on the chair beside his bed. Fiona capped the aspirin, jammed his clothing back into his bag. She quickly changed into sweat clothes and hurried out to forage in the old woodpile. In fifteen minutes she had carried in a supply for the night, stoked up the old wooden cookstove and filled its water reservoir with water from the nearby spring.

  The old kerosene lantern, which she’d found in the same place it had always been, and a few candles lit the old room, warming it with memories. She placed the pot from her kitchen on the old stove, took out the plates and cups and utensils resting in it. She added chicken and water to the pot, dehydrated onions, garlic and parsley, covering the broth as it simmered.

  She almost enjoyed cleaning, she thought, as she dashed the cobwebs away in the living room. The old homestead would be the perfect place to keep Eunice while Danny drew the media’s attention to Timba Simba Land’s intended purchase of Eunice. Then the zoo would be under pressure, and a soft-hearted, three-hundred-pound television reporter by the name of Brick would make a perfect contact. She mopped around Joel’s bed and under it, bumping the legs as she worked. Brick’s beautiful prose concerning animal neglect could wring tears from—

  “Will you stop that noise?” Joel demanded roughly, flipping over to glare at her with the one eye that was not swollen shut.

  “Hello, honey. I’m home from work. Enjoy your day?” Fiona drizzled her tones in syrup. She was sweating from working, while he slept in his cozy bed.

  He scowled at her. “You’ve got a mouth,” he said finally, and turned away from her.

  Fiona blew him a kiss, curtsied and, because she was riding on a high of everything going her way, another crusade purring along, she purposely bumped the bed again. Joel grunted and went back to sleep.

  Fiona began to sing softly, pleased with herself, as she swept and mopped and stirred the chicken broth simmering on the stove, adding a sack of her neighbor’s frozen homemade noodles.

  She began a sultry Peggy Lee song, “Fever,” and she added appropriate bumps and grinds as she mopped. Though the doors to the rest of the house remained closed, Fiona had to clean Mrs. Watkins’ old sewing room, lined with windows and memories.

  Broom in hand, and studying the fern in the moonlight, Fiona leaned back against the old wallpaper and sang the song Mrs. Watkins liked best, “Greensleeves.”

  Fiona gave herself to the memories, the past flowing back to her, wrapping around her. Through the tears in her eyes, she saw the man watching her from the other room. Shadows circled him, the lamp and candlelight touched his hard face, gleaming on the dark skin covering his cheekbones and flickering in his eyes, holding her in place like a doe caught in the sights of a hunter’s rifle. The look held and frightened her, because the impact jarred her, reached inside her and foraged.

  She hated him instantly. No one dared reach inside Fiona, except her family, and even they dared not pry too deeply, wary of wounding her.

  Joel had seen too much; he’d seen her pain and loneliness, disguised from other people. Fiona dashed the tears from her eyes; she needed to escape Joel’s intense, burning stare. “I’m going out to check on your horse and bring in more wood. It will be cold tonight. There is soup on the stove, if you want it.”

  “I’m sorry,” he spoke softly again, confusing her. His tone had the impact of a bulldozer, stopping her in midstep.

  Why? she asked mentally, then shoved the thought away. She faced him, squaring off, lifting her defenses. “Look, Joel. I’ve got no time for you, or your prodding, or your sympathies, whatever they are. You’re someone I don’t want to know. I’m temporarily storing my rig in your bam, and that’s it. I just don’t care about you.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then sighed wearily. “I care what happens to you.”

  Fiona ended the conversation by kicking the door that separated the sewing room from the living room. Satisfied with the loud slam that was certain to jostle Joel’s headache, she moved through the cold shadowy house to the back door, forced it open and tromped to the barn. Eunice, always a good listener, promptly wrapped her trunk around Fiona, who leaned on the elephant and hugged her as she cried.

  “Thank you, Eunice. I appreciate the hug,” Fiona stated shakily. “I’m just tired, but don’t you worry. Danny is stirring up the media right now, and with Brick on your side, everything will be fine. The man in the house cares about me only because right now I’m taking care of him...keeping him warm, fed and all the other comforts he needs. That’s all it is.”

  After feeding Eunice and letting the gelding into the small field to graze, Fiona squared her shoulders. She’d never avoided a confrontation if one was necessary, and if Joel attempted any more—

  A half hour later she kicked the front door closed with her boot and deposited the firewood in the old watering tub on the floor. Joel hadn’t moved, the dim light angling over the breadth of his shoulders and the triangle of dark hair on his chest. Fiona poured the soup into a mug, stirred it with a spoon and walked to him. His eyes flickered open, and a jolt of awareness skittered up her spine. “You’re pale. Have you eaten?” she asked.

  His eyes slowly closed as if blocking her out. “I’m not hungry. Go away.”

  After living with her brothers, she knew how to handle contrary males. “You should eat. I’ll help you.”

  More to taunt Joel than to feed him, Fiona sat down on the bed, placing the mug on the chair. “Sit up. You’re going to eat now.”
>
  He lifted one lid, eyeing her. She went for the challenge like a cat after a mouse, immediately bending over him to draw the pillow up higher. He lay still, his neck oddly crooked, looking up at her.

  “Up. If you don’t eat, you’ll never recover and then I’ll never get rid of you,” she ordered, pleased that his expression had changed to a dark scowl “You know, if you keep lying there with your neck at an angle, it will be very stiff.”

  “Will you leave me alone if I eat?” he asked in a low, ominous drawl after a full moment.

  “I may or I may not. I make no promises. I’m used to getting my way, Joel. You’d have an easier time of it, if you gave up now.”

  “Is that right?” he tossed back, the angle of his jaw hardening defiantly. “You like people under your thumb, surrendering to you, do you?”

  “Uh-huh, that’s about the size of it.”

  When Joel moved, she noted size—his. He looked as fit as any of her brothers, the dim light skimming across the width of his shoulders.

  His bare chest shouldn’t have unnerved her, caused her to look away as another jolt of awareness hit her.

  “You look like hell. Hard day at the office, honey?” he tossed at her as he eased himself higher then rested back on the pillow. The dragon flexed over the muscle on his arm, and Fiona realized suddenly that she was staring at it, fascinated by the play of skin over muscle and—something darkened in Joel’s eyes, heated the air between them. “Getting to you, am I?” he asked with a knowing, sensual curve to his beautiful mouth.

  Fiona had little time for sensual games, and she wasn’t playing them with a car thief. “Not likely. I could have you for breakfast and—”

  “Mmm,” he murmured slowly around the spoon in his mouth. His eyes darkened as if anticipating the thought that they would—