Welcome to Paradise

by Rosalind James

  She laughed. “Not in the realm of possibility. But if we do? Then you go, and you know that too.”

  “What if we don’t merge?” he asked with fascination. “And who knew I should have been coming to you for advice all this time?”

  Gabe put up a hand. “I did. You think I hooked up with her just because she’s hot?”

  Mira laughed. “My advice is always free of charge to you,” she assured Gabe. “And OK,” she told Kevin seriously. “If we don’t merge, then what? Then it’s a homestead challenge. If Arcadia wins, I’m gone. And if Paradise wins . . .”

  “I’m gone,” Kevin agreed with a sigh. “I don’t like the outcome of any of your scenarios much. Why is it that most of them end up with me leaving? Looks like my only strategic option, besides hoping that Rachel’s been more effective than I have, is to try to break you and Gabe up. I’d work on Stanley’s loyalties, but I have a feeling those are going to be pretty tough to shake.”

  “About as tough as breaking those two up,” Stanley said with the grin Kevin always elicited from him. “You really are a piece of work. Can’t work this angle, and you may as well admit it.”

  “Sadly, I fear that you are correct. And if I throw the challenge, I’ll never win the million. Besides, and I hate to say it, I don’t think my male pride would allow it. So,” Kevin heaved a mighty sigh. “The way I see it, I can poison you, Mira—which might happen anyway, if I’m going to be helping in the kitchen. I’m a terrible cook. Or I can cross my fingers that we don’t merge, and that Arcadia somehow manages to kick our butt next week.”

  Kevin wasn’t kidding about being useless in the kitchen, Mira discovered. When he burned the eggs the next morning, resulting in a mess that even Stanley refused to eat, it was clear that the roster was going to have to be adjusted.

  “Consider yourself on garden duty, Kevin,” Gabe announced, poking through the charred strips of bacon to find something edible. “Stanley and I are going to be helping Mira out in here from now on.”

  “When we’re not plowing and planting,” Stanley agreed. “We’ll work out a schedule, get it fixed up. I can still do a day’s work, but not on an empty stomach.”

  “Well, I will need some help,” Mira said, “because I was thinking that I might try to bake a cake tomorrow. I’m no good at pie, so if we want something sweet, I’m going to have to try cake. And I kind of want a cake tomorrow anyway.”

  “Why?” Gabe asked, arrested in the act of buttering a biscuit. “What’s tomorrow?”

  “My birthday,” she admitted. “Twenty-nine. And I know it’s silly, but I want a cake.”

  “Baking your own birthday cake . . . that’s a little sad, though,” Gabe said. “You know how to make cake, Stanley?”

  “Nope. Sure don’t,” he said regretfully.

  “Me neither. And never mind,” Gabe said when Kevin would have spoken. “We know you don’t. All right, Mira, you have to bake your own cake. But what can we do for you that’s special?”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” she protested, uncomfortable at the fuss. “It’s fine. I just wanted a cake, that’s all.”

  “You don’t ask a woman what she wants,” Stanley instructed Gabe. “Not a woman like Mira, you don’t. She’s always going to tell you she’s fine. You think of what you can do for her, and you make it happen, so she doesn’t have to do a thing. That’s the way it works.”

  “You sure know,” Mira told him with a smile, putting a hand over his.

  “I ought to,” he said, turning his own palm up to squeeze hers briefly. “Trained by the best. Took her about thirty years, but she got there, in the end.”

  “All right,” Gabe objected, “but what do we do?”

  “We give her a day off, first thing,” Stanley decided.

  “Not the whole day,” Mira said. “None of you knows how to cook on a wood stove well enough for that. But a few hours would be nice.”

  “Right,” Stanley said. “And . . .” He looked at her speculatively. “A bath,” he decided.

  “You telling her she’s dirty?” Kevin said, starting to laugh. “That’s some Boyfriend School you’ve got going there for Gabe.”

  “You mean a hot bath?” Mira asked, ignoring Kevin. “How?”

  “That washtub’s pretty big,” Stanley said. “That’s how folks used to do it, you know, not so long ago. Saturday night, one after the other, in the washtub. Littlest kid got the last bath in that dirty water. My daddy told me about that.”

