Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  He replied to that by rolling his hips into hers, rubbing himself against the center of her need. She gasped against his mouth as a new fire shot through her with the carnal press of his intimate flesh against hers. His fingers kneaded her bottom, clasping and unclasping in the same primitive cadence his tongue was using to explore her mouth. A gust of wind kicked up, chilling the damp patches on her clothes, driving her wild with the contrast between it and her heated skin.

  There was more, much more, to this seductive dance they’d begun—and she wanted him to show her every single step. Over, and over, and over again.

  I want more.

  One of his hands traveled up and around her rib cage to claim her breast. The thin fabric of her dress blunted only the smallest part of the caress and she strained against his palm, demanding more.

  As if reading her mind, his nimble fingers found her nipple and rolled it between them. The dizzying pleasure that washed over her sent her near to fainting. Again, he had to do it again, or she would lose her sanity.

  Fortunately, he complied—fingers pinching and teasing in a delicious torment that made her breathing go ragged. He tore his mouth from hers to trail along her jaw, his soft lips followed by the prickling tickle of his mustache as he nibbled his way down the sensitive skin of her neck. She shivered under those teasing caresses.

  She was aware of a new hardness in him, pressing against the exact spot in her that ached. She drove against it instinctively, seeking something, anything, to relieve the ache. With each feathery kiss against her neck, coupled with the sweet plucking of her nipples, a fire built in the very core of her.

  Her breath raggedly sang of the wild sensations running through her. She couldn’t survive much more of this; the heat building inside her would surely burn her to ashes.

  A low growl came from deep in his throat as his mouth encountered the collar of her bodice. Before she could think to protest, he released her breast and tugged at the fabric concealing her. But her stitching on the buttons held fast. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or groan, but he didn’t give her the chance to decide. With a mighty rip he pulled the buttons completely free of the fabric anchoring them, leaving small gaping holes where they had been and exposing the entirety of her neck and chest to his hungry gaze.

  He watched her from hooded eyes, admiring the sight he’d revealed as his mouth curved in a wicked smile. His daring hands reached right into her chemise and pulled one of her breasts free, the nipple dragging against the thin lace. A shaky breath escaped her lips as the sun and wind touched her breast for the first time. He simply stared at it for a moment—the way he’d once stared at those cherries she’d given him—then released the other from its confinement.

  Never in her life had she been so exposed to a man’s gaze. A faint voice in her head warned her she should be ashamed, but the lust raging through her said this was only right, only natural, that she should be proud of her nakedness. Her back arched, thrusting her aching breasts deeper into his hands. His thumbs found the hard peaks of her nipples, teasing them once more, without the frail barrier of her clothes to dull the sensation.

  At the rough slide of his calloused hands against her, she moaned her pleasure, her head falling back as she rode the waves of sensation starting in her nipples and traveling throughout her body. He seized the opportunity to run his mouth along her neck, his mustache setting a path of fire along her sensitive skin.

  His mouth slipped lower, and lower still, until the tickling of his mustache was right on her breast. His waited for the space of two heartbeats there, his breath fanning out over the fire he’d ignited, before lowering his mouth to fully taste the skin he’d revealed. Her knees sagged at the first touch of his mouth, and only the firm grip of his hand on her bottom kept her from sinking to the ground.

  When his mouth captured her nipple, her knees buckled completely. At first his caress was gentle, a simple tasting and no more, but then his hot tongue flicked over her, sending another wave of pleasure rippling out from her core. His tongue flicked again and again, building the pleasure back up to that fever pitch. When he finally, gently closed his teeth on her, she could hold back no longer, her hips bucking against his.

  At the thrashing of her hips, the hand anchored on her bottom pulled her into the hardness between them, grinding her belly against it. The ache within her budded, blossomed, became insistent.

  In that instant, she would have done anything, given him anything, if he could assuage that ache. She was lost to her parents’ teachings, her own good sense, lost to everything except that terrible, wonderful ache that burned within her—and the man who could both sharpen and relieve that ache, all at the same time.

  His hips ground against hers in time with the flicks of his tongue against her nipple. She drew her knee up to hook her leg around his back, so the friction between them could reach more of her ache.

  He dragged his mouth from her breasts, and the cool air that hit them nearly made her sob with frustration. He darted kisses up her chest in recompense, biting and soothing with the same motion until he reached her neck again, burying his face in the softness there.

  Her hips bucked once, twice against his, and he groaned into her neck before tightening his grip on her. She was already prepared as she felt herself falling through the air, knowing she was heading for the ground. She clutched at his shoulders, hungering for the feel of the large body that would be covering hers in a matter of seconds.

  Halfway there she heard a sound.

  A most curious sound, since it wasn’t their harsh breathing or her wanton moans.

  A sound that came from someone besides the two of them.

  Fighting desperately to clear the fog from her mind, she stiffened as she tried to decipher it, knowing the sound was familiar, but not why.

  Then, when her brain finally began working properly, when she realized exactly what was happening and what she had been about to do, when she finally remembered herself, a chill drenched her entire body, damping the fire consuming her and leaving ash in its wake.

