MORGAN

by Lori Foster

  But no sooner did that thought filter into her fogged brain than one of those large hands came up over her rib cage to close on her breast.

  Her nipples immediately drew tight, and she pulled her mouth away to gasp at the incredible sensations his touch caused.

  He groaned harshly, and a rough tremble traveled through his big body.

  Stunned, somewhat disoriented by the unbelievable intensity, Misty whispered, "No..."

  At that single word, not even said with much conviction, he froze. His hand opened slowly, as if it took great effort to get his fingers to obey. With his face pressed to the place where her shoulder and neck met, he struggled for air, and every muscle – pressed so closely to her – stiffened.

  Then he stepped away.

  The air positively throbbed between them, but still, he'd stopped the second she'd asked him to. The significance of that didn't escape her; he was a remarkable man, very much in control of himself. Misty did her best to catch her breath, to stop staring at him in the darkness. She should leave, right now, but she couldn't seem to get her feet to move. Every nerve ending in her body was still alive in a way she hadn't known was possible.

  "I won't apologize."

  He sounded breathless, frustrated, on the verge of anger, and she swallowed hard, trying to calm her galloping heart. "I...I didn't ask you to."

  Still without moving, he added, "This is going to be a problem."

  Again, she asked, "This?"

  Several beats of silence passed, then suddenly he moved away from her and he actually laughed. "Come off it, Malone. You felt it as much as I did." He turned back, looking for verification.

  It she assumed was the incredible sexual pull. "If you mean..."

  Through his teeth, he said, "I mean I touched you and you got so hot I feel singed. I kissed you and you sucked on my tongue and rubbed up against me and it was like throwing a match on gasoline. There's enough goddamned heat in this room to start a bonfire."

  Misty sucked in her breath, shocked at the words, at the harsh vehemence of his tone, but unable to deny them. Part of her new determination in dealing with men was to be brutally honest – with herself and them. Sugarcoating things, faking things, had caused at least half of her present problems. Being too timid, too naive, had caused the other half. In order to get on with her life, she had to start facing things head-on.

  A rough warning growl rumbled from deep in his throat. "Malone—"

  "You're right," she hurried to assure him, unwilling to let him shock her with more of his brutal honesty. "And I'm sorry. You took me by surprise."

  "Bull." He propped his hands on his hips and glared at her. "I've known from the day I met you how it'd be. Why the hell do you think I avoid you?"

  Oh. That certainly explained a few things, she supposed. "I see. Well, I must not be as clever as you, because I thought you were a totally obnoxious, thoroughly unlikable jerk and I was thankful that you ignored me. I had no idea this—" she waved a hand, trying to come up with a word suitable to the loss of control and depth of sensation he'd sparked "—chemistry was between us. I wasn't even aware something like this existed."

  He cursed again, but she, didn't let him interrupt her. "Now that I do know, trust me, I won't let it happen ever again."

  Morgan seemed to measure her words. And then she saw his eyes narrow, his expression darken. He looked at her breasts, and she knew her nipples were still painfully hard. Without a word, he reached out a hand and gently brushed the backs of his knuckles across one sensitive tip, gliding easily over the satiny material of the dress. Misty drew in a sharp breath and felt a small explosion of erotic stimulation throughout her body.

  Morgan whispered, "Oh, it'll happen again, sweetheart, if you hang around. That's why you need to finish your little visit and hightail it out of town just as fast as you possibly can. My control only goes so far, and it seems you have no control at all."

  The words were like a cold slap, reminding her of all her troubles, of how gullible she'd been, how utterly stupid.

  She jerked away and bit her lip hard to keep herself from tearing up. No way would she let the big jerk see her cry. Much as she had hoped to regroup in Buckhorn, she could see that was now impossible. What she would do, she hadn't a clue. But he was right, leaving was imperative. She had absolutely no desire to get involved with a man again, for any reason. Especially not a domineering, bullheaded behemoth like Morgan Hudson, a man who didn't even like her, and in fact, seemed to disdain her.

