Heaven in My Arms

by Colleen French

  Their fingertips brushed as she passed the gloves to him. Their gazes met again, and Celeste knew that Fox would become her lover. Perhaps not tonight, nor tomorrow night, but soon. It was as inevitable as the west wind that blew through the canyon.

  Fox rolled over in bed and stared at the punched-tin ceiling tiles. The full moon lit the room almost as brightly as the gas lamps that his father had strategically placed in the bedroom.

  Fox couldn't sleep, only for once it was not Amber who kept him awake. It was not her face he saw when he closed his eyes. It was Celeste's.

  Why had he kissed her today? Because she'd asked him to and he was just being polite? He chuckled aloud. He kissed her because he'd been dying to all week. There was something about the mountain air and hard work that made him forget his past troubles, made him think that maybe he deserved a little happiness. Celeste made him laugh. And her mouth was so damned kissable. All he could think of was covering her entire body with kisses, tasting her . . .

  He groaned, yanked the goose down pillow out from under his head, and covered his face with it.

  Damn. Damn. Damn. Don't you ever learn? Women like her are a curse. A curse on your life. They were a curse on your father's, too.

  Fox tossed the pillow on the floor and climbed out of bed. It was warm tonight and he slept naked. Or rather, he tried to sleep.

  He pulled on a pair of dusty pants and a shirt. He slipped his feet, without socks, into his father's boots that had become his own. Maybe a walk would tire him. He just wished he had the dog with him. Old Silver was good company for a man shadowed by demons.

  Fox opened his bedroom door, glad it didn't squeak. He didn't want to wake Celeste.

  Celeste rolled over on her side, then after a moment, rolled to her other side. She tossed off the quilt. She was hot. She couldn't sleep.

  Silver stirred on the end of her bed, his form illuminated by the bright light of the full moon. He lifted his head to stare at her, groggy with sleep.

  "Sorry, old boy," she apologized. "Can't sleep." Can't stop thinking about him.

  Lying on her side, Celeste touched her lips and remembered the passionate kiss she and Fox had shared beneath the aspen tree today. She couldn't stop thinking about his kiss, about what it would be like to feel his mouth on her breasts . . . lower.

  "Shameless hussy. Tart," she said aloud and grimaced at the absurdity of it.

  The dog whined and rolled away from her, expressing his displeasure at having been awakened in the middle of the night.

  "All right, I'll be quiet. I'll suffer in silence so you can sleep." She punched her pillow down and rested her head on it again.

  The dog laid his head between his paws and closed his eyes.

  Celeste sighed and forced herself to shut hers. Sleep. Sleep. It was her escape. If she could just stop thinking about Fox, she knew sleep would come. But of course, even then, she wouldn't really escape. Lately he had not only haunted her days, but her nights as well. She dreamed of him not here in Colorado, but in a warm place with rolling green hills and rows of grapevines.

  Celeste heard footsteps in the hallway and opened her eyes. This wasn't the first time she'd heard him leave in the middle of the night. She wondered where he went, what he did.

  She held her breath, half-hoping he would stop at her door. She exhaled as his footsteps passed and faded down the stairs. Something told her that his night wanderings had something to do with his past and the woman who now had a name. Amber. That was why she hadn't asked him about his night-time jaunts. Aside from that brief mention of her, he'd made it clear he didn't want to talk about his past.

  She closed her eyes again. Maybe she'd bring it up tomorrow. Maybe they'd go to church and then share a picnic lunch out on the claim. She snuggled deep into the down mattress. And maybe, just maybe, he'd kiss her again.

  Chapter Nine

  It's the moon. The moon that calls me . . . commands me tonight. Blood. Only the blood spilled upon the sinner will make her see her sin. Protect others who would fall into her web of flesh and lust.

  But I must be careful. There are those who would not understand, who don't know these women as I know them. They wouldn't see why this has to be done. They'd question my judgment and time would be lost.

  The weight of the knife is a comfort to me. The ropes. The black cloth. The needle and thread. It gives me the strength I need to do what I must. The confidence. I wish that another could be responsible, but I must accept my responsibilities. I must do as I am told, for I am judgment.

