Texas Splendor

by Bobbi Smith

  "Yes, Michael. I'm in love with you. . . . I have been for years. You just never noticed before." Her voice was a soft, velvet caress, and Michael felt enthralled as he stared up at her.

  Sukie came to stand directly before him. Her emerald eyes were luminous and openly inviting. Knowing that she had his full attention, she boldly slipped the lightweight garment from her shoulders, revealing to him for the first time the lush, full beauty of her breasts.

  She had never done this before, but somehow she did not feel self-conscious about being unclad before Michael. She loved him, and to her this was as natural as living and breathing. With a calm she didn't know herself capable of, she held out her hand to him.

  "Michael, I'm yours. . . . I always have been."

  Her words were spinning a web of sensuality about him, and he was caught. He swallowed nervously, as he lifted his gaze from the perfection of her bosom to her lovely features. Had he been acting on instinct, he would have taken her in his arms then and there, but an inkling of honor still remained.

  "Sukie . . . " Her name was almost a moan as Michael got to his feet in jerky, awkward movements. She was Sukie, his dear companion and friend. For all of her profession of love, he could not rob her of her virtue, and it would be robbery, he told himself, for he was going to marry Trista. "Put your blouse back on. You really should be getting back."

  She sensed that he was leaving her, and she knew she couldn't let him get away. It must be now or never.

  "Michael, please . . . don't go," she pleaded desperately. "I need you so."

  "Sukie . . . " he agonized, wanting her, but caring about her, too.

  "I know you love Trista, but we could have this afternoon . . . I won't put any ties on you. You'll owe me nothing, but I'll have this memory to last me forever after you're her husband." Sukie knew she was risking his rejection, but she had to try. Moving boldly forward, she let her eyes meet his as she linked her arms behind his neck. "You know you aren't married yet, Michael . . . " And with that, she drew his head down to her and kissed him full and flaming upon the lips.

  At the touch of her mouth, he could no longer fight. There was something so achingly familiar, but riotously exciting about her embrace that he felt he was drowning in it.

  Sukie put everything she had into that single kiss, fearful that it would be her only chance. She had expected him to pull away, considering how he'd been acting, but when he responded, her heart sang with joy. When she pressed herself completely against him in enticing invitation, Michael locked his arms about her. Unconsciously, he found himself marveling at her full curves and amazed that he'd forgotten the wonder of her kiss.

  In that moment Trista no longer existed for Michael. He was caught up in the splendor of Sukie's love and could think of nothing else. He wanted this firebrand of a woman who was stirring flames of passion deep within him. He wanted her with an intensity that was breathtaking. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carried her to the shelter of the spreading tree and lay her on the carpet of soft grass beneath.

  Sukie was lost in a haze of romantic excitement. Though logically she knew that tomorrow it would be over, for now she was happy to pretend that she was the one Michael wanted . . . she was the one Michael loved, and in truth, at that moment, she was.

  With eager hands, she helped him to undress her and then helped him shed his own clothing. Naked, they came together in a surge of blazing desire. Their bodies intertwined before the initial joining, tasting and caressing, until their bliss took them soaring beyond reality.

  Michael was most careful as he moved to take her, and when he met with that virginal resistance and would have withdrawn, Sukie refused to let him. Surging upward, she impaled herself upon his strength. She bit her lip at the unexpected pain and tasted blood in her mouth.

  "I am yours, Michael . . . now and forever. . . ." she told him as her hands continued their maddening play over the hard contours of his male frame.

  "Ah . . . Sukie . . . " he groaned, and she gloried in the thrill of knowing that he was aware of her and loving her and needing her.

  Michael began to move then, and though innocent, Sukie soon understood what was required to fulfill love's greatest pleasure. At his lead, she followed, matching and moving, giving and taking, until a sunburst of ecstasy filled her, and she cried out his name in passionate abandon. Sukie lay beneath his driving weight in total awestruck wonder. It had been so perfect . . . so beautiful. She became aware of his own pinnacle of release then and clasped him tightly to her as he shuddered in satisfaction.

  They lay still. The sights and sounds of the fading day slowly became more and more penetrating as the haze of abandon that had engulfed them dissolved before reality's painful presence.

  Sukie did not want to let go of the moment. It had been so wonderful that she never wanted it to end. Still, she kept her promise to Michael and said nothing as he moved away.

  Michael had been like a man possessed as he'd claimed Sukie's virginity and made her his own. But now as his rationality returned, guilt filled him. Inwardly, he berated himself for his loss of control in taking her. He had always liked and admired Sukie. She'd been his friend, for God's sake, and now he had taken her most precious gift. It did not occur to him that she had given it freely. He thought only of his selfishness in satisfying his own needs.

  "Sukie . . . I can never tell you how sorry I am—" he began, but she cut him off sharply.

  "Don't you dare tell me you're sorry, Michael Barrett! It was perfect. . . . We were perfect! Don't ever say that you regretted our making love together! Ever!" Tears were burning her eyes as she forced herself from her mellow mood and began snatching up her clothes.

