Jen managed to wiggle into her rose-colored bikini panties without dropping the sheet.
Unable to do the same with her bra, she dropped the sheet, turned her back to him and sat down on the bench at the foot of his bed. Head bent, she fastened the clasp of her bra in front of her, then twisted the lacy white fabric around and pulled it up over the globes of her breasts. Over her slender shoulders.
The straps fell into place with a snap.
Jen’s chest rose and fell as she drew in a bolstering breath. “That’s not really the point, Matt.”
She turned to face him yet again, her nipples poking through the lace, belying the casual disregard of her words, whether she wanted them to or not.
Aware that his nipples were still erect, too, Matt folded his arms behind his head and lay back against the pillows, watching her. Wanting her.
Wondering if she had any idea how completely desirable he found her. Or how much he wanted to repeat their mind-blowing sex.
“Then what is the point?” he asked softly, irritated that she felt it necessary to lie to him about what she was really feeling.
Color flooding her cheeks, she pulled her tank top over her head.
She looked even sexier clad in just panties, bra and tank, her long silky legs and dainty feet planted defiantly apart.
Jen snatched her jeans off the floor and tugged them up over her knees.
The stone-colored fabric, worn and soft, pulled taut across her flat tummy. The waistband rested just above the line of her panties, revealing her sexy belly button. And cupping her sleek thighs and delectably round butt in a way that drove him crazy.
He sighed in disappointment as she tugged the hem of her tank down over her hips, cutting off his view of bare, silky skin.
A mixture of exasperation and defiance gleamed in her eyes. “You want honesty?”
Matt lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Nothing but.” He was certain, one wrong word from him and he’d never have the chance to lure her into his bed again.
Jen came close enough to perch on the foot of the mattress. Still safely out of reach, she gave him a level look. “I meant what I said to you earlier. I accept that I’m done with roller-coaster romance and dreams of happily ever after. I know it’s never going to happen to me. I don’t expect it…and I don’t want it.”
“Then what do you want?”
She bent over to tug on her socks and boots. “To just take life as it comes. One day at a time. I don’t want this…hookup…to have any repercussions.”
“It won’t.”
Jen shot him a skeptical look. “I don’t want to think about it or talk about it or expect that it will happen again. Because…” she leaned against the wall, arms folded decisively in front of her “…it’s not going to, Matt.”
He couldn’t say he was surprised she was backing off, since she was no more inclined to let someone in than he was.
That didn’t mean they couldn’t react differently now. Especially when the chemistry was this good. “Why not?” He rose from the bed and began to dress, too. She caught his eye and went still.
He tracked the lift of her breasts as she held her breath. “It was good. “
“Very good,” she confirmed, jerking her gaze away. “And that’s where I want to leave it.”
* * *
“DID YOU GET EVERYTHING you needed?” Celia asked, via phone, later in the day.
Jen looked around the studio with satisfaction. Flexible wire, sculpting tools and measuring tape were laid out next to containers of clay. She had scanned into her laptop the pictures she was going to use as her models. Special software had converted those images into three dimensional models, complete with precise measurements, that she could translate to whatever scale she wanted. Jen still wanted to blow up those same photos to poster size so she could have them set up all around her, for further inspiration while she worked. But that, she figured, could wait until the following day.
Right now, she wanted to keep working on the sketches of the first proposed sculpture.
“Yes. I unpacked and set up this afternoon.” Jen sighed. After my colossal mistake.
“How are things with Matt Briscoe?”
Jen kept her tone noncommittal. “About as you’d expect.” Sexy. Difficult. Too fun. And way too confusing!
Celia chuckled. “Hmm. I thought I glimpsed a little attraction there, beneath all the guff.”
Good thing you can’t see us now, then, Jen thought, her body still thrilling at the reckless way they’d made love that afternoon.
What had gotten into her, anyway?
Why was Matt Briscoe able to get past her defenses so easily?
And when had she lost all common sense? Hadn’t she learned the last time not to fall for a rich guy?
If she wanted to know how far apart she and Matt were on that score, all she had to do was think about his casual attitude regarding the cost of her van repairs.
A sum that was ridiculously expensive to her meant nothing to him.
Lovemaking that—if she was honest—meant everything to her probably meant very little to him, as well.
And though Jen had acted as if she could have sex for the pure physical pleasure of it, she knew deep down that just wasn’t true. With her, feelings were always involved.
Her heart had already been crushed once, by someone out of her league financially. She didn’t need to have it trampled again.
So it was best to do what she had told Matt this afternoon, and just leave things as they were. Over. Done. Kaput.
“Jen?” Celia asked. “Are you still there?”
“Mmm-hmm.” She shook off all romantic notions and once again focused on her friend from childhood. “How are things with you and Cy?”
Celia groaned. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I saw my OB today. I’m three centimeters dilated. The doc said the baby can come any time now. She wants me to keep my bag packed.”
Jen smiled and tried not to feel a little pang of envy, since she’d likely never have a baby of her own. “That’s great, Celia. Cy must be so excited.”
