“Are you?”
“Absolutely not.” She cleared her throat and tried again. “Definitely not.”
“I heard you the first time.”
“I wanted to make sure.”
He glanced at her hands, which were clasped tightly in her lap. “No rings.”
“I don’t wear jewelry other than a watch,” she said. Jewelry held none of the magical appeal for her that it did for most women. To her, it was just the family business.
“Is there a man in your life?”
“There was,” she said after a moment, “but John found someone else.” Her own words caught her by surprise. “You’re the first person I’ve told that to. The rest of my family thinks I broke the engagement because I love my work more than I loved John.” She laughed quietly, as much a sigh as anything else. “Too bad John thought so, too.”
“And was he right about that?”
“Oh, yes.” She couldn’t stop the words if she wanted to. “Poor John got out while the getting was good. He married his little girlfriend and they’re expecting a baby. And I have my work.”
A dark silence fell across them. Normally she sought to fill silences with empty words, taking on all the silences in the world as if they were somehow her fault. This time she let it be.
It had felt good, telling her secret. She’d carried it around with her for so long now that it had acquired power over her it didn’t deserve. All these months and she’d been unable to tell her sisters or her father, and now, in the blink of an eye, she’d unburdened her heart on a stranger.
The pilot wasn’t her friend or her lover. He wasn’t anything to her at all, and somehow that fact seemed to lower the rest of her defenses.
“It’s not like I’m obsessed or anything. I know the difference between work and play, but it seems like I’m the only one in the family who understands that I do. My father has suddenly turned into a combination of dictator and matchmaker, my sister Martie is getting married, and my other sister Frankie is playing beachcomber on Maui. We’re hemorrhaging profits on a daily basis and if we don’t do something fast, we’ll have to sell out to one of those horrid jewelry store chains you see in the malls.”
“What has this to do with Duncan Stewart?”
“Isn’t it crystal clear? We’ve lost our edge and it’s showing in the bottom line. We need something—or someone—to propel us into the next century, and I think he’s the one who can do it.” His genius, the raw erotic power of his sculptures, had cast their spell over Sam, and she knew deep in her gut that could translate into spectacular jewelry.
“You think he’ll design for you?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “All I know is that from the moment I first saw his work in a magazine, I knew I had to find him.”
“Sex,” he said in a voice that betrayed no particular emotion. “The engine that powers the world.”
“There’s that,” she said, not dodging the issue, “but it’s his loneliness that speaks louder to me.”
“His loneliness?” he asked. “From the things written about him, you wouldn’t think he had time to be lonely.”
“I haven’t read those stories,” she said honestly. “All I know about him is what I see in his work, and I know he’s right for Wilde & Daughters.”
“Passion,” he said again, more slowly this time. “You canna deny it, lassie.”
She opened her mouth to read him a laundry list of her shortcomings, then stopped. Was it possible that he was right? She fought like a lion for what she believed in, whether it was a new direction for Wilde & Daughters Ltd. or the right to live her life the way she wanted to live it, despite her father’s intervention. “Passionate.” Her smile widened, despite the situation. “I like that.”
“Hold that thought,” he said. “The mountain lies just ahead.”
As if on cue, the fog parted and a heavily wooded patch of mountainside appeared below them.
“We’re going to make it!” she cried, her usual inhibitions vanishing. “We’ll clear the mountain with room to spare.”
“Not so fast,” he said, and she noted the vein pulsing at his temple. “We’re not there yet.”
More of the fog parted, revealing more of the mountainside. And that mountainside was dead ahead.
A bead of sweat eased down the back of her neck and slid under the collar of her blouse. “You can do it,” she said, as much to herself as to the man beside her. “You did it before. You brought the engine back to life. What’s a little mountain?”
* * *
HER WORDS came to him through the rush of blood pounding in his ears. The words themselves didn’t matter to him, but the sweet sound of her voice—that was everything. He focused on her voice like the North Star, hung his hopes and prayers on the rise and fall of it, those round vowels and gentle consonants drifting toward him on the wind of dreams.
Because it was a dream. All of it. This bloody thing they called life was a construct of imagination and hope, and it was about to be ripped from them in a few seconds unless they happened upon a miracle. And, in his experience, miracles were in short supply. There hadn’t been a miracle come his way to save his child or his marriage. He had no reason to think a miracle would find him now.
But she kept talking to him, putting aside her own fears, giving him a reason to keep hoping in the face of doom. She’d seen past the heat and into the darkness. She’d seen into the heart he kept hidden away, the heart he was sure he had lost.
“We’re almost there,” she was saying. “You can do anything…you can do anything you need to do…”
He made what adjustments he could to the glide path, trying to slow the rate of descent, but gravity was calling them home.
“You can make it happen, I know you can…”
And he found himself believing her. He didn’t need to wait for miracles, he would make this miracle happen himself.
“The two of us,” he heard himself saying. “We can do it together.”
“Yes,” she said. “The two of us, we can do it. Look!” Her voice rose with excitement. “A clearing! Just beyond the stream.”
