Men Made in America Mega-Bundle

by Gayle Wilson, Marie Ferrarella, Jennifer Greene, Annette Broadrick, Judith Arnold, Rita Herron, Anne Stuart, Diana Palmer, Elizabeth Bevarly, Patricia Rosemoor, Emilie Richards

  She met his eyes. “Worth, I won’t sleep with you,” she said, putting it bluntly as the footsteps came closer.

  “All right,” he replied easily.

  She shifted, her gaze going toward the door. “I…”

  “I won’t back you into a corner,” he promised. “I can’t offer you a future, Amy. And since I can’t, I won’t compromise you. Is that word old-fashioned enough, or should I say that I won’t—” and he used the modern vernacular, and grinned wickedly when she glared at him.

  “You have a horrible mouth,” she shot, brushing back her long, tangled hair.

  “Yours is exquisite,” he returned, glancing at it wistfully. “I’ve never kissed anything so soft and sweet.”

  “I’m going home,” she muttered. She got her purse and started out the door, almost colliding with Jeanette.

  “Hello, dear.” The older lady grinned. “I thought you’d gone. Worth, Clara wants me to come over for bridge tomorrow night, will you drive me?”

  “Of course,” he said.

  Jeanette looked from one of them to the other. “No arguing,” she told them firmly, mistaking the tension. “And don’t you dare try to run her off, Worth, or I’ll put myself in a nursing home!”

  “God forbid, they’d expel you by the third day,” Worth said with lazy good humor.

  “Hmph!” she grumbled, and smiled at Amelia. “I’ll see you tomorrow, dear. Good night.”

  “Good night,” Amelia said, and smiled back.

  She didn’t even glance at Worth, but was thankful her legs didn’t fold on the way out the door.

  She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking about the delicious interlude in his arms. She’d wanted him to open her dress, she’d wanted him to look at her and touch her. She’d trembled with hungers she barely understood. Was she crazy to agree to stay on? He’d promised not to compromise her, but what would she do if he put pressure on her? She couldn’t refuse him if he kept kissing her. She wanted him.

  And what did he want? An interlude or someone to cuddle, but not to keep? Was he being sweet so that she’d stay because his grandmother liked her so much? Or did he just feel sorry for her?

  In the end, she decided to live one day at a time and hope for the best. At least she wasn’t getting emotionally involved with Worth. That, she couldn’t allow. He was not a marrying man, and she couldn’t handle an affair. She’d just have to think up some polite way of telling him that she’d rather they had a friendly relationship that didn’t get physical. She’d long since given up on the idea of a husband and children, since her relationships were so few and far between, and only lukewarm at best. The good men were married, and the ones who were left were unmarried for too obvious reasons. She’d learned that these days most men liked brief affairs and nothing more lasting. They’d learned that they could have their cake and eat it, too—all the benefits of marriage and none of the responsibilities. But Amy wanted it all, wedding cake and rings and exchanged vows. And she supposed that she’d just waited too long to try. It was too late. She was a spinster for life. Well, so what, she asked herself irritably. Wasn’t living alone better than risking everything on a man who could turn out to be a gambler or a secret drunk or a wife beater or a bigamist? Sure it was! She closed her eyes on that optimistic note and finally fell asleep.

  Six

  Amelia called and canceled her job interview, and settled down at the Carson home, working hours that were odd and sometimes tiring, but enjoying herself all the same.

  Worth was in and out, mostly out. Infrequently he had her take notes or type up something for him, but she spent most of her time with Jeanette. The elderly lady could tell some hair-raising stories, recollections of her days as a reporter. Amelia learned about grisly murders and street life with wide-eyed fascination. Jeanette delighted in shocking her.

  Summer went into fall, and Amelia found herself looking forward to each new day. The Carson estate had beautiful grounds, and when her employer was busy with other things, she liked to wander around them and sigh over the vegetation. It was a shock when Worth came looking for her one Monday, a day he usually spent at his office.