  Keeping her back to him, she drew a long, steadying breath. Then she reached for the door. "I'll leave first thing tomorrow morning." Despite her resolve, her voice quavered tenuously.

  There was a slight pause. "Misty..."

  He sounded uncertain, but she had no intention of discussing things with him. There was no one she could trust except Honey, and she wouldn't ruin her sister's current happiness for anything. After she got her life straightened out and made some plans that would hopefully carry her through the coming months, she could begin making confessions to her sibling.

  The open door offered no relief from the heat; there wasn't a single breeze stirring. Misty stepped onto the dew-wet grass, then felt Morgan's hand settle on her shoulder. "Wait a minute."

  She flinched at his tone but didn't bother trying to move away from him. Just that simple touch, his hand on her shoulder, made her acutely aware of him as a man. She almost hated herself. "What now?"

  She turned to face him, trying to look irritated when she was actually breathless. The moonlight was brighter. She could see his every feature – the strong, lean jawline, the harshly cut cheekbones. He was by far the most impressive male she'd ever seen, but then, his brothers were nothing to sneeze at. There must have been a mighty impressive gene pool somewhere to create all that masculine perfection.

  He stared at her, not answering at first. He shook his head, distracted, and just when he started to speak, another voice intruded.

  "There you are."

  Morgan looked up. "Casey. What in hell are you doing out here?"

  Misty turned to see Sawyer's son. At sixteen, Casey already showed signs of his own masculine superiority. He was tall, nearly six feet, and had the bone structure that promised wide shoulders and long, strong limbs.

  "Dad wanted someone to find you and haul you back inside."

  Morgan shook his head. "And of course, you just naturally volunteered for the job."

  Casey chuckled. "Actually, Uncle Jordan and Uncle Gabe beat me to it, and they did seem pretty anxious to come out here and fetch you in, but Dad told me to go instead, on account of he said you wouldn't slug me."

  Morgan threw an arm around his nephew, held him in a brief headlock and then started them all toward the door. "Don't be too sure of that, boy. My affection for you is kinda thin at the moment."

  With a laugh, Casey said, "I'm not worried. I can still outrun you."

  "You think so, do you?"

  "Yeah, 'cause I'm fast – and you're getting old." Casey ducked quickly under Morgan's arm and came to Misty's side. Walking backward, his grin wide, he said, "Dad also told me if you didn't want Honey to get after you, I should walk Misty in and you should come in after."

  "He said all that, did he?"

  "He said you wouldn't want to shatter Honey's skewed illusions, being as she doesn't know the real you, yet."

  Casey was having a fine time of it, pestering his uncle. Misty smiled to herself, amused at their close camaraderie and a little wistful. Her own family consisted of Honey and her father, since her mother died when they were young. Her father had been overbearing and overcontrolling, cold, without the foundation of love that would have made those personality traits more bearable. If it hadn't been for Honey, she didn't think her childhood would have been at all tolerable. Casey seemed to have a fantastic family foundation. It was easy to see why Honey had fallen in love with the whole clan.

  Morgan stopped just out of reach of the patio, still in the shadows wh
ere the lights didn't reach. "You go on in, Casey, and tell your dad I expect him to control his wife. We'll be there in just a moment."

  "Dad said you'd say that, and then I was supposed to tell you he's sending Uncle Gabe and Uncle Jordan out in two minutes."

  Morgan made a playful grab for Casey, but he jumped back, laughing. Holding up his hands, he said, "Hey, it was Dad, not me!"

  Morgan reached for him again and Casey hurried to the door. After he opened it, he yelled back, "Two minutes, Uncle Morgan!"

  "Damn scamp."

  Misty was still smiling, though she felt great sadness inside. "You're all very close."

  "We helped to raise him. Sawyer got full custody when Casey was just a little pup, and between raising him and finishing med school, he would have been frazzled for sure if we hadn't all pitched in. Not that it was a chore. Hell, Casey's always been a great kid, even if his sense of humor is sometimes warped."