  Mira eyed the big washtub, hanging on the cabin wall, with longing. “A hot bath,” she breathed. “Yeah. The only thing better would be shaving my legs. But still. Yeah. Happy Birthday to Me.”

  Mira’s Birthday Present

  “Don’t worry about dumping the water afterwards,” Gabe assured her the next afternoon. “The guys and I will take care of that.” He set a bucket of steaming water down next to the washtub, together with a cup. “For rinsing your hair,” he explained. “And I think this towel is clean.”

  “You thought of everything,” she said, flushed with pleasure. She couldn’t wait to squeeze herself into that tub and soak. “This is amazing.”

  He smiled. “I’ll get out of here and leave you to it. Take your time. Go sit in the sun for a while afterwards, too. It’s your birthday, after all. The guys will stay out of the way.”

  “The stove,” she began.

  “I’ll keep it going,” he promised. “Now get in there before you lose all the heat.” He cast a last frowning look at Danny, filming from his corner. “There’s a limit here,” he warned the cameraman.

  “I told you,” Danny sighed. “We’re not allowed to film anybody naked.”

  “This is weird,” Mira complained as Gabe shut the door reluctantly behind him. “Like some kind of awkward 1885 porn.”

  “Just ignore me,” Danny said. “I’ll be gone in a minute.”

  Mira did her best, but it still felt strange to take off the layers of clothes in front of him. First her apron, then her dress and corset, until she was finally untying the drawers and pulling them off from underneath the chemise, laying everything across a chair. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the camera tracking her movements, then panning to her clean underclothes lying ready on the bench along with her towel and comb.

  “OK,” Danny said. “Just pull up the chemise. Just up to your thighs.”

  “My thighs on TV. Right,” she sighed. “Exactly what I thought I wouldn’t have to reveal on this show.”

  “Come on, Mira,” he coaxed. “Ten seconds and you’re in that tub.”

  “Great,” he said as she complied. “That’s our money shot. And I’m out of here.”

  At last, he was gone and she was stepping into the blissfully warm water. She closed her eyes at the pleasure of it, even as she scrunched her legs up to fit them into the galvanized tub. Picking up the precious bar of castile soap, she laughed a little at the idea that this was the ultimate luxury in her new life. But it was a luxury, and she felt every keen lick of sensual enjoyment at the feeling of the warm water against her skin, the sheer bliss of getting really, truly clean. She used the white soap and the bathing sponge to wash her ears and neck, scrubbed her arms and legs and, finally, her feet until they glowed pink. Then scooped warm water with her hands, splashed it over herself to rinse off, and looked down at her body, studying it carefully for the first time in weeks.

  Gazing at her stomach, she realized how much flatter it had become. And her thighs—they’d never had that curve to them, that was for sure. Her body was stronger and slimmer than it had been for years. Women spent all kinds of money for boot camps and spa vacations in an attempt to create this kind of transformation. And yet, ironically, this was the one time she hadn’t been obsessing over it. There had just been too much to do. In the morning when she was hopping around, trying to keep warm while she pulled on clothes in the first gray light of dawn, trying her best to fix her hair, it was the last thing she was concerned with. And when
she was finally pulling her clothes off in the light of her lantern, all she wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep.

  It was more than that, though, she thought as she used the bucket and cup Gabe had left to wet her hair, worked up a lather with the soap and scrubbed at her head, then rinsed the suds out as thoroughly as she could with the rest of the water. What she’d enjoyed most had been the strength she’d felt—the ease with which she could now split a chunk of wood into stove-sized pieces, turn the handle to pull up the well water. And her strength of mind, too. It hadn’t been easy these past couple days being the only woman here, but she’d gotten it all done. As hard and monotonous as the work was, she’d had such a sense of accomplishment that she had mastered it, that she was the last woman standing here on the homestead.

