He shook with the effort to go slow and be gentle. Then male instinct took over and he thrust forward, pushing deeper and deeper inside her, until he passed that maiden barrier.
She arched against him and cried out, a sharp sound of pain and uncertainty. He groaned, awed by the incredible feeling of finally being one with her, of taking her innocence and giving her his in return. She was tight and hot, and as he slipped even deeper, she melted around him like liquid satin. As his hips began a slow rhythm, he watched her pained expression change to wonder, heard that soft, sweet moan that told him she was close, so close. The wave of tiny tremors tensing the muscles deep inside her triggered his release.
Sensations unlike any he'd ever experienced closed in on him: tingles, tremors, a building, roaring heaviness, and most pronounced was the desperate need to bind her to him forever. If he let go, if he succumbed to the pleasure whispering to his senses, he would lose her…
No!
The screeching sound of steel grinding into steel echoed in his head. Shattering glass. Shrill, agonizing screams that ripped into his soul. Then spine-chilling, absolute silence that would haunt him for the rest of his life.
"Amanda," J.T. groaned. She started to slip away and he tightened his hold. A crushing emptiness enveloped him, a loneliness so bleak he couldn't breath.Please don't leave me, Amanda. Please!
"Hey, wake up," a soft, feminine voice called.
She wiggled beneath him, soft and pliant, a vague reassurance that Amanda was still with him. He cupped a breast in his palm, confused by the feel of soft cotton and the restraint of a bra. She squirmed a little more, her jeans-clad legs tangling with his. In a fragmented part of his mind he realized she was fully clothed. How could that be when she'd just undressed for him?
"Amanda," he murmured, valiantly trying to pull himself from the murky depths of sleep.
"Wake up!"
Something hard shoved against his chest, and he grunted as a shaft of pain ricocheted in his skull. Groggy and slightly disoriented, he managed to open his eyes to mere slits. Blue eyes, so dark and velvety they reminded him of lush violets, met his. He smiled lazily. "Amanda," he whispered, relieved that her dying had been a bad, awful dream. Lowering his head, he pressed his damp open mouth to the warm skin of her neck. "Amanda."
"I'm not Amanda," the woman beneath him said, struggling to push his weight off her. "Please, you're crushing me."
Frowning, he forced the thick cobwebs from his mind and pulled back enough to get a clear look at the woman. The sunshine streaming through the window sharpened his blurry vision, and he found himself staring not at his blue-eyed, blond-haired Amanda in the throes of passion, but a blue-eyed, brunette stranger determined to fend off his advances.
"What the hell?" Lightning quick, he rolled off her, and the bed, to his bare feet. A sharp, brutal pain lanced through his head, and for a moment the room dipped and whirled. He sucked in a harsh breath.
Grabbing the back of the chair by the bed, he regained his balance and focused on the woman he'd left sprawled on the bed. She looked embarrassed and flustered by their encounter. Disheveled, chin-length, glossy brown hair rumpled around a face set with delicate features, and a slight flush painted her cheeks a rosy hue. Her lips were damp and a little bit swollen. He couldn't deny that he'd kissed her; he still had the honeyed taste of her in his mouth.
He closed his eyes and swore. For the sweetest moment he'd believed Amanda was still alive, that a drunk driver had never hit them head on, killing her, when he'd driven her home that night after they'd made love. It had been so long since he'd dreamed of her, and everything had seemed so real.
"Are you okay?" came the woman's worried voice.
He looked at her and suddenly realized he was completely naked and painfully aroused from his dream-and from having her pressed beneath him. Swearing again, he snatched the pillow from the bed and covered himself.
A half smile of amusement brushed her lips as she sat up and swung her legs off the side of the mattress. Self-consciously, she straightened her flannel shirt and ran her fingers through her hair. "No need to get modest on me. I saw everything there was to see last night."
"No kidding?" J.T. searched his mind for a memory, anything to explain why he was in the ranch's line shack with a woman he didn't know and a splitting headache threatening to explode his brain. He didn't drink, so he knew he didn't have a hangover. And he didn't pick up strange women. And even if he did, he wouldn't bring them to a one-room shack, the only accommodations being a twin bed, a woodstove, a table, and a few blankets and rations.