He saw it just where she pointed. All they had to do was cross the boulder-choked stream and one hundred yards of empty space lay waiting for them. He made rapid mental calculations of distance and speed and the pull of gravity. He made quick adjustments to the few cable-driven mechanisms at his disposal.
Then he met her eyes and in their beautiful blue depths he saw nothing but confidence in him. He didn’t know where it came from or how he came to deserve it, but there it was, and he knew he would fashion her a miracle.
“Hold tight, lass.” He gripped the wheel and held it steady as the plane skimmed the tops of the trees.
“Almost there,” she whispered, “almost there.”
The stream was wider than he’d expected. Jagged rocks and tumbling water. Certain disaster if they touched down near its banks. The nose of the plane dipped lower still, and for a moment he thought they were going to pitch forward and free-fall the rest of the way, but a friendly tailwind seemed to lift the small craft, cradling it just long enough to clear the stream.
A little more…a little more…They were so close to a miracle. Luck was with them. It had to be.
* * *
SAM HELD HER BREATH as they skimmed the stream. Rocks jutted up from the water, ready to pierce the fragile skin of the plane or pierce the gas tank. The pilot pulled back hard on the wheel then turned it to the right and the plane moved almost imperceptibly in that direction.
“Almost,” she said in a long exhale of breath. “Almost there.” As long as they both believed that, everything would be all right.
She heard the long scrape of rock against the little plane’s belly, followed by a ripping sound and the harsh clank of metal folding in on itself. They bounced their way across the rough ground, nearly tilting end over end. Her elbow slammed against the instrument panel. The pain shot straight into her skull. The left w
ing caught in the branches of a dead bramble bush. The plane skidded sideways, swung around on itself, then stopped cold.
The silence was deeper than the grave. For a second she wondered if they were dead, but his words broke the quiet.
“Unbuckle, lass,” he ordered, releasing his seat belt and standing up. “The tank is almost empty, but I still think it will blow.”
Her hands shook so hard she couldn’t manage the simple task. The sharp stink of petrol seared her nostrils.
“Hurry,” he ordered, grabbing a black bag from behind his seat.
“I’m trying,” she said, practically in tears. “I can’t seem to—” Her fingers seemed like huge and unwieldy pieces of deadwood.
He bent in front of her and unfastened the belt.
“Now, lassie! We haven’t much time.”
He reached for her hand.
She hesitated for an instant, then took it.
The connection between them seemed as strong as life itself.
Together they leaped from the plane and ran toward a stand of trees a few hundred yards away. He pulled her behind an outcropping of rock, and a second later an explosion echoed through the silent clearing and the small plane went up in flames.
Chapter 3
They stared at the plane and then at each other and started to laugh.
“You did it!” she cried, throwing back her head and tossing the triumphant words to the sky. “I knew you could!”
Adrenaline pumped through his veins. He felt like he could throw a rope around the moon and reel it in. “We did it together, lassie,” he said, pulling her close to him. “’Twas you who kept me going.”
Her cheeks were flushed with excitement Her sleek fall of pale blond hair was tousled, drifting over her right eye, curving across her cheek. He wondered suddenly how he’d lived so long without her in his sight Or had she always been there, hidden inside his heart?
“I didn’t do anything,” she said, her gaze locked on his. “You deserve all the credit.”
He held her flower of a face between his hands. He wanted to inhale her, breathe her essence right into his very soul.
Sam wanted to wrap herself around him and never let go. The feel of his big strong body against hers, the way he was looking into her eyes, as if he could see all the way to her secret soul. She was alive to him, more alive than she’d ever been before, so alive that her skin registered his presence.
Magic was everywhere, in the way he sounded and looked and the way he made her feel. They’d faced death together and lived to tell the tale. That did something to a woman. She was pure sensation. The wall of glass that surrounded her heart had shattered, leaving her vulnerable and hungry.
Kiss me, she thought. She wanted to feel his mouth against hers, that delicious pressure, she wanted to know how he would taste and smell and sound. She wanted to know she was alive in every way possible before the real world rushed in again and reminded her that she was cautious, careful Samantha Wilde who didn’t want anything at all.
Duncan knew what she was thinking. Not the words—he couldn’t know the words—but the intent. A man would have to be blind to miss the look in her eyes. Or was it his own aching, empty need reflected back? He didn’t know, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Only touch mattered. The way she fit against him.
He dipped his head toward hers.
She lifted her face toward his.
If he hesitated, she would break away.
If she lowered her eyes, he would understand.
The moment between them seemed to stretch like a length of golden cord, winding itself around their hearts until there was nothing else they could do but the one thing they’d been moving toward since the very first instant.
His mouth found hers—or was it she who did the finding? Neither one knew or cared. There was in that instant such a powerful sense of connection, of destiny, that their minds were empty of all but the wonders to be found in a kiss.
Her mouth was silky and hot and sweet and he drank her in the way he drank a fine wine.