  Hearing the rhythmic thud of the axe, the clatter of split wood falling, she smiled to herself. And the other thing she’d enjoyed was Gabe. The light in his eyes when he looked at her. All the little kindnesses he’d done her from the beginning, from filling the woodbox to carrying water, in addition to all his own work. The way he’d grated that huge pile of carrots this morning for the carrot cake she’d decided was her safest bet, joking when he’d grated his knuckle, kissing her when she’d bandaged it for him. No, having him around hadn’t hurt at all.

  Her tub wasn’t hot anymore, but she lingered until it had cooled and she began to shiver before reluctantly climbing to her feet and reaching for the rough towel, rubbing herself vigorously and finally bending forward to wrap her hair in a turban. She stepped onto the bare wood planks of the floor and pulled the clean chemise over her scrubbed body with a sigh of contentment, slipped her dirty boots on reluctantly but left them untied, then grabbed her comb and left the cabin.

  It was Gabe chopping wood, she saw. She waved to him, then walked down next to the creek, sat on her favorite boulder and took off the grubby boots, then set about toweling dry and combing her hair, grateful once more for its shorter length. She should have cut it sooner, no matter what Scott had said. Well, she should have done a lot of things sooner. But at least she’d finally done them, one way or another.

  She looked up at the sight of someone coming along the path. Gabe, she realized with a funny little lift of her heart. Carrying the bucket and a wooden box.

  “Hi,” he said with a smile as he came up beside her. He set the box and the heavy bucket, steam rising from its surface, on the ground next to her. Then sat down on the stump beside her rock. “Next part of your birthday present, coming up.”

  “More?” she asked with pleasure, belatedly sneaking a peek downward to make sure her chemise was covering her. She was so used now to wearing multiple layers of clothes that appearing before him in the thin cotton garment felt almost undressed.

  “You said you wanted to shave your legs,” he said. He lifted the folded straight razor from the box to show her. “Razor, hot water, shaving soap and mug. Just for you.”

  She looked at the razor with longing. “I don’t know how to use it, though. I think I’d slice myself open.”

  “It’s a good thing there’s a doctor in the house, then, isn’t it? And that I’ve had a little practice with this thing. Because you’re right, it’s pretty wicked, and I’ve just sharpened it.”

  She could feel the flush mounting up her chest, her throat as he smiled at her. He was offering to shave her legs? “So this is a doctor thing, then?” she asked tentatively. “Like . . . impersonal?”

  “Nope. Not a doctor thing.” His deep blue eyes burned into hers, and the firm, mobile mouth held no trace of a smile now. “It’s a man thing. I want to make you feel good. And I want to touch you in as many places as I can manage. This one’s absolutely personal.”

  “Oh,” she breathed. The heat was flaming in her face, and in the rest of her too. Licking right down into the center of her. “Then . . . yes. Please. Please shave my legs for me.”

  He smiled, then. Slowly. Lifted his right hand to his left shirt cuff, unbuttoned it and rolled the sleeve up his arm, exposing the skin, heavier than ever with corded muscle, the veins standing out in stark relief. Then did the other cuff, his movements deliberate. Finally, he lifted the shaving mug and brush from the box, dipped a bit of warm water into the mug, and began mixing the soap into a frothy lather. Still without speaking, he took hold of her left foot, laid it across his broad thigh, held it firmly in one big hand, shoving the chemise up over her thighs, and began stroking the soft bristles of the boar’s-hair brush over her ankle, up her shin, over her knee, and beyond, halfway up her thigh.

  Her breath was coming faster as the brush glided over her clean skin. He was completely focused on her, his grip firm on her ankle, his eyes intent on his task. Now he set the brush carefully back into the shaving mug and picked up the razor. Opened it, exposing the long, dangerous blade, and looked up, into her eyes.

  “Hold still,” he warned. Then set the blade to her skin, just above her foot, and stroked cleanly up to her knee, the hair falling away with the lather. A few more quick, skillful motions, and the rest of her shin, her knee, the front of her thigh were clean.

  He set the razor back in the box to use the brush on the back of her calf. Shifted his position, reaching underneath, more carefully than ever, to shave the delicate skin at the sides and back of her ankle, around her knee. Dipped the cup in the bucket and poured warm water over her leg to rinse it, then reached for her towel to pat it dry.