  The sound was a throat clearing.

  Specifically, her father’s throat clearing. And it came from behind her.

  Stiffer than even she was, Jace stared beyond her shoulder, transfixed. No doubt by the fury that must be twisting across her father’s face.

  Catarina prayed her father wasn’t armed.

  Chapter Ten

  The fabric crumpled in Catarina’s fist was sodden and limp, her fingers numb from the effort of holding it. But she didn’t dare let go, or else her ruined bodice would expose what she’d so rashly offered to Jace.

  Her other arm was wrapped around her stomach, all of her curled round the nauseating shame smoldering there. She felt as if she’d swallowed live coals, her stomach trying to cast them back up as they burned a hole straight through her. She studied the floor of her father’s office—preferring that to his fierce gaze.

  She didn’t dare look up when the door opened and her mother glided into the room. The shame of having to meet her mother’s eyes… it would surely kill her.

  She’d wanted her mother’s power and authority for her very own, and thought herself content with her mother’s approval. But after this, she wouldn’t even have that. Nothing was what she’d have after this. Even her pride had deserted her.

  “What has happened?” The worry in her mother’s tone was a stab straight to her heart. Not trusting herself to speak, she wet her lips and kept her eyes down.

  “Catarina has become engaged,” her father answered.

  “What?” Catarina and her mother exclaimed in unison.

  Her gaze snapped up from the floor and her breath caught at the rage smoldering in her father’s eyes, burning hotter than the shame in her belly. She felt smaller than a dust mote then, nothing but a floating speck of remorse.

  “Yes,” he said. “Catarina has become engaged to Mr. Jace Merrill.” He spat the name out as if it burned his tongue.

  “Not the
American?” Her mother fitfully pulled her collar away from her neck. “How did this happen?”

  “Would you care to explain yourself?” he demanded.

  She opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t fit past the stone lodged in her throat.

  “Feeling ashamed now, hmm? It would have been better to be ashamed before you were caught in the arms of that American trash!”

  Ashamed? Whatever she might have called shame before this was nothing against what she was experiencing now.

  “Catarina.” There was no anger in her mother’s voice, only a profound disappointment, which cut more deeply than her father’s anger. “You allowed that man to touch you?”

  Quiet fell as her mother waited for an answer.

  “Yes.” It was only the faintest whisper, but it was all she could manage. She could not admit that it had been more than allowance—it had been outright encouragement.

  The weight of her mother’s silence hung on Catarina’s shoulders.

  “Surely, though,” her mother said finally, “she does not need to marry the man? An embrace is not quite harmless, I grant—but engaged? That may be taking things too far.” The words quivered faintly, like a blade held in a too-tight grip.

  A deep flush crept up her father’s neck to stain his cheekbones and ears crimson. “It was considerably more than an embrace.”

  New fires flared in her cheeks at her father’s admission.

  “A kiss, then, but still—”

  A strangled sound from her father stopped her mother mid-sentence. “Her breasts were bared,” he hissed.

  Her stomach heaved, trying to toss up those coals at forcing her father to say those words, to see those things.

  “Mother of God,” the Señora whispered.

  A sob caught in Catarina’s chest, but she ruthlessly shoved it down, hunkering deeper into the hard chair beneath her. She’d done this terrible thing—she wasn’t going to add to her dishonor by crying like a baby. She deserved this, every last awful bit of it.

  She raised her head, facing her parents’ anger and shame full on.

  “We can hide this.” Her mother’s voice quaked as if it might break apart. “No one has to know, you can fire that man, send him straight back down to the valley, and then Catarina—”

  Her father shook his head. “I only wish we could. But Antonio Obregon was with me. He saw it all.”

  Silence fell. Of all the people who could have been with her father, it had to be Señor Obregon. Catarina hadn’t noticed him in the confusing aftermath—she’d only been aware of her father dragging her to his office as she attempted to keep her ruined dress together. Catarina could well imagine Señor Obregon sniggering over the story with his wife and Teresa and Ines, who would gleefully repeat it to everyone they met. The entire town could have all the sordid details by sunset if they were industrious. And they would be.

  She thought of how she’d laughed behind her hand at Teresa’s marital troubles. Teresa would be the one laughing now—and Catarina would deserve that bit of payback.

  “You see the dilemma,” her father said. “After what happened to Teresa, Obregon would love nothing more than to prove it isn’t only his daughter who can be caught out.”

  “She cannot do this, Ramon!” Her mother was trembling, her arms wrapped tightly around her ribs.

  Cold fear trickled down Catarina’s spine. She’d never seen her mother like this. Her mother—always calm and collected, the way a lady should be—was on the edge of hysterics.

  “She must, Maria. The whole town will know of it soon, and if they aren’t married, our family’s honor will be irrevocably broken.”

  “To hell with the family honor,” her mother cried out.

  Catarina cowered in her chair, terrified by the stranger who’d taken her mother’s form. A demon must have possessed her, for there was no other explanation for why her demure, retiring mother would be shouting and cursing like a fishwife.