Whos, whats, and whys tumbled through his head faster than he could log them. He settled for the most basic question. "What's going on?"
Standing, she walked past him to the wood stove and added a few more logs to the fire. "You don't remember what happened?" She placed a metal coffeepot over a burner.
Another wave of dizziness assaulted him and he sat back down on the bed before he toppled over. Keeping the pillow strategically in his lap, he rubbed his aching forehead and replied with a bit of sarcasm, "Sweetheart, you can bet if I remembered bringing you here you'd be as naked as I am. I don't remember a damn thing."
She turned around, her brow furrowed with distress. "I hope you aren't suffering from amnesia."
"Amnesia?" He watched her approach, his gaze drawn to the subtle sway of her hips in form-fitting blue jeans. Lifting his eyes to her face, he suppressed the stirring of awareness and the sense of familiarity nudging him. "I know who I am; I just don't know who the hell you are and what you were doing pinned beneath me on the bed, fully clothed and obviously struggling to get away."
"I'm Caitlan Daniels." She knelt in front of him and pressed a palm to his forehead, her voice soft. "I think your fever is gone."
"Depends on what kind of fever you're referring to," he replied irritably, pushing her hand away. The care and tenderness in her touch unnerved him, aroused him even. He found he wanted to kiss those full lips of hers again, a dangerous thought. "What about the part of you and me on the bed?"
She sat back on her heels. Another sweep of dusky rose stained her cheeks, as if she was remembering in detail his attempt at seduction. "You were tossing in your sleep; a bad dream, I suppose," she said in a voice gone a little husky. "You were calling for Amanda. Is she your wife?"
"I'm not married," he said flatly. "Go on."
She shrugged. "You were thrashing around. I tried to wake you, and you pulled me down on the bed. You were… very determined. Must have been some dream."
"Yeah, one I wish I'd never wake up from." He shivered from the frigid draft in the room-or was it the memory of that fateful night when he'd lost Amanda that had shaken him so?
Leaning toward him, she grabbed the wool blanket from the bed and settled it over his wide shoulders. The smell of fresh, rain-scented skin curled around him like some kind of narcotic, a natural, feminine fragrance that enticed him more than any expensive perfume might have.
"Well, I'm glad you did wake up," she said, fussing over him. "You've been out cold for about fifteen hours and I need to check that nasty bump on your head."
"Bump?" His eyes narrowed. "Why do I feel like Alice in Wonderland? Absolutely nothing is making any sense." Plowing his fingers through his hair, he found a huge knot on the back of his head. He winced and cursed as a dull ache throbbed in his temples.
Images flashed before him. The blocked water in the creek. Pulling the tree to the shore. Untying the rope from the trunk. Realizing the tree had been cut deliberately. Sleet, rain, cold numbing wind. Then a loud thud, a fierce paralyzing jolt, and blackness.
Apprehension coiled in his belly. "I'm starting to remember. Someone knocked me out," he said slowly, suspiciously. "You wouldn't have anything to do with that, would you?"
"Of course not!" she said, her chin rising indignantly.
His gut instinct told him she was innocent of the crime. "I believe you, but that doesn't explain how we both came to be holed up in this line s
hack."
She didn't reply. Averting her gaze, she adjusted the blanket around his legs. Her slim, warm fingers brushed over his knee, and a startling heat spread up his thigh, pooling in a place that didn't need any more encouragement.
He drew in a deep breath and caught her busy hands. "Excuse me," he said tightly, "but I feel at a distinct disadvantage here. Why don't I have any clothes on?"
She looked from her bound wrists to his face, and he could have sworn her pulse quickened beneath his fingers. Her expression, however, betrayed nothing. "I had to take them off you. You were soaking wet and freezing when I found you, and I didn't want hypothermia to set in."
"You found me?"
"Yes."