His lips were firm, unyielding, demanding responses from her that she had only dreamed about. He parted her lips with the tip of his tongue and all of her secret places came instantly to life. She was on fire from the inside out, a sweet liquid fire that she’d never known before.
She placed her hands against his chest, that rock-hard wall of muscle, and savored the feel of his heart beating beneath her palms.
He let his hands slide slowly from her face to the delicate column of her throat, until his thumbs found the wild-bird pulsing at the base. Then, so slowly, he moved down over her collarbone, down, down, until he cupped her breasts with his palms. Small and firm and warm—and perfect. So perfect it made him ache with wanting her.
Her eyes fluttered closed. She was drunk on sensation. The sight of him. The feel of him. The way he was touching her, with hunger and awe, reverence and heat. Did he know—could he possibly imagine— what he was doing to her? She wanted to feel his hands on every part of her body, breasts and belly and between her legs.
His hands slid over her rib cage then spanned her waist. Her hips were narrow, her flat belly quivered when he rested his hands upon it and he grew rock hard in response. She moved against him then, her body arching against his as small sounds of pleasure seemed to fill his brain. Her thighs were long and lean beneath the prim skirt. He began to inch her skirt up over those glorious thighs, revealing their shape and line to his eyes. He laughed, low and delighted, when he reached the lacy band midway up.
“A garter belt, lassie?”
She buried her face against his shoulder in embarrassment but she didn’t move away from his touch. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. That touch was life itself.
Her cotton panties surprised him. A strange counterpoint to the eroticism of the garter belt, but he was beginning to understand she was a woman of contradictions. He wanted to learn every one. His fingers played with the soft material, registering the wet heat of her body burning through it, then he pushed the garment over her hips and began a slow exploration of her honeyed secrets.
Her knees buckled at the touch of his fingers against the delicate folds of flesh. Nothing was the way she remembered it, not this sleek, gliding arousal, the flood of warmth between her thighs, not the empty place inside her that ached to be filled by only this one man.
He was strong enough, hard enough, ready enough for both of them. Gripping her hips, he lifted her and urged her to wrap her legs around his waist. The feel of those lithely muscled thighs came close to unmanning him.
She trembled with need as he slowly lowered her onto his erection. It had been so long…it had been forever. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the sheer exhilaration of surrender. No thoughts. No worries. Only wave after wave of wild sensation meant to send her spinning above the clouds. She felt her body close itself around him and she urged him deeper, rode him harder, wanted to draw him toward the center of her being and into her heart.
And that was where he wanted, needed to be. This was about possession of the most primal sort, about claiming a mate, about finding that missing piece of yourself, the piece you’d spent your life searching for.
They came together in a violent, soul-shattering climax that left them panting and spent and still hungry for each other. He found shelter for them beneath a stand of small pines. He opened the emergency kit and spread one of the two insulating blankets out on the bed of fragrant needles, then lay her gently down with only the other thin silvery blanket to shield them from the wind and the rain. And then he made love to her again.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
Discovering how she looked as well as how she felt.
Discovering how she tasted on his tongue.
Wondering how he would ever let her go now that he’d found her.
Sam felt as if she was suspended in a dream as he worked his magic. No man had ever done that for her before. She probably wouldn’t have allo
wed it if they’d tried. She couldn’t have imagined opening herself to anyone quite that way, in either body or soul. To be so vulnerable, so trusting, so openly, blatantly needy for what a man could give to her.
For the way this man could make her feel.
This had to be a dream. Nothing else could explain it. Wasn’t she the woman who didn’t need anything but her work? The woman who thought of nothing but the company that had been family and friend and lover to her for as long as she could remember.
Of course it was a dream. And since it was a dream, she could give herself up to the sweet, pure pleasure of it for as long as it lasted.
* * *
SAM WOKE UP to the sound of a car engine in the distance. She was curled in the pilot’s arms, both of them sheltered beneath the pine trees, both of them cozy beneath his insulating blanket. She felt warm, satisfied and not quite ready to be rescued.
But, like it or not, rescue was at hand.
She leaned over and pressed a kiss to the side of her Scotsman’s jaw. “Better wake up,” she whispered. “We have company.”
He mumbled something, then flung an arm across his eyes.
An odd feeling blossomed inside her chest as she looked at him. What was it about a sleeping man, anyway, that turned a woman to mush? She’d seen her ex-fiancé asleep many times—at the opera and the movies, for starters—and the sight had done nothing but annoy her. With this man, however, it was another story.
“So sleep a little longer,” she said, rising to her feet. “I’ll greet our visitors.” From the sound of the engine, they’d be here any minute, and the last thing she wanted was for them to know what she and the pilot had been doing.
Unfortunately, her bags with all her toiletries had gone up with the plane. She dragged her fingers through her hair in an attempt to restore a semblance of style, but to no avail. The pilot’s emergency kit rested a few feet away. She hesitated—it wasn’t her bag, after all—then decided he probably wouldn’t mind if she searched through it for a comb.
Operation Page 3
