by Peggy Webb
He stretched and yawned under the guise of getting comfortable, but she figured he was doing all that movement to get her attention. She kept her eyes shut, her legs pressed tightly together, and her hands straight down by her sides. It was as relaxing as being on the stretching rack during the Spanish Inquisition.
His foot touched hers. “Excuse me.”
“Certainly.” She jerked her foot away.
He rolled over in the bed. His hand brushed against her shoulder. She couldn't move away without falling off the bed, so she waited for him to move his hand. Goose bumps popped out on her arm, and she prayed to be rescued from her own feelings.
“Sorry.” He was as slow as molasses in December moving his hand, and when he did, he dragged it down the whole length of her arm. She hoped he didn't feel her goose bumps.
He finally settled down on his side of the bed, not touching, and she tried to relax. It was impossible. Even the sound of his breathing bothered her. Not that it was unpleasant. On the contrary. She found it extremely pleasant, reassuring even.
She turned her back to him, hoping it would help. It didn't. Her hips hiked up the sheet between them so that she could feel his body heat. Oh, help, she thought. What was she to do? She tried counting sheep, but thoughts of Rick kept creeping into her mind, and she lost count at eight. Or was it nine?
He moved, and his leg brushed against hers. She decided to let it stay there. What was the harm?
The minutes dragged by. Martha Ann felt sweat trickle between her breasts. She had the choice of smothering to death or kicking down the sheet. Being practical, she kicked down the sheet.
“Are you hot?”
“Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.”
“I wasn't asleep.”
“Neither was I.” Bold as he was, he would probably take that admission as an invitation. Her mind groped for a distraction. She wasn't long in finding it. “Do you smell something funny?”
“It must be the candles.”
“Good grief, the candles.” She sat straight up in bed. Too late, she remembered Velma's gown. She risked a peek at Rick. He was propped on his pillow, hands behind his head, staring frankly at her.
She reached for the sheet.
“Don't.” His hand snaked out and caught hers. “Let me look at you in the candlelight.” He took his time, studying her as if she were a rare bird he was thinking of mounting and hanging in his trophy case. Shivers crawled over her skin.
“We forgot to blow out the candles,” she said.
“I didn't forget. I thought it would be romantic to let them burn a while.”
“I'm not looking for romance; I'm looking for Lucky.”
“Ahhh, yes. The elusive husband.” Smiling, he reached up and ran his hand lightly down her cheek. “I hope he appreciates just how lucky he is.”
“Don't.”
It was a token protest, and he knew it. Instead of removing his hand, he let it glide slowly down her cheek, down her throat, and across her left shoulder.
“You were made to be loved, my pet.”
“Not by you.” His fingertips made small circles on her skin. She felt herself go limp.
Rick exerted the lightest pressure on her shoulder, and she slid across the bed toward him. Not even a Wall of Jericho could have kept her out of his arms. It was wrong, it was not in character, and she knew she'd regret it in the morning. But only a saint or a martyr would have turned away, and she had never claimed to be either.
He ran his hands over her back, starting at the back of her neck and working all the way down to the base of her spine. There was nothing quite as erotic as the feel of a man's hands pressing through a silk garment, she thought. Her skin tingled, heated up.
She was in the arms of an expert, and she knew it. She didn't even try to resist him. Besides that, the room was full of a kind of heady fragrance. It wafted from the curtains and floated around the burning candles. Martha Ann felt as if she were at the mercy of some mysterious power. And it was certainly beyond her control.
Her arms circled his shoulders and pulled him closer. His skin was warm and slightly damp with perspiration. She leaned over and nibbled his shoulder. A shudder ran through him.
He flipped her onto her back and pinned her underneath him. For a moment he remained poised above her, propped on his elbows, studying her face. Desire was there, a desire that matched his own. His mouth slammed down on hers. It was a no-holds-barred kiss, a hungry exchange by two experts who knew exactly what they wanted but didn't quite understand why.
Ahhh, he thought. She was good. More than good. She was the best. He thought her excellent rating as a lover might be due to the nightgown she was wearing. It bared enough flesh to tease and covered enough to tantalize. Wearing that gown Martha Ann Riley could have single-handedly brought the American Revolution to a standstill.
Or it could be her skin. Silky, satiny, velvety. That fool poet in his soul was at it again. Or perhaps it was her lips. They were lush and inviting, and he could swear that he tasted the beauty spot.
He ran his right hand down her hips, feeling the silk gown against satin flesh. He almost lost control. His hand closed over the gown and slid it upward. She was making small murmuring sounds now. He loved a woman who voiced her pleasure.
He lifted his head just long enough for a quick breath, and then he took her lips again. He couldn't seem to get enough of her.
Martha Ann had never felt such pleasure. One of her college friends had had a rating for lovers. On a scale of one to ten, Rick was a ten plus. At first she thought his rating might be due to his chest. It was fabulous—broad and muscular with exactly the right sprinkling of crisp hair, just enough to tease a woman to distraction. Or it could be his eyes. Nothing was quite as sexy as the eyes of a man who desires a woman. His lips were top-notch, of course. She loved a man who held nothing back. He seemed to be kissing with his very soul.