  Michael somehow was feeling her pain. He wanted to hold her and comfort her, but restrained himself. He had to get away from her nearness. Why, even now as he watched her buttoning her blouse over those tender, sensitive breasts he'd so avidly laved with kisses only a short time before, he felt his need for her arise again, full and powerful.

  "It was wonderful, Sukie. . . ." he managed lamely as he pulled on his pants and then shrugged into his shirt. "It's just that nothing more—"

  Sukie gave him an agonized look. "I know that there was nothing more to this than a moment of mutual satisfaction for the both of us. I told you before that I expected nothing from you, and I meant it. Don't worry, Michael. I'll never make a claim on you." She had finished dressing as she'd spoken those words. Moving away from him, she mounted her horse. Before he could say anything more, she put her heels to her mount and rode rapidly away from him without a backward glance.

  Michael stood in silent helplessness watching her go. He felt disoriented and deeply troubled. He loved Trista; he was to marry Trista. Yet while Sukie claimed to make no demand upon him, somehow, by her openness, she had exacted a far greater toll.

  Later that night Sukie lay in her bed sobbing out her unhappiness. She had thought that she would be able to bear being separated from Michael if she only once had the chance to love him to the fullest. But now that she'd tasted of passion's greatest delight with him, she knew she'd been wrong. It was only going to be worse now . . . now that she'd known the intimacy that would be Trista's every night after they were married.

  Jealousy seared her soul. She didn't want to hate Trista, and in fact, she didn't really. She just envied the other woman her position in Michael's heart and wished with all her might that it had been her fate to hold his love instead.

  As misery gave way to weariness, Sukie curled on her side and hugged her pillow to her bosom. The night seemed unending to her. The rest of her life loomed emptily before her as her tears gave way to dry-eyed contemplation of endless days and weeks without the man she loved. She thought of the party and wondered if there was any way she could keep from going. Knowing that her mother would be instantly suspicious if she tried to stay home, she didn't even bother to try to invent an excuse. No, she decided, she would go and she would have a good time. No matter what, she would stand
by her word. She would not let Michael know that she was dying inside without him.

  Miles away in his own solitary bed, Michael lay wide awake and restlessly unable to sleep. He had returned to the house to find that Trista had already made her excuses and retired for the night. In a way, he'd been glad. His own emotions were in such turmoil that the last thing he wanted was to see her.

  Images of Sukie imposed themselves over his mental vision of Trista. He shook his head as if to clear the red-haired vixen from his thoughts, but she would not be banished. The warm gift of her freely given love had etched itself upon his soul. He had known her before in so many other ways . . . as a childhood friend . . . as a close companion . . . and now he knew her as a lover. Every facet of Sukie had touched his life. Yet today she had professed to love him, and her profession had taken him completely by surprise. As well as he'd known her, he had never suspected that she harbored any deeper feelings for him.

  The more Michael considered it, the more baffled he became. His heart, once set on Trista as his bride, wavered in its loyalty. With that doubt came heavy guilt. Trista needed him. Trista loved him. No matter what his newly discovered feelings for Sukie were, he could not abandon Trista.

  Michael realized painfully that he would have to put any thought of Sukie from his mind, not that she would take him now anyway after the way he'd treated her that afternoon. His future was with Trista.

  Yet when sleep finally took him, his dreams were of a slender woman with fiery hair and eyes the color of the richest emeralds.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The night of Lance's party was clear and warm. A sliver of a moon hung low in the sky, and the dark heavens were dusted with myriad twinkling stars.

  The lighthearted sound of music emanated from the house, but there was nothing lighthearted about Michael's mood as he retreated to the study to get a glass of bourbon. He splashed a considerable amount into the tumbler and then downed it in one drink.

  As the potent, fiery liquor hit his stomach, it brought with it a deceptive calm, and he drew a deep, ragged breath. Sukie had just arrived with her parents. He had planned to greet them casually in his usual manner, but the sight of her had sent a completely unexpected shaft of desire coursing through his loins. It had taken all of his considerable willpower to control the feelings that surged through him. He had been tense in their company and had been almost delighted when they'd taken their leave of him to join the other guests.

  Michael hadn't expected to have this kind of reaction to seeing Sukie again, and he knew he had to keep his wayward desires under tight rein. He couldn't allow himself to be alone with her again. He was to marry Trista and his loyalties lay with her.

  Still, as Michael stood there, he envisioned Sukie as she'd looked coming into the front hall, and his blood heated. She'd been absolutely gorgeous. Her emerald gown had been the latest fashion and had enhanced the beauty of her red-gold hair and the fairness of her complexion. Its bodice, though modestly cut, had still offered him a teasing view that hinted at the fullness beneath. It was there that his gaze had lingered, and it was there, even now, that he wanted to press short, devouring kisses upon her responsive flesh.

  Annoyed with the direction of his thoughts, he refilled his tumbler again and took another deep swig. He told himself firmly that he had to forget her. Straightening his shoulders in an unconscious gesture, he started from the study much like a warrior preparing to do battle.