  Misty stared at him, dumbfounded. "You helped raise him?"

  "Yeah, sure. Along with my mother and the others. What'd you think, that I was too reprehensible to be around a youngster?"

  Actually that was exactly what she thought, but she kept the words to herself. "I was just ... surprised. The idea of four men raising a baby..."

  "Yeah, well, like I said, my mother taught us what we needed to know. But she felt real strong about Sawyer being involved as the dad, and that meant the rest of us just kinda chipped in. I was ... let's see. Nineteen at the time. I'll admit, the diaper thing threw me for a while there, and having formula spit up on me wasn't exactly a treat." Then he grinned. "But the whole uncle bit really turned the girls on. Hell, every time I took Casey into town with me, they'd come on like a mob."

  Misty rolled her eyes. "What a lovely image."

  Morgan laughed, but then his laughter died. "Look, about what happened..."

  "You already made yourself pretty clear, Morgan. I don't think we need to beat it into the ground. I said I'd leave in the morning, and I will."

  He ignored that and sighed. "Malone, I care a lot about your sister. I wouldn't want her upset."

  She could only stare at him. "You're worried I'll say something to Honey? What? Am I supposed to go tattle on you, is that it?"

  Even in the dim light she could see the way he locked his jaw. "She wanted us to be friends."

  "Good God!" she exclaimed, and when he frowned she added, "All right, forget the disbelief. For your information, I happen to love my sister."

  "Glad to hear it."

  "I wouldn't do anything to hurt her, and that includes disillusioning her about her new family." She poked him in the chest, her frustration level going right out the window. Her entire life was presently in the toilet, and Morgan Hudson was worried about her discretion? Ha!

  "As far as I'm concerned, Honey can think we got along like best pals. But until I can get out of here tomorrow morning, stay the hell away from me."

  She turned and stalked in, but at the door, she couldn't resist looking back one last time at Morgan.

  He stood there in the moonlight, head tilted toward the dark sky, eyes closed, jaw clenched. His big hands were knotted into fists on his hips. Misty felt herself shiver, even though the evening was oppressively hot.

  She knew then that he was right. Tomorrow morning she would leave Buckhorn behind. Hopefully, she'd think of somewhere to stay in the meantime.

  She'd spent all her savings fighting the criminal conviction, and lost. She was homeless, out of a job and with no prospects.

  And that was the least of her problems.

  IF MORGAN HADN'T been lying there awake, his body frustrated, his mind disturbed by sensual images, he might not have heard it. But he hadn't slept a wink all night, too busy remembering the sweet taste of Misty, the way she'd felt pressed against him. Perfect Willing. Hot. Though his head told him things had ended when they should, his imagination had insisted on conjuring up a different ending to the tale, and he'd been rock hard and hurting for more hours now than he cared to admit. It was like suffering the curse of wretched puberty all over again, and he had Misty Malone to thank for it.

  The squeak came again, and Morgan recognized the sound as the porch swing that hung in the huge oak at the back of the house. Throwing off the sheet that covered him, he stalked naked to the open window and listened. His room was at one end of the house, opposite to Sawyer and Casey's, with the entire living quarters in between so they all had privacy.

  Morgan's bedroom faced the lake, as did Sawyer's. As did the porch swing.

  Someone was out there and his gut instinct told him it was Misty. He felt it in his bones, by the way his heart beat faster, by the way his stomach knotted. Only Misty had ever had that intense effect on him, and he figured it was mostly because he had to deny himself. If she wasn't related by marriage, if he could have spent a long, hot weekend with her, indulging all his cravings, he'd be able to get her out of his system.

  But he couldn't, and that was the only reason for his obsession. He was sure of it.

  Morgan saw that the moon hadn't completely set, even while dawn was struggling to break. He glanced at the clock, surprised to see it was barely five-thirty. What was she doing up so early, hanging around outside? Looking for more ways to torment him?

  It took him a mere two seconds to decide to go see her. He knew all the reasons he shouldn't, but something overrode them all, some basic need to spar with her one more time before the rest of the family would be there to pull him back.