She tangled her hands in his hair and pulled him closer. She couldn't seem to get enough of him.
The bedsprings started a squeaky rhythm. Ahhh, she thought. She wanted him. She had to have him. He shifted his hips and moved his hand under her gown. His touch sent shivers up her spine. She arched toward him.
He propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at her. “Martha Ann O'Grady, we're going to be good together.”
Good grief. O'Grady. She was supposed to be a married woman.
“Stop right now.” It was a shaky command, but a command nonetheless. If she hadn't spoken, she would have ruined her sister's reputation, right there in the Running Bear's curtained bed.
His breathing was raspy, and he was so tight with need, he thought he would explode, and she was telling him to stop? By George, that Martha Ann Riley was enough to make a man take up cussing again.
“You want me to stop? Now?”
“Yes. Just what do you think you were doing?”
“I thought we were doing it together.”
“Not me.”
“Don't tell me you were exercising your mouth again.”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Some other part of your anatomy, then?” His breathing was beginning to get back to normal, and his pulse was slowing down. He almost saw the funny side of the situation.
She looked up at him, then turned her head away and glanced around the room. He could tell she was trying to think up some outrageous lie. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I couldn't help myself,” she said. “I think I'm allergic to this room.” She swung her gaze back to him. “Don't you think this room smells funny?”
He sniffed. “Just the candles I think.” By George, he thought, Martha Ann Riley never ceased to amuse him. If any other woman had led him on like that and then left him panting at the gate, he'd probably have been mad, but it was impossible to be angry at the madcap Martha Ann.
“Would you mind moving your leg?”
“Which one? The left or the right?”
“The left, I think.”<
br />
“Certainly.” He lifted his left leg off her hip but kept the rest of his body pressed intimately against her. He supposed a true gentleman would have moved quickly to the other side of the bed, but he'd never pretended to be a gentleman. Anyhow, being rebuffed smarted. His small revenge would be to make her work for her freedom. “Is that better?”
“No. I think it's your other leg.”
He moved it a fraction of an inch, just enough to get his weight off her but not enough to lose body contact.
“How about that?”
“Much better. Thank you.”
He guessed her elaborate politeness was due to guilt feelings. Or perhaps she was having as hard a time as he was coming down off the sexual high they'd been on. Smoothing her gown down over her hips, she took a deep breath.
“I'm still having a hard time breathing,” she said.
“Why do you think that is?”
“I believe your face is a little too close. You're taking up all my oxygen.”
He put some distance between them, enough so that four or five good-size slivered almonds could have been fitted in the space.
“Can you breathe now?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
He didn't try to hide his smile now. Martha Ann Riley had provided more amusement in twenty-four hours than most women would have in three months. And their trip was only beginning. He could hardly wait to see what she would do next.
Martha Ann's mind was whirling. Rick had done everything she had asked him. And he'd been polite about it all. She couldn't complain. And yet, he was still only inches from her, sending signals that made her hot all over. She had to get him on the other side of the bed—permanently.
“I do believe those candles are making me sick,” she said.
“Perhaps I should blow them out.”
“Would you?”
“Of course.”
He sat up and stretched, deliberately, she thought, just to show his fabulous muscles. Then he pulled the curtains aside and got out of bed. She had never seen a man take so long to blow out a few candles. He lollygagged around the room, loitering over his tasks, grinning. He looked good enough to eat. She knew she could have shut her eyes, but she didn't really want to. What was the harm in looking?
He grinned at her over the last candle. “Almost done.”
“Great. I feel better already.”
He chuckled. “We can't have you getting sick.”
His bare feet padded against the floor as he made his way back to bed in the dark. The springs squeaked and the mattress sagged on his side.
Good grief, she thought. She'd gone through all that rigamarole to get him on his side of the bed, and it hadn't made a bit of difference. Distance didn't matter. Proximity did. The minute he got back into bed, she wanted to crawl over there and curl up against his chest. She had the willpower of a day-old baby bird. Shoot. What was she going to do?
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mrs. O'Grady?”
Even his sexy voice coming out of the dark sent her blood racing. And she didn't even have her rosary to help her. She guessed she would have to rely on her brain. She lay in bed, thinking and thinking. Finally an idea dawned: Since nothing could dampen her ardor, she was going to cool his.
“I could use a glass of water.”
“I don't think there's any left in the kitchen.”
“Do you know where the pump is?”
“You want me to go out in the middle of the night and pump you a glass of water?”
“I hate to ask you, but a woman in my condition is subject to strange whims.”
“And what condition is that, my pet?”
“I'm pregnant.”
Chapter Six
Rick laughed all the way to the water pump. Pregnant, indeed. Her latest tale didn't deter him at all; it only made the chase more fun.
He hung the bucket on the spout and pumped some water. On his way back to the house, it splashed over the rim and onto his feet. He was careful coming back through the screen door. He didn't want to wake the entire household, and he didn't want to drip water on the floor.