  He’d kept his distance from her since that unexpectedly ardent exchange at the supper table. But he’d been watchful, and in another man she might have mistaken it for interest. She didn’t make that mistake with him. Jeanette had told her too much about his past. She’d daydreamed a little, but very quickly she learned that he could turn his emotions on and off, teasing her one minute and bellowing about mistakes the next. She coped with his shifting moods by not letting herself get too involved, by keeping her emotions at a safe distance. And it worked. He became more friend than employer, and she found him unusually easy to talk to, just as she had that first day.

  “Does Mrs. Carson want me?” Amelia asked with a smile. She was wearing white slacks with a pink tank top, her hair loose and swinging freely around her shoulders, sandals on her small feet. She laughed as he joined her, and he watched her face for a minute before he replied.

  “No,” he said lazily. He fell into step beside her. He was wearing gray slacks and a white shirt, rolled up to the elbows and carelessly unbuttoned.

  “Something bothering you, boss?” she teased gently.

  He glanced down at her with a smile. “No.”

  “You’re home early or going to work late, then,” she remarked. She had a strand of grass in her hand, and she nibbled it as they walked back toward the house. It was a beautiful day. Flowers and shrubs bloomed all around the cobblestone path and birds sounded in the tall trees.

  “I have something for you,” he said.

  She stopped walking and stared at him. “For me?”

  “Sort of,” he murmured dryly. “Come on.”

  He led her to the side of the house and presented her with a ten-foot square of neatly plowed and raked ground.

  Her breath caught. She looked up at him with huge eyes. “For me?” she exclaimed, and her smile was like the sun coming out.

  He chuckled at her enthusiasm. “For you. Plant whatever you like.”

  “Oh, Worth!” Impulsively, without thinking, she barreled into his arms and hugged him fiercely. “Thank you!”

  His big hands held her shoulders, held her there, and his head bent over her. “You’re more than welcome. It’s little enough thanks for the good you’ve done around here. Grandmother worships you, did you know?”

  “It’s mutual. I think she’s the berries.” Amelia sighed. Her eyes closed as she pillowed her cheek against his broad chest. It felt so natural to be held by him, to stand in the shade of the trees and be together. Under her ear, she could hear his heartbeat. At her temples, his breath felt ragged, disturbed.

  “Amy,” he whispered.

  There was a note in his voice that meant trouble. And she wasn’t ready to deal with it, not yet. She tugged away from him, smiling to soften the rejection, and folded her arms across her aching breasts. She wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

  “Now, what shall I plant?” she reasoned aloud, oblivious to the strain that colored her unusually high-pitched tone.

  He came up behind her, slid his hands around her waist and drew her back so that her body rested on his. “The yardman’s name is Harry. He’ll get you whatever you like.”

  “No, really, that isn’t necessary, I can buy what I want.”

  “I said, he’ll get it.”

  “Tyrant.”

  His hands slid up, so that they rested just under her breasts, and her heartbeat jumped. He felt it and laughed, deep in his throat. “It’s broad daylight,” he reminded her. “I wouldn’t do it in public, if that reassures you.”

  She knew exactly what he meant, and had to bite her lip to keep from saying something rude. He liked to tease, she knew that by now. He didn’t even mean anything by it. She was young and not too unattractive and handy, and he was very much a man. She just had to keep that in mind and everything would be fine.

  And it
was, until he bent his head and kissed the side of her neck.

  She caught her breath and moaned, and everything changed. Very slowly, he turned her, holding her in front of him. He stared down into her eyes so intently and for so long that her heart went wild and she felt as if she were being electrocuted. She jerked her head down against his chest, breathless.

  “I’ve tried,” he whispered. “Oh, God, I have.”

  His hands tightened on her waist. Then, all at once, he bent and lifted her.

  She clutched at his shoulders as he turned and carried her into the greenhouse several yards away. It was deserted. The yardman usually took Monday mornings off, and Mrs. Carson was taking her noon nap.

  He set her gently down. His big, warm hands framed her face and he searched her eyes. He was breathing heavily, and she could hear his heartbeat.

  “I saw a painting of a fairy once,” he whispered. “She had long black hair and blue eyes and a slender, beautiful body like yours. And every time I look at you, I want to see you without your clothes, Amy. I want to take you into my bed and show you what it’s all about. And that,” he said gruffly, bending, “is why I’ve tried so damned hard not to do this….”