  Sukie had been nervous and unsure as she'd entered the Barrett home. Her heart had been pounding wildly, and her hands had been cold and damp in frightened anticipation of seeing Michael again. She wondered what his reaction would be to seeing her. In her dreams, she had fantasized that he would sweep her into his arms and declare that it was her he loved, but in reality Sukie knew that wouldn't happen. The best she could hope for, she reasoned logically, was for him to keep their relationship on the same level as it had been previously—they would still be friends.

  Sukie had not expected to come face-to-face with Michael as soon as she came into the house, and the sight of him standing there in the hall filled her with a thrill unlike anything she'd ever known. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and kiss him, but the cold, angry look that glinted in his eyes killed any hope she had that he might, indeed, have realized a great love for her. Michael looked furious to her, and she held herself under strict restraint. Forcing a gentle smile, she greeted him as usual. She took extra care not to let any of her love for him reflect in her manner, and it was the most difficult thing she'd ever done in her life.

  Yet despite Sukie's calm outward appearance, she had sensed that Michael was tense in her company and seemed almost eager for her and her parents to go on into the party and join the others. Keeping her head held high, she led the way into the parlor, and though her heart was breaking into a thousand brittle fragments, she did not give in to her need to weep. Determinedly, she found Emily Warren and several other of her friends and let herself be caught up in their gaiety. No matter what, she would not let Michael know how miserable she was. It had been her decision and now she had to live with the consequences.

  Clad in an eye catching square-necked gown of pale yellow faille, her hair styled up to please Michael, Trista stood momentarily alone near the refreshment table enjoying a cup of punch. The evening was progressing far better than she'd hoped. Few questions had been posed about her time with the Indians. More often than not, the topic had been discreetly avoided. However, some of the women had met Lance and had obviously been charmed by him. They had told her how "lucky" she was to have been rescued by him and what a blessing it was for George to have his long-lost son back home once again.

  Gritting her teeth behind a polite smile, Trista had agreed with them. But in truth, she longed to reveal the entire sordid truth behind his "rescue" of her. He was no hero! Though she had to admit as she stared at him now across the width of the room that he did look the part. Lance was tall and devastatingly handsome in his form-fitting dark pants and white shirt, and there was a certain aura of danger about him that was apparently attracting the women like moths to a flame. All evening long she had watched as the ladies had practically swooned before him, and it had angered her. They were such ninnies! Couldn't they tell that his manners were just a civilized veneer? Couldn't they see that he was still a savage Comanche beneath all the white man's trappings?

  A shiver raced down her spine as she remembered her first sight of him in his breechclout and paint, and she found it hard to believe that this was the same man. Outwardly he looked so very different, and yet she knew he was the same within. His appearance might be altered, but he had not changed that much. He would take what he wanted, when he wanted. Wasn't she living proof of that?

  Trista wanted to look away, but it was almost as if her gaze was held magnetically to him. From beneath lowered lashes she studied him as he conversed with George and several neighboring ranchers, and she realized that he was mesmerizing. Damningly so! For a moment, caught up in the mood of the party, she almost allowed herself to forget the trauma of their earlier time together.

  Michael reentered the parlor. Seeing Trista by the refreshments, he started toward her, eager to be in her company and distracted from his guilty thoughts of Sukie.

  "It looks as if Lance is being accepted well enough." Michael gave a slight nod in his brother's direction as he joined her. He took a drink of his bourbon as he positioned himself so he wouldn't have to see Sukie standing a short distance away with some of her friends.

  Trista kept her voice cool as she faced Michael. She was glad that he had not noticed how deeply Lance had disturbed her. "The party does seem to be going quite well," she agreed.

  "I'm just glad everything is working out for us. It's hard to believe that in just a short time you'll be my wife," he told her as he slipped a possessive arm about her waist. He was going to devote himself to being extra attentive to Trista tonight to assuage his guilt over Sukie. As the music began ag
ain with a waltz, he asked, "Shall we dance?"

  "Yes, I'd like that," she assented eagerly, glad to do anything that would help keep Lance out of her thoughts.

  Taking her in his arms, he danced her gracefully about the room, unaware that Sukie and Lance were both watching them surreptitiously.

  Lance was pleased, as was his father, that the party was succeeding so well. The fact that Lance had met with none of the carefully veiled hostility he'd expected had surprised him, and his bigoted opinion of whites in general was slowly beginning to change.

  It occurred to Lance as he talked stock and horse breeding with his father and several of his friends that he might really be able to live here permanently and be accepted as an equal. Never before had he given serious thought to remaining indefinitely. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he had always believed that he would return to Lone Elk and his tribe. But now, knowing that he could find happiness here with his father working the Diamond, he knew he truly wanted to stay. This was his home—the one he'd longed for all these years. Only Trista stood in the way of his complete reconciliation. Yet only Trista really mattered to him.

  Lance looked up then, searching for her among the crowd, and felt a searing pang of jealousy when he saw her dancing with Michael. He had never wanted to dance as the whites did. In fact, he had thought their actions ridiculous. But the sight of her in Michael's arms, moving in rhythm with his body, made him want to hold her the same way. He kept his gaze shuttered as he followed their progress about the dance floor.

  "They certainly look great together, don't they?" Sam Frederickson commented as he, too, watched the engaged couple.

  "Yes. Trista is a lovely woman."