  He lifted her foot off his leg when he’d finished and set it back on the grass, then picked up the other foot, settled her leg firmly across his own and went through the same routine.

  Mira closed her eyes, let herself drift with the sensations. The stroke of the soft brush over her skin, the pleasurable pressure of the razor, the tingle of all the tiny nerves as he cut away the hair, the warm water falling over her, the rough abrasion of the towel. And, most of all, the feeling of his warm, sure hands on her. Holding her foot in place, reaching up to the top of her thigh . . .

  She opened her eyes reluctantly as he set the second foot down. Smiled slowly at him, saw the answering smile spread over his face.

  “I won’t offer to go any higher up,” he said. “We’ll save that for another time, when we’re out of camera range.”

  “Where is he?” Mira asked with a start. She’d forgotten entirely about Danny, she realized. She’d seen him filming her walking down here, but she hadn’t given him another thought since then.

  “I followed your example, suggested this little episode might lose them their PG rating,” Gabe said. And had followed it up with as intimidating a stare as he could manage. “Still, we’d better not push it. He could still be around someplace.”

  “No,” she agreed breathlessly. “Good idea.”

  “What about your underarms, though?” he asked. “I’m guessing, if your legs are bothering you, that you wouldn’t mind having those done.”

  “That really isn’t PG,” she said doubtfully.

  He laughed softly. “As long as I’m careful where I hold you while I do it, I can keep it PG for now. When we’re really alone, we’ll get the rest of you. All the way to the bikini line. And beyond, if you like. My skills are at your disposal. That’s a promise.”

  He saw the color flood her face again. And could swear it made him even harder, if that were possible. He’d been aroused from the moment he pulled her foot onto his thigh, saw her head go back, her hair hanging down behind her, the smooth skin of her upper chest and the shadow between her breasts where the low-cut chemise dipped. He wasn’t sure how he was going to get out of here without making love to her, but he couldn’t risk that being caught on camera. Not that they’d ever show it, of course. But nobody but him should see her naked. And nobody was going to, if he could help it.

  Now, he waited for her to make up her mind. Saw her catch that plump lower lip between small white teeth, then nod with decision.

  “Please,” she said. She raised her arm over her head, her hand reaching down to t
ouch the opposite shoulder, and turned her head to look around her raised arm at him. “Is this OK?”

  “Yeah,” he said, heard his voice catch on the word. Cleared his throat. “Yeah.” He swirled the brush again, painted her with the slick foam, then put a steadying hand on the delicate skin of her upper arm as he stroked the razor carefully over the contours of her underarm. He poured another cup of water over her, wiped it gently away with the towel, and watched as the moisture seeped into the fabric of her chemise. The thin white cotton clung to her breast, her side, and he saw the nipple pebbling under the cold, wet fabric.

  He forced his eyes up from the sight. “Swing around this way,” he said, doing his best to maintain. “And I’ll do the other one.”

  At last, he was done. The entire front of her chemise was wet now, and she wasn’t even looking embarrassed anymore as he used the towel, stroking it gently over her shoulders, under her arms. She was looking at him, mouth slightly open, breath audible. Her breasts were clearly visible, her erect nipples pressing against the wet fabric covering her, and he couldn’t help himself. He reached out and lifted her off her rock, set her on his lap. His hand went to one of those firm, round breasts, settled over it, felt the nipple jutting into his palm as his mouth found hers.

  He sucked that plump lower lip into his mouth, then released it again as his tongue licked into her to taste her. He held her breast with one hand, reached around her thigh with the other to pull her more tightly against him. Then concentrated on kissing her senseless.

  Mira couldn’t decide which felt better. His mouth, his tongue on her, in her. Or his thumb moving over her nipple, each touch another lick of flame adding to the fire that was burning high now. She was holding onto his shoulders for dear life, melting into him, dissolving in the pleasure of it. And still he kissed, and stroked, and held her. As if he had all the time in the world.

  “Gabe,” she said into his mouth.

  “Hmm?” He kissed the corner of her mouth, reached the tip of his tongue to touch her there. And God help her, even that felt fantastic.