“Oh, he is!”
They talked a little more about the upcoming birth and delivery, before getting down to gallery business, and then promised to talk again the next day.
Happy about the two sales that had transpired in her absence—and what that meant for the gallery books—Jen hung up.
Hearing the heavy thud of footsteps, she turned toward the door.
Emmett Briscoe appeared there. “Am I interrupting?”
Jen put her cell phone aside and rose to greet him, immediately concerned by how he looked. “Come in,” she urged gently.
Emmett shuffled toward her, clearly favoring one leg. He appeared tired and wan. Perspiration dotted his forehead.
“Are you all right? Did you fall?”
He shook his head and drew a handkerchief from his pocket to mop his face. “I think I got a little overheated when I was coming inside just now.”
It looked like a heck of a lot more than that. Jen slipped a hand beneath his elbow and guided him to a chair. “Forgive me for saying so,” she said carefully, “but you look ill. We should get you to a doctor.”
Grimly, Emmett shook his head again.
“At least call Matt.”
“Absolutely not,” he thundered, mopping his forehead once again. “Matt is the last person you should tell.”
Well, something wasn’t right. Emmett’s left leg was trembling, while his right seemed perfectly fine. As were his hands. Which, Jen recalled, was the opposite of what had been going on this morning. Then, one of his hands had been trembling, and his legs had been fine.
She pulled up a chair and sat facing him, clasping his hands. “You want to tell me what’s going on?” She waited for him to look her in the eye. “And don’t give me the hangover business again, because I know one when I see one and this is not it.”
His shoulders slumped in defeat. “You’re right. It isn’t.
”
The raw emotion in his voice frightened her. Jen gripped his hands more tightly. “Then what is it?” she asked, trying not to sound upset.
Emmett swallowed. Moisture glistened in his faded blue eyes. “Parkinson’s, most likely.”
What did he mean, most likely? “Have you seen a doctor?” Jen asked quietly.
“No.” He mopped his forehead again, then he stared at her with steely determination. “And I’m not going to, either. Matt and I spent years watching his mother deteriorate, bit by bit. I’m not about to make the rest of my son’s life about being my nursemaid. And that’s what it would turn into. We both know that.”
Jen couldn’t argue. Matt was very protective of his dad.
But what if it wasn’t Parkinson’s disease? What if it was something else? What if early treatment might make all the difference in the prognosis?
“Matt’s going to notice your symptoms,” Jen warned.
“No. He’s not. And you know why? Because he doesn’t want to see them.” The rancher sighed. “I understand that. I didn’t see Margarite’s infirmities, either, when she first got sick, because I couldn’t bear the thought of anything really being wrong with her. So I convinced myself that she was just tired, or coming down with a cold, or getting over a virus. Anything and everything but what was really happening.”
Jen knew what he meant. “I did the same thing when my dad was in the last stages of liver failure.” Her voice cracked. “I—I couldn’t admit to myself that he was…”
“Dying?”
She nodded, then fell silent. Memories overwhelmed her and tears pricked her eyes.
Emmett reached out and patted her arm. For a moment the two of them sat in silence, comforting each other.
“Besides,” he said eventually, “I take great pains to avoid Matt on those days that are really bad.”
She bit her lip. “You don’t think he’ll get suspicious?”
Emmett shrugged, still confiding in her as naturally as if she were family. “For a while, he thought I was seeing a woman.”
Matt had thought it might be Jen. At least that first day when he’d come to see her in her Austin studio…
“I’ve shared this with you in the strictest confidence,” Emmett continued sincerely. “You are not to tell Matt any of it. And I need you to swear on all you hold dear that you will keep quiet.”
Jen knew what an important first step this was. The big, brash, larger-than-life Texas rancher had admitted to her he was ill. He was trusting her to help him. And she would.
“Yes. I promise,” she said quietly, meaning it with all her heart.
Emmett’s leg trembled harder. Jen put her hand on his knee to stop the involuntary shaking. “I won’t tell anyone,” she reiterated, applying gentle pressure. “Not until you—”
She was about to say “change your mind and give me the okay,” when Emmett’s head jerked up.
The rancher looked past her, flushed guiltily and pushed her hand off his leg.
The hair on the back of her neck prickling, Jen turned in the direction of his gaze and encountered the person she least wanted to see.
Standing in the doorway, looking angry as hell, was the man she had made wild, passionate love with just a few hours before.
Matt Briscoe stomped in.
“Won’t tell anyone what?” he demanded.
Chapter Eight
Matt knew when two people had been caught red-handed. His dad and Jen were definitely up to something. What, Matt didn’t know. Despite the fact that she’d had her hand on his father’s knee, whatever was going on didn’t seem romantic or sexual. And yet there was an undeniable air of intimacy in the room.
Flushing, Jen stood up and, with more grace than Matt would have expected, under the circumstances, moved toward the drafting table. “Your father was a little overcome by the sketches I just showed him.”
She walked over to Matt, drawings in hand.