  His mouth melted into hers, soft and then hard, teasing, then rough and hungry. She went on tiptoe to link her arms around his neck. Her mouth answered the wildness of his. And she wasn’t even shocked when his hands slid down to her thighs and lifted her hard against his, so that she could experience the very tangible evidence of his need.

  He lifted his mouth to look at her. “You aren’t fighting,” he whispered.

  “No, I’m not,” she whispered back, and she smiled lazily, dreamily.

  His hands slid up to the base of her spine and moved her gently against him. “Not shocked?” he whispered.

  “No.” Her fascinated hands unbuttoned his shirt slowly and then eased under the fabric to touch thick hair over bare, warm skin. Against her body, his rippled and surged.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, stilling her hands.

  He breathed slowly, as if he were fighting to retain control. His hands cupped hers, caressing them. “It’s all right,” he said. His mouth touched her forehead, as lightly as a breeze. They were standing close, touching, and she made no move away from him. He smiled against her eyebrow. “I can’t remember the last time I was this aroused.”

  She lifted her chin so that she could see his eyes. They were very dark, almost black. “Does it hurt you?” she asked softly.

  “A little. No, don’t move away,” he protested when she started to shift her feet. “Just stand still, and everything will be fine, eventually,” he added with black humor.

  Her fingers reached up to the dimple in his chin. Since he didn’t seem to mind that, they wandered farther afield. She explored his wide, sexy mouth, his big, straight nose, his broad forehead and thick eyebrows, to the ridge of his jutting brow, over his closed eyelids to thick short lashes.

  “I like your face,” she said. “It’s very strong, very definite.”

  “Not handsome,” he murmured.

  “No. But sexy,” she whispered, smiling.

  His eyes opened, and there was something like tenderness in them. They smiled at her. “So are you.”

  She let her eyes drop to the massive chest under her hands, and stared unashamedly at the ripple of muscle, the mat of hair that arrowed down to the belt at his narrow waist.

  “Have you ever decided?” he asked.

  “Decided what?” she asked blankly, glancing up.

  He chuckled. “Whether or not you like hairy men?”

  “If you want the absolute truth,” she confessed, “I’ve never been this close to a man who had his shirt off.”

  “What about that would-be fiancé?”

  “He wore an undershirt,” she told him, laughing because it was funny now, “and I never even saw him in bathing trunks. He’s as thin as a rail. I suppose he’s self-conscious, and I never even realized it.” She studied the set of Worth’s head, his broad shoulders, with intent interest. “But I’ve never in my life seen anyone like you, not even in magazines.”

  His jaw tautened, and the control he’d regained was rapidly going again. His fingers tilted her chin. “You’re setting matches in gasoline,” he murmured. “Watch out.”

  She drew in an aching breath, her eyes going helplessly to his mouth. “Wouldn’t you like to seduce me?” she asked. “I’m twenty-eight, you know. A dinosaur that’s outlived its time. I’ll die someday, and I’ll never have known what it was to be a woman.”

  His hands moved to her waist and pressed there so hard that she looked up. His face was rigid, his eyes sparkling with some dark emotion.

  “It would complicate things too much,” he said after a minute. “Grandmother needs you. If I let that happen, she could lose you. I meant it, Amy, about commitment. I don’t want it. And you would.”

  Swallowing down her pride and the faint hurt the words inflicted, she managed a smile. “Are you that good in bed?” she whispered wickedly.

  His fingers caressed her waist. “I’m experienced,” he corrected. “Sex is like eating potato chips,” he added quietly. “It’s damned hard to stop, once you start. We’d get addicted to each other. I’m not ready for addictions.”

  “You’re forty,” she reminded him, her voice quiet, soft.

  “So I’ll die an old maid,” he shrugged, and a corner of his mouth curved. “Amy,” he added, serious now, “there was a woman. I won’t go into details, but I took a pretty damned hard blow. I’m still raw about it.”