  Her father’s hand crashed down to his desk. That, at least, was familiar. “The Obregons won’t hesitate to break off the engagement with Isabel if Catarina’s reputation is soiled! Is that what we want, for both our girls unmarried and unmarriageable?”

  Isabel. If her actions had hurt her sister, she’d never forgive herself. And neither would Isabel.

  “We cannot let our daughter marry this stranger.” Her mother’s voice had regained some normalcy, but she shuddered like a leaf in the wind. “After all we did to keep her safe from something like this…”

  “I know.” The defeat in her father’s words pierced her anew.

  There was no way to fully repair what she’d done. They’d be the talk of the gossips for weeks, if not months. Her family reduced to entertainment for the local families.

  “But she has done this to herself,” he continued, “and now she must live with the consequences.”

  The consequences. The full import of those words hit her right in the gut, shoving those coals ever deeper. The pain sliced through the fearsome shame and self-pity swamping her, realization following in the wake.

  Jace. Now that her head had cleared, his name filled it. Her focus had been solely on her father and his anger—but there was still Jace to consider. She’d been caught with him and there would be consequences.

  She would be married to a man she hardly knew. A man she suspected might do anything to get his hands on her cattle. A man who would try to take her virginity in the dirt in broad daylight.

  She dropped her gaze back to the floor. Her father was right: she had done this to herself. As the screws of her shame turned within her, she tightened her grip on her bodice, until she was clutching the crumpled linen like a lifeline.

  She was going to be married, to the worst possible man, in the worst possible way—and she’d brought it all upon herself.

  She’d have the rest of her life to repent, at least.

  “But—” Her mother’s voice faltered and shrank in on itself.

  As long as she lived, she’d never forgive herself for reducing her mother to this. If this was the punishment God had devised for her, it was more than fitting. She forced herself to fully confront the shame and disappointment in her mother’s face.

  “I couldn’t—I couldn’t bear it if he was like…” Her mother’s whisper trailed into nothingness as she stared after it.

  Her father came around the desk, his arms out to catch his lady wife.

  “If there were any other way,” he promised, “I would do it. But it must be this. And he is not like that other. He won’t hurt her. I swear it.”

  Catarina watched with wide eyes. Her parents almost never touched in front of others, and her father seemed to be speaking an entirely new language, one she knew the words to, but couldn’t comprehend.

  That other? Who could her father possibly be referring to? Why would they ever think Jace would hurt her? She’d never gotten even a whiff of violence from him.

  Her mother’s eyes fluttered shut and her father gently, reverently, kissed her on the forehead.

  Tears pushed hard behind her eyes, pressed tight on her throat. She knew her parents loved one another deeply, but the tangible proof of it was nearly shattering.

  “Go lie down,” her father said gruffly. “I’ll finish dealing with this. I give you my word no hurt will come to our daughter. The boy has no hatefulness in him, or I’d have seen it already.”

  Nodding, her mother turned and left the room as silently as she’d come, head bowed.

  “I think you understand what needs to be done.” Her father was back behind the desk, but continued to stand, looming over her like the angry patriarch he was. Her gaze swept back to the floor between her feet. She closed her eyes tightly and a single tear squeezed out, leaving a hot, wet trail across her cheek.

  She knew what needed to be done.

  A good Spanish daughter did not flirt with men. A good Spanish daughter was always demure and proper and never brought a hint of shame to her family. A good Spanish
daughter was certainly never caught nearly naked in the arms of a man. A good Spanish daughter always, always obeyed her parents.

  It was time to be a good Spanish daughter.

  She lifted her head and met her father’s gaze measure for measure.

  “Yes, Papa, I know. And I will marry him.”

  Jace stared at his clasped hands as they hung between his outstretched knees, noting how the skin around his knuckles whitened as he clamped down harder and harder. Funny how he could notice a little thing like that, but feel none of the pain from it. His jaw was shut tighter than a lockjaw patient’s, but he didn’t feel any pain from that either. Curious.

  Idiot.

  That’s what he was. He’d warned himself time and time again to steer clear of Catarina, but he was too goddamned dumb to listen to his own advice.

  He’d seen her come rising out of that water trough, like some kind of ancient nymph, and all his resolutions were shot straight to hell.

  His baser nature had screamed mine, mine, mine, and he’d taken without a second thought. Without a first thought, even.

  And didn’t that make him a proper Bannister after all.

  “It was meant to be ours.”

  His grandfather had meant the Rancho Alvarado—all of California, really—not one beautifully wet girl on a summer afternoon.

  But she wasn’t meant to be his, and if he weren’t a goddamned fool clutching a deed with still-wet ink, he’d be halfway down the hill by now.

  That deed. The one he’d signed today, the one making him the owner of the Schuyler place. That paper was the reason he was sitting on this bench outside the Señor’s office, awaiting his punishment like a naughty schoolboy, instead of heading out to San Diego.

  If the Señor ever saw that deed, the name written there…