Matt noted that his father wasn’t looking at him. Rather, he was sitting with his palm planted firmly on the knee Jen had just been touching. Emmett also seemed curiously transfixed on Jen. It was almost as if he wasn’t sure what was going on, either.
Which was strange, Matt thought. If Jen was telling the truth.
He’d bet his bottom dollar she wasn’t.
“Your dad doesn’t want me talking about the actual possibilities for the sculpture until a decision is made. Which is fine with me. I actually prefer to keep any work in progress completely under wraps to all but the subjects, or patron commissioning the work.”
Wordlessly, she handed Matt a few rough sketches. The other three she passed to Emmett.
His resentment building, Matt glanced down.
The proposed sculptures were beautiful.
And incredible, in how they captured the essence of his parents, and the deep, abiding love they’d had for each other.
Feeling a little choked up himself, Matt handed the sketches to his dad.
Emmett, who never cried, had tears in his eyes as he scanned the drawings once again.
Dabbing at his cheek with a handkerchief, he rose abruptly. “Excuse me.” He left the studio without a backward glance, and somewhat awkwardly, from the sound of it, made his way down the hall.
Matt realized his dad must have been overcome with emotion.
The ache in his own throat grew.
Jen’s eyes glistened, as she moved away. Without looking at him, she said, “Posthumous works can be tough to do. Especially in the beginning.”
No kidding.
Matt felt as if he was about to start bawling, and he never cried.
At least he hadn’t since his mom had died.
He walked over to the drafting table, where Jen stood. Her glance still averted, she made a big production of tidying up her pencils.
He thrust the sketches at her.
She spread them out carefully on the table.
“But when the work is finished, the bronze is usually very comforting because so much has gone into it. It’s such a special memorial.”
Jen paused to look down with a critical eye at the photographs she’d used as a reference, and the sketches she’d made. “If you’d like to weigh in—tell me what you think about what I’ve done so far, what needs work, or what I might be missing…”
Matt shook his head, no more equipped to do that than his dad had been.
How was it possible that his mother could have been gone for ten years now, and the grief was still so raw?
He thought he’d gotten past this. Accepted fate. Moved on.
The truth was he was still as rocked by it as his father was. No wonder Jen had been reaching out, trying to comfort Emmett. She probably felt sorry for him and wanted to protect his macho image.
Matt didn’t need her doing that for him, too.
“I don’t think so,” he said gruffly, ready to run from the scene like an emotional coward, just as his dad had.
He turned away from Jen and headed toward the door.
First, he’d had to dig his mom’s paintings out of storage and carry some up; he had no idea which ones, since they still weren’t unwrapped.
And now this… His dad all weepy over sketches and photos of his deceased wife, and Matt feeling the same.
Still, he had a duty to at least be civil to Jen. She probably knew what she was stirring up, but had to do it anyway, as part of her work here.
Swallowing, he paused in the doorway and glanced back, meeting her gaze. Somehow making his voice sound almost normal, he announced, “I came up to tell you that Scully has food over in the bunkhouse if you want to join him and the hands for dinner. That’s what Dad and I usually do when Luz is off. But if not,” Matt continued, with the requisite politeness shown to guests on the Triple B, “you’re welcome to either have some chow sent over, or cook here. Naturally, you can help yourself to whatever is in the kitchen.”
Jen held his eyes, looking as if she wanted to say something important, bu
t didn’t dare.
She swallowed, too, then nodded with the same careful politeness he’d shown her. “Thanks for the information and the invitation, but I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll grab something later.”
Matt couldn’t say he was surprised. Sometimes solitude was the best medicine. And right now, he needed even more time on the range.
“Suit yourself.” He tipped his head at her, then walked off.
* * *
JEN ENDED UP WORKING until almost ten. By the time she hit the kitchen, the rest of the house was silent. An indication that Emmett had either gone out or gone to bed. The same with Matt.
Trying not to feel disappointed about the lack of company, she opened the stainless-steel fridge. It was filled with all sorts of goodies, and she was still trying to decide what to eat when footsteps sounded behind her.
Matt walked in, a disgruntled look on his face. He was wearing a clean pair of jeans and a plain white T-shirt. His hair was damp and he smelled of soap and shampoo. Which reminded her of their lovemaking that afternoon.
Had it only been eight hours or so since they’d been together? she wondered wistfully.
It felt like a lifetime ago.
More than a lifetime.
She studied Matt’s surly, withdrawn expression, and couldn’t help but wonder if Emmett was still feeling poorly. Or whether Matt had noticed. Even if he wouldn’t yet admit to himself that his dad was ailing.
A feeling of unease sifted through her. She had to tread carefully here so as not to let anyone down. “Everything okay?”
Matt shoved a hand through his curly black hair. “Depends on what you mean by okay.”
She drew a conciliatory breath and lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Okay…”
Her pun did not elicit the smile she had hoped to see.
Which likely meant he was still wrangling with his residual grief.
The Texas Rancher's Vow: The Texas Rancher's VowFound: One Baby Page 8