  “I understand,” she said. She knew it all, but she wasn’t letting on. She stared at her hands, so pale against the deep tan of his chest. “Your grandmother says that she’s spent her life being careful, and now she’s going to pull out all the stops and really start living. Aren’t you going the other way?”

  “Look who’s lecturing me on involvement,” he burst out laughing.

  She shrugged, smiling at her own folly. “Well, yes. But, you’re a man. You can go hunting. I can’t. I mean, I could. But it isn’t me. And I’m never going to start any fires with the male sex. I’m just not built for an endless parade of one-night stands. I don’t really believe in purely physical relationships. I want a best friend as well as a lover.”

  He touched her cheek. “Well, you can be my best friend anytime, country girl,” he said, and smiled down at her. “And my lover, if you like.”

  She stretched up against him with a faint sigh. “I’d like to make love with you, Worth. But you’re right, it would complicate things.”

  “All the same,” he whispered, bending to her mouth, “I like an occasional taste of you.”

  He kissed her slowly, wrapping her up in his big arms like a treasure, smiling against her mouth when she bit at him.

  “Put your tongue in my mouth,” he whispered, “and I’ll show you how to French kiss.”

  Tingling with the sensuality of the remark, she obeyed him. And caught fire when he taught her the subtleties of open mouth kissing. When he finished, and lifted his head, she was flushed and trembling all over.

  “Yes,” he breathed, staring at her, “that’s how you’d look at me as I took you…”

  “Worth,” she moaned, reaching up.

  “No,” he said in a soft tone. He drew her against him and held her, rocked her, close and warm until the trembling stopped, until both of them could breathe normally again.

  Her eyes closed, and she felt tired, but safe and cosseted. Her cheek moved softly against his chest, and she smiled.

  “I like hairy men,” she whispered.

  “I like women with big, sexy blue eyes. All too much, I’m afraid.” He moved away, tugging affectionately at a lock of her long hair. “Come on. Show me what you want to plant. Then we’ll go and have lunch with Grandmother.”

  “Okay.”

  She daydreamed about spring flowers all the way back to the house, sharing her colorful dreams with Worth, who strolled a
long beside her like a benevolent giant. She adored him, she thought dizzily, on fire with wanting him, caring for him. Instinctively, she slid her hand into his. He held it warmly, locking their fingers together. And she thought she’d never been so happy in all her life. What a wonderful day!

  They went into the house, and just as Worth started toward the living room, Baxter came scurrying down the hall with a white face.

  “Mr. Worth,” he breathed quickly, “it’s your grandmother. Sir, I think it’s a heart attack!”

  Seven

  The next few hours went by in a blur. Amelia had run into the house behind Worth, to find Mrs. Carson in terrible pain, crying from the sheer intensity of it and holding her chest. Worth called an ambulance and the family doctor. Mrs. Carson was breathing jerkily, she was pale, her skin icy to the touch, and her eyes seemed sunken in her thin face. And Amelia, who’d seen enough heart attacks to recognize the symptoms, was almost certain that her employer was in for a rough time. She sat by the bedside, holding the icy hand, murmuring soft words, while Worth paced and paced, watching for the emergency unit to arrive.

  Finally the ambulance pulled up, flashing red lights and siren blaring. A few minutes later, it sped away again, heading for the hospital. Worth rode in the ambulance, and Amelia drove her battered Ford along after it. When she reached the hospital several minutes later, she found Worth in the emergency waiting room. Several other people were sitting around with worried looks. Amelia edged between Worth and a fat lady with a screaming baby, and took his big hand in hers. His other hand was holding a smoking cigarette, the first time she’d seen him with one.

  “Have you heard anything?” she asked softly.

  “No.” He stared blankly at the wall, absently lifting the cigarette to his lips.

  She leaned her head against his shoulder, drained. She’d been in life-and-death situations at the hospital where she’d worked, of course, but the patients had always been strangers. This was something very different. She cared about Mrs. Carson.

  She glanced up at Worth’s rigid, unsmiling face and wanted to cry for him. He looked as if his world was ending, and there was nothing she could say or do to help him. He was lost in a private purgatory, hanging between hope and despair.