"This scenario is getting more intriguing by the second." Letting go of her, he rubbed his palm over the stubble on his jaw. The prickly beard confirmed that a night had passed without him realizing it. "Why don't I put some clothes on and we can discuss everything from the beginning? I'm grateful you found me, but I have to admit I'm a little curious what you were doing trespassing on private property that's at least fifteen miles from the main road. You mind getting me my jeans and shirt, please?"
Standing, she cast a glance at the table, where she'd spread out his clothes. "They're still damp."
His gaze skipped down the length of her, taking in her neat and tidy long-sleeved shirt and crisp, very dry jeans. Her boots looked brand spankin' new. If his clothes hadn't dried in the time they'd been in the shack, hers should be at least a little soggy, he thought. "Why are you nice and dry?"
She shifted on her feet. "I had a jacket on."
"So did I." He nodded to where the jacket hung on a hook by the door. "By the looks of it, it's still pretty soaked." She opened her mouth to reply, but he held up a hand to cut her off. "No, don't tell me; you had an umbrella with you, right? You were wearing a wide-brimmed hat? Your clothes are waterproof?" His tone was sardonic.
Her lips were pursed, and sparks of annoyance brightened her eyes. Too bad. He wanted to know exactly what was going on. Something didn't add up.
She turned away to check the percolating coffee, and when she glanced back at him a moment later his heart stopped for a fraction of a second. Her dark violet-blue eyes hit him like a bolt of lightning, sending a rush of memories of another woman tumbling through him. Her eyes beckoned to him…
He scrubbed an agitated hand down his face. Get a grip, man! That dream about Amanda is putting silly notions in your head-or the whack to your skull has made you a little crazy!
"I saw an extra set of workclothes in that cupboard," she offered, and started toward a floor-to-ceiling pantry about three feet wide, stocked with a variety of staples and basic necessities to survive a few weeks secluded in the shack.
He removed the pillow from his lap but kept the blanket around him. "Yeah, for emergencies like this."
She stood on the toes of her boots and grabbed the neatly folded clothes on a high shelf. "Let's hope they fit."
"They should. They're mine." He watched her inventory a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, socks, and briefs. "I put the extra clothes there a few years ago after getting caught in a rain storm and didn't have anything to change into. It gets damn cold in here soaking wet. That woodstove is pretty useless when it comes to heating anything beyond the table."
She arched a brow, approaching with strident steps that echoed off the floorboards. "Ah, so this isn't the first time you've been in this predicament."
"As a matter of fact, it is." He met her gaze. Very softly, with an undercurrent of challenge, he said, "I've never been rescued by a woman who seemingly appeared out of thin air."
A private smile touching her lips, she placed the clothes on the bed next to him. "I suppose an unexpected sleet storm in the middle of a beautiful spring day is a normal occurrence in Idaho?"
He sighed at her attempt to keep the conversation steered away from important questions.
"Yes, especially up against the mountains. You're not from around here, then?"
She shook her head and looked away, but not before he caught a glimpse of mystery in her eyes. "Go ahead and get dressed and I'll pour you some coffee and make you something to eat."
He wanted the answers she was avoiding but figured he'd at least have an upper hand in the interrogation if he had some clothes on. He straightened to his full height slowly, careful to keep from aggravating his head. The blanket dropped to the floor and cool air brushed over his skin. The muscles across his belly and chest tensed in response to the shocking caress.
"Don't turn around," he warned, reaching for his briefs, "unless you care to get another eyeful."
"No, thanks."
While J.T. changed Caitlan fetched a can of stew from the pantry, casting a surreptitious glance his way, even though she'd just declined his invitation to look. She wanted to make sure he was okay, reallyokay, and could dress himself on his own. Reassured that he seemed to be steady on his feet, she told herself to get back to preparing his meal, but a strange feminine instinct kept her gaze riveted to his backside.
She caught a glimpse of firm, muscled buttocks before he pulled on his briefs, and a feathery warmth settled in her stomach. True, last night she'd seen every bare inch of him, but she'd been too concerned about his health to truly appreciate the magnificence of his body. In the light of day, with the late-morning sun streaming through the only window in the shack, his nudity took on a different perspective. He was powerfully built, the muscles across his shoulders, down his back, and in his legs honed to athletic perfection. He picked up his shirt and pushed his arms through the sleeves, and she finally forced her attention back to her task.
