Reckless Passion

by Stephanie James

  "Driving's going to be tough," Yale gritted, pull­ing Dara along in his wake. "Want me to take over?"

  "I'd appreciate it." Hank chuckled, nursing his in­jured hand. "That's my baby there." He pointed to a huge gleaming tractor-trailer truck which stood like a monstrous prehistoric creature in the back parking lot.

  "In you go, Dara," Yale said briskly, practically tossing her into the cab and climbing in beside her on the driver's side. He started the engine as Hank bounced up into the seat beside Dara.

  "Yale, do you think we should be doing this? I mean, you're not supposed to leave the scene of a crime, or something like that. We're witnesses..."

  "Nobody but a fool would stick around a situation like that," Yale told her kindly, shifting the massive gears and setting the huge track and trailer in motion. "Trust me, honey. I know what I'm doing. This is my element, not yours."

  Ruefully acknowledging the truth of that, Dara sub­sided as the huge truck lumbered off into the night. Bemusedly she watched as the Interstate sign flashed past. Yale was taking them onto the freeway.

  Belatedly she remembered Hank's hand.

  "Have you got a first-aid kit? I should put some­thing on that hand," she said, turning in concern.

  "Somewhere around here..." he said, rustling about behind her in the sleeping compartment. "Say, you seem to know what you're doing there, Ransom. Still doing it for a living?''

  "Not anymore," Yale replied, catching Dara's quick glance out of the corner of his eye and grinning wickedly. “Kind of feels good to get my hands back on the wheel, though."

  "Yeah, must as I complain