  Celeste lifted the meat cleaver and brought it down hard on the worktable, slicing a thick slab of bacon. She raised the cleaver again and her hand shook. Hot tears blurred her vision. She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her new gingham dress, and lifted the cleaver again, trying to concentrate on the bacon and nothing else. She wanted to make breakfast for Fox. He'd slept in late this morning, because he'd been up late last night, no doubt. She had to make him breakfast. A man who worked hard needed a decent breakfast to start the day.

  Celeste heard footsteps behind her. Man and friend. Fox's boots clunked on the hardwood floor. Silver padded past her on his way to his water bowl.

  "Good morning, Celeste." Fox groaned and must have stretched his lean, hard body. "I can't believe it's raining again. I was hoping we could take a walk this afternoon after you got back from church."

  She heard the legs of a chair scrape on the polished wood floor.

  "I thought we'd have a look at the places where John already drilled. Maybe we can figure out what his reasoning had been. Where he thought the gold was."

  Celeste held the meat cleaver in the air, but couldn't bring it down.

  "Celeste, are you all right?"

  She heard him rise from the chair and approach her.

  Still she didn't turn.

  "Celeste?" He placed his hand on her shoulder.

  Slowly she lowered the meat cleaver. The bacon didn't cut, because she didn't use enough pressure.

  "Celeste." He grasped her shoulder and turned her toward him.

  Tears brimmed in her eyes. She held the cleaver in a death grip, her knuckles white.

  "What's wrong?" he whispered.

  "Tall Pearl," was all she could say.

  "What?" Gently, he took the knife from her and lifted the corner of her apron to wipe the bacon fat from her left hand.

  She stood unmoving, her arms hung at her sides, like a rag doll. "Tall Pearl," she repeated. She didn't want to cry. What good would tears do? What good had they ever done? she thought miserably.

  "Tall Pearl? Who's Tall Pearl? One of your friends at the dance hall?"

  "Dead," she whispered. "Murdered."

  His gaze met hers and he swore under his breath. "I'm sorry."

  Celeste's lower lip trembled. Tall Pearl had moved out of Rosy's room into Celeste's when Celeste moved in with John. It could have been me, was all Celeste could think. Maybe it should have been me.

  Fox led Celeste to the table and pushed her gently into a chair. "Murdered like the other woman?" He crouched so that he could look into her face. His mouth was pulled tight in genuine concern. His eyes reflected the pain he felt vicariously through her.

  "Yes." She swallowed the lump that stuck in her throat. "Brutal. Blood everywhere," Celeste said as she fought a sob that would render her speechless. "M . . . mutilated in some horrible way. The s . . . sheriff wouldn't say." Celeste squeezed her eyes tight and fat tears slipped down her cheeks.

  Fox wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him. "Shhh," he hushed. "It's all right. It's all right, honey."

  Celeste clung to him, to his warmth, to the scent of his clean hair and shaving soap. At this moment, he was the only solid thing in her crumbling world. "I . . ."—sniff—"knew her for years," she whispered. "She was my friend when no one else would . . . " A shudder stole the last word from her.

  "Ah, Celeste." Fox stroked her back in soothing circles. "I'm so sorry."

 
; She pressed her face to his shirt, her flood of tears soaking the clean denim. The shirt smelled of yesterday's sunshine and his own distinctly masculine scent. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "Sorry I'm being so—"

  "Shhh." He kissed her forehead and smoothed her hair at the crown of her head. "It's understandable that you'd be upset."

  "She's just a whore," Celeste whispered bitterly. "No one loved her; no one cared about her. It doesn't really matter."

  "You cared about her," Fox reminded her gently. "And I know that she knew you cared. You're that kind of person, Celeste. You care for us all."

  Fox's arms felt so good around her, so comforting. She wanted to stay in the warmth, forever protected from the outside world. "I just can't believe it," she whispered. "We played cards Sunday. Tuesday I saw her at the dry goods. She was so excited. Her French stockings came in on the morning mail wagon."

  "I know, I know. It's so hard to believe someone you care for is gone, especially in such a brutal manner." He smoothed her temple and kissed the place where his fingers had been.