  He was still buttoning his favorite pair of worn, comfortable jeans, and wearing nothing else, when he stepped out of his room. At the last minute, he stopped, went back into his bedroom and then into his bathroom. He brushed his teeth, giving a disgusted glance at his morning beard and disheveled hair, then decided to hell with it and headed out. But when he passed the kitchen, he halted again and conducted a cup of coffee was definitely in order, if for no other reason than to help him get his bearings before facing her again. She threw him off balance with just a glance, and set his teeth on edge with blinding lust.

  As he hurriedly measured the coffee, being careful to be quiet so he wouldn't wake anyone else, he thought about Misty and how she would look so early in the day, her dark hair still tousled, her eyes soft and warm. He imagined her still in her nightgown, something thin and slinky, and he almost dropped the carafe of water. The anticipation he felt was ridiculous, but real.

  For at least a few hours this morning, he'd have her all to himself.

  Jordan had an apartment above the garage and would be oblivious to anything and everything until at least ten o'clock. He liked to sleep late on the weekends, his only chance to catch up from his busy week.

  Gabe might not even be back yet. He'd been surrounded by the single women of Buckhorn when last Morgan had seen him. But if he was home, his rooms in the basement would insulate him from the normal busy-house noises.

  As for Sawyer, he was no doubt occupied with his bride. Morgan wouldn't be at all surprised if he didn't leave the bedroom all day. He grinned at that thought, remembering how Casey had told his father to feel free to linger, that he'd take care of all the chores for him.

  Morgan was still grinning and feeling a little too anxious when he silently stepped outside with two steaming mugs of coffee. His bare feet didn't make a sound on the wet morning grass as he walked to the swing. It was a bit chilly, a heavy fog hanging over everything, which turned his first sight of Misty, her back to him, curled up on the swing, into a whimsical, almost ethereal picture. He was only two steps away from her when he heard her give a delicate sniff.

  Everything masculine in him froze, and he experienced that incomparable dread men suffered when women turned to tears. He didn't know what to do. He strained to hear, hoping he'd misunderstood the sound, hoping she had a cold.

  She sniffed again, then dabbed at her eyes with a wadded tissue. Oh, hell. Morgan felt a hard, curling ache around his heart and closed his eyes for a moment. The fact that h
er tears bothered him so much was a sure sign that things were out of control. Just physical attraction, he insisted to himself, despite his burgeoning sympathy and concern. Shoring up his nerve, he announced himself by clearing his throat.

  Turning around so quickly she nearly upset the swing, Misty stared at him. She had glasses on, which he'd never seen before, and her hair was tied back with a plain elastic rubber band, long tendrils carelessly escaping. Even in the gray predawn light, he could see that she blushed.

  Truth was, she looked like hell, and he hadn't thought such a thing was possible. Her nose was red and her eyes were hidden behind the reflection of the glasses. His simmering lust died a rapid death, not because of how she looked, but because he knew she was upset, and he was horribly afraid that he was the reason.

  Not knowing what else to do, he held out one cup of coffee, for the moment ignoring her distress. "I heard the swing and figured you could use this."

  She glanced at the cup as if it might hold arsenic. Morgan sighed. "It's coffee. Lots of sugar and cream. I figured since Honey drank hers that way, you likely did, too."

  She took the cup, sipped, then quietly thanked him. Without another word, she turned her head to stare toward the lake, which could barely be seen through the fog. She had simply and plainly dismissed him. Her wishes couldn't have been any more clear than if she'd come right out and said, Go away.

  Nettled, Morgan pretended not to notice.

  He moved to sit beside her, never mind that there wasn't really enough room. She quickly scrambled to get her legs out of the way, and it was then he noticed she was wearing a soft old cotton housecoat. No belt, just fat buttons all the way down the front. It looked loose and comfortable, like something that his sixty-year-old mother would wear when she wasn't feeling well. All the buttons were done up except the top one, and Misty clutched that small span of material together with a fist.