Grabbing the stew, a can of peaches, and a manual can opener, she set the items on the table and began opening the cans. She didn't normally respond to mortals so strongly-her emotions were calculated and doled out in accordance to the given situation-but from the first moment she'd landed on earth and rescued him, she'd felt an odd connection to him that perplexed her. Ignoring the feeling for more pressing matters, she'd quickly transported him to the line shack with the help of Christopher's powers and had begun the process to save his life, starting with healing his massive head injury, then warming him and keeping his body from slipping into a dangerous state of shock.
However, with the crises over and him awake, she noticed things about him that had nothing whatsoever to do with her mission, a curiosity she was certain her Superiors wouldn't encourage. And when he'd kissed her and touched her and called her another woman's name she'd felt a surreal harmony with this man that transcended anything in her station as a guardian angel.
Retrieving two metal cups and plates from the pantry, she sneaked another peek at him. He was sitting on the bed, head bent, as he pulled wool socks on his feet. His sable hair was a tousled mess from rain, wind, and general abuse from his hands. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. The disheveled, morning-after look only made him appear more masculine and sexy.
He was a pleasant enough assignment, she mused, dishing out the peaches and stew onto their plates. But a part of her feared the forces of evil she was up against would be hard to dissuade, not to mention making J.T. believe the outrageous excuses the Superiors had seen fit to give her for this mission. She had the medallion for assistance, but as a guardian angel her powers were limited, to be used only in extreme situations. As a rule, she didn't contact the Superiors unless an emergency occurred.
She poured the steaming coffee into each of their tin cups. "Lunch is ready. It's nothing fancy, but you need to eat something to keep up your strength."
He sauntered toward the table, dragging the bedside chair with him. His stomach grumbled. "It looks like a feast to me," he commented, seating himself in front of a plate heaped with food.
She pushed aside the damp clothes on the table to make more room for them. "You must have gotten knocked harder on the head than I thought."
"No. Considering I haven't eaten since…" He frowned as he thought about i
t, "I guess it would be breakfast yesterday morning, I'm hungry enough to devour a whole cow."
"It's a good sign that you have a healthy appetite."
He nodded, observing her intently as she sat in the chair across from him. "I'm sorry for what happened earlier, Caitlan."
The way he said her name, his voice warm and husky, made her fully, femininely aware of him. "It's okay."
He slowly ran his index finger around the rim of his cup. "I didn't mean to get rough with you on the bed. I obviously didn't know what I was doing."
She lowered her lashes and stabbed a wedge of peach with her fork, trying to forget the warm, silky feelings he'd evoked in her when she'd been pinned beneath his lean body. Reminding herself that he'd thought her another woman in his delirious state, she replied, "I understand, really."
"Weren't you afraid of what I might do to you?"
"You were dreaming," she said, distinctly uneasy with his bold speculation.
He leaned toward her, his green-gold gaze lowering to her mouth as her lips closed around the peach on her fork. "Still, I could have made love to you."
She nearly choked on the fruit. Images of his hands sliding over her body sent a frisson of heat spiraling to her belly. Good Lord, what was wrong with her that she was entertaining such shameless thoughts about this man? Shifting in her chair, she forced the peach down her throat with a deliberate swallow. She concentrated on her food, clearing her plate in record time. Standing, she took her plate and utensils to a bucket of soapy water she'd filled earlier with some bottled water.
She washed and rinsed her dishes, then began drying them with a terry towel. She turned to him with every intention of getting back to business. "I think I should check your head injury."
"I'm fine." He ate the last of his stew and pushed his plate away.
"You can't even see it," she reasoned, cleaning up his dishes as well.
He reached for the coffeepot she'd set on the table and poured himself another cup, then filled hers too. "I can feel it, and even though it hurts like the devil, it doesn't appear to be an open wound."
Heaven's Gift aka Kiss of an Angel Page 2