  Celeste sighed. All this attention from Fox. His touch. This wasn't how she wanted it to happen. She didn't want to seek a man's arms out of desperation.

  Still, she couldn't help but turn her face up to his.

  He lowered his lips to hers. His first kiss was gentle. Almost brotherly. But Celeste wanted more. She wanted to replace the sickness in her heart with another emotion. She wanted passion.

  "Fox," she whispered. "Please take me away from this." She pressed her mouth to his in a kiss that was not sweet and soft, but hard and searing. Her tears fell on their lips. "Just for a few minutes. Make me forget," she moaned desperately. "Love me?"

  "Ah, Celeste." He sounded as if he was in as much agony as she was. His mouth descended hard against hers, forced her lips to part, and Fox filled her mouth with his tongue. She clung to him and dragged her fingernails down his broad back. Thoughts of Pearl, of John, even of Denver, slipped from her grasp. All at once nothing mattered but this man and the physical urgency she felt in her loins.

  He tugged the ribbon from her hair and let it fall in a bright red curtain over them. "Celeste . . . Celeste . . ."

  She buried her face in his chest. "Fox . . ."

  He swept her into his arms, moving so quickly that Silver yelped and sidestepped them. Fox turned on his heel, strode through the kitchen and up the long staircase. Celeste held tightly to his neck and rested her cheek on his chest to hear his heart pound as rapidly as her own.

  This didn't make sense. She'd regret it later. She'd been his father's whore. But at that moment Celeste didn't care. She wanted Fox, needed him, and consequences be damned.

  Fox halted at her bedroom door. "Did you ever . . . with my father here."

  Her gaze met his. "No," she whispered. "Not here. Never in this house. He was too sick by then."

  "Good." He kicked open the door and carried her to the bed. He set her down gently and kissed her mouth. "Out," he commanded.

  The dog, who had followed them up the steps, hightailed it into the hallway. Fox slammed the door shut, and unbuttoned his shirt as he approached the bed.

  Celeste lay on the edge of the bed, her head on the pillow, her skirts around her knees. She watched him, the desire for her burning in his dark eyes. She held out her arms to him. He kicked off his boots and leaned over her.

  She caught his shoulders and pulled him down on top of her. His tongue was like velvet in her mouth. His weight felt good against her breasts and the ache between her legs.

  Fox rolled onto his side and cupped one breast through the cotton of her gown and undergarments. She groaned with pleasure. This was the first time in her life that a man had touched her breasts and it actually felt good. It was an epiphany. So this was what sex was supposed to be . . .

  He fumbled with the tiny buttons at the bodice of her gown. She nipped at his earlobe. He kissed the pulse of her throat. She stroked his bare chest through the folds of his open denim shirt.

  She breathed deeply, inhaling the intoxicating, musky scent of his skin and his desire for her. It smelled so good. Another first.

  He whispered her name in her ear as he found his way through the obstacles of her dress, petticoat, and corset. She arched her back with another moan of pleasure as flesh met flesh, and he brushed her puckered nipple with the rough pad of his thumb.

  Fox's businessman's hands had roughened in the last month. But instead of being too harsh, they only added to the sensation of his stroke. She gasped in wonder as his lips brushed her nipple.

  "Fox," she groaned in disbelief. How many times had she committed this act and felt nothing? Nothing.

  He nuzzled his face between the valley of her breasts, and then opened his hot mouth over her nipple that swelled in anticipation. Celeste threaded her fingers through his thick hair, in awe of the sensations that rippled, no, coursed through her body. She felt as if she was on a runaway train. It didn't matter that the train would end in the bottom of a chasm. All that mattered was this moment of sheer, unadulterated pleasure, For this moment, she was willing to risk everything, even her soul. Instinctively, she parted her thighs as Fox ran his hand up her stockinged leg, his fingers burning a trail of molten pleasure as they drew closer to the source of her heat. He tugged at the drawstring of her pantaloons, all the while showering her face with sweet, tantalizing kisses.

  His warm hand grazed her bare belly beneath the layers of clothing, and she wished that she had undressed. She wanted to feel with every inch of her flesh. Just once, she wanted to feel.

  He lowered his hand to the apex of her thighs and she arched her back and moaned. Even through the cotton of her pantaloons, she could feel the heat of his hand.

  She throbbed for him and instinctively lifted her hips to meet his rhythmic stroke. "Now," she told him. "Do it now."

  He kissed her tenderly on the mouth, but did not cease the heavenly stroking. "Not now," he whispered. "Just relax. Let me touch you. Let yourself enjoy it."

  "But—"

  He silenced her with a kiss that left her breathless.

  Celeste didn't understand. What was this touching for if not to lead up to the act? The thought was absurd. Intriguing . . .

  Then, all thought slipped out of her head and Fox's insistent stroking carried her higher and higher up the weaving path of some remote mountain she had never climbed. She felt as if she was floating, and yet there was still that burning desire, that ache that yearned to be quenched.

  Celeste rode the waves of pleasure, losing herself to Fox's touch, his scent, the press of his body. Higher and higher until suddenly, shockingly, she felt a surge of pleasure so intense she cried out. Fox stilled his hand, but left it there, warm and wet between her legs.

  Hot tears trickled down her face. She panted, her eyes squeezed shut. Oddly, she was embarrassed, though it had been the most wonderful thing she had ever experienced. Then she came to the disturbing realization that Fox had not had his own pleasure, and that he had to be lying here beside her still hard and swollen.

  "It's all right," she said, trying to draw her skirt up and her pantaloons down. "I'm ready for you."

  He laughed—but it was a teasing laugh—and pushed down her skirt. "There'll be plenty of time for that later."

  She opened her eyes. "You mean you don't want to—" She made a gesture with her hand, completely confused. What man climbed into bed with a woman and didn't want to satisfy his own need to rut?

  "I'd love to," he whispered, gently kissing her cheek. "But not now. Not like this."

  She closed her eyes again. "You don't want to because of John. Because I . . . " Tears burned behind her eyelids.

  "I don't want to right now because you're overwrought. I want you to want me, Celeste, but not like this. Not when you're overcome with grief."

  She opened her eyes. "I'm really confused."

  He smiled and brushed a luck of tumbling hair away from her face. The shadows were long and dark in the room. Outs
ide, rain fell rhythmically on the windowpane. For the moment it seemed as if they were alone together in the world.

  "It's simple." His voice was warm and still husky with desire for her, but comforting. "I want to make love with you, but I shouldn't right now because it would be taking advantage of you."

  She smiled. His words almost moved her to tears, not because he said them, she'd learned long ago that a man would say anything, but because she felt that he meant it. No man had ever treated her like anything but a whore for many years. No man had ever cared how she felt, what she felt. John had come close, but it wasn't the same. "I swear," she choked, her voice thick with emotion, "I think that's the sweetest thing that I've ever heard come out of a man's mouth. You even sound sincere."

  He gave her that boyish grin of his, sounding sleepy. "I am sincere."

  Suddenly she felt tired, too tired to sort out the contusion of what Fox had done, what he'd said. She had lain awake half the night thinking about things, about Denver, about Fox. She closed her eyes, content to feel his warm body next to hers. Before she knew what was happening, she drifted off to sleep.

  Fox woke sometime in the afternoon to find the bed beside him empty. He touched the hollow in the down mattress where Celeste had been. She was gone. The dark room was empty. Rain still pitter-pattered on the window. He breathed deeply. He could smell Celeste in the room. Her desire. It had taken all his will not to make love to her this morning. If he got a second chance, he doubted he could resist her charms.

  In a way he was relieved that she was gone. He didn't know what he could say to her. He needed time to think. He stared at the ceiling and wondered what the hell he thought he was doing. He'd almost blown it. He had sworn not to become involved with another whore, another woman like Amber, like—

  He pushed that thought from his mind. No sense dragging up the past. The present was what mattered, and he was backing himself into a hell of a corner.

  Celeste was a whore. Knowing that, he didn't understand how he could feel tenderness for her. He didn't understand what it meant. Women like that had no loyalties. They couldn't love, not really. And they couldn't be trusted. It wasn't their fault. It was just the way they were. He didn't know if being a whore made them that way, or if women like that became whores. It didn't matter. What mattered was that he needed to insulate himself.