The two clocks struck midnight when he walked into the kitchen, one half a second behind the other. The twenty-four beat syncopated rhythm was enough to wake his Grandma Springer, and she was so deaf she couldn't hear a one hundred-piece brass band. While he stood adjusting to the racket, an idea took hold.
His grin got bigger and bigger. He set down the bucket and walked to the refrigerator. He was sure Velma wouldn't mind if he borrowed a few things, especially since it was for such a good cause.
When he got back to the bedroom, he found Martha Ann sitting primly on her side, the sheet tucked up around her chin. That innocent pose didn't make her one bit less sexy. In fact, it only made her more appealing.
“I brought your water.”
“Thank you.”
“In fact, I brought a whole bucketful—in case you get thirsty in the middle of the night.”
“How thoughtful.”
He snapped on the light, put down his load of supplies, and poured a glass of water. She reached out her hand, but he pretended he didn't see. Instead, he came around to her side of the bed and sat down, close enough to press against her thigh.
“Here you are, my sweet.” He carefully placed the glass in her right hand, then reached for her left.
“What are you doing?”
“Pampering you. My mother taught me that pregnant ladies have to be petted.” He rubbed his thumb in her palm, enjoying the slight shiver that went through her. “Don't you worry, sweetheart. I intend to see that you are properly taken care of. Somebody has to do it until we find your husband.”
She couldn't complain about that. There was nothing she could do except drink her water and endure his petting. After she had finished drinking, he took the glass and put it carefully on the bedside table beside six brass candlesticks.
“Thanks. That was very refreshing.” He was still sitting on her side of the bed. Close. “You can go to sleep now.”
“Not yet. I have something for you.”
“I don't need anything else, thank you.”
“You don't have to pretend with me. I know all about pregnant women.” He reached over to the bedside table and picked up a plate. “It's bad for the baby to let these cravings go unattended.” He held the plate under her nose.
“What is that?”
“A pickle and ice-cream sandwich.”
“A pickle and ice-cream sandwich?” The smell alone turned her stomach upside down. “How in the world did you do that?”
“It was simple. I sliced two big kosher dills and spread the chocolate ice cream between them. I was certain Velma wouldn't mind.” He picked up the awful concoction and held it to her lips. “Here, sweetheart, let me help you.”
“I'm really not craving that yet. It's too early in my pregnancy.”
“Great. We’ll nip it in the bud before it ever gets started. Here, my sweet. Take a bite.”
She nibbled the edge of the pickle, trying not to get any of the chocolate ice cream at the same time.
“There,” he said. “Is that better?”
“Umhph.” The pickle sandwich was worse than she had imagined. She wondered if she could plead a call of nature and spit the stuff out. But knowing Rick, he'd insist on accompanying her, especially since the bathroom was an outdoor facility halfway between the house and the barn.
She decided the lesser of two evils was staying in the bed. She took another bite of his odious offering, just to back up her story, and then she pushed it aside.
“I couldn't eat another bite.”
He held it back under her nose. “I insist. You have to keep up your strength.”
“I'm... watching my weight.” She pushed the pickle and ice-cream sandwich away with one hand. “It's bad to gain too much weight during a pregnancy.”
“In that case, I might as well throw this away and
come back to bed.”
Her false pregnancy didn't make things one bit better. The minute he was back in bed, every nerve in her body was tingling. She thought she would never go to sleep.
o0o
It was the smell that woke Martha Ann up early the next morning. She sat up in bed and took a deep breath. The scent made her nostrils burn.
“Good grief. What is that?”
Rick had his face buried in the pillow. “Did you say something?” he mumbled.
“There's a strange smell in this room. It smells like sour food.”
He lifted his head off the pillow and sniffed. “By George, I think you're right. I wonder if I dropped any pickle juice on the floor.”
Martha Ann threw back the covers and swung her feet to the floor, and then she remembered her nightgown. She jerked the sheet around herself, uncovering Rick. Dressed in his shorts, with the early morning sunlight gilding his skin, he was a sight to see. She had a hard time not looking. And he noticed.
He chuckled. “Let's work out a method for this.”
“What do you suggest?”
“You get out on that side of the bed, and I'll get out on this side. Well keep our backs to each other. That way we can save time dressing and preserve your modesty.”
“What about your modesty?”
“I have none.”
The bed squeaked as they both got up and reached for their clothes. Martha Ann silently thanked Velma for having folded her clothes and left them in the room.
They kept their bargain, turning their backs and dressing quickly. But it wasn't quick enough for Martha Ann. Her awareness of Rick McGill took precedence over everything else. She had to button her blouse twice before she got it right.
He couldn't seem to do anything quietly. He was over there whistling and humming and chuckling to himself as if he were watching old Laurel and Hardy movies instead of putting on his pants and shirt. She just knew he was up to something.
She was tucking her blouse into her jeans when she heard his roar.
“What in the devil is this?”
She whirled around and saw him emerging from underneath the bed, holding his nose with one hand and a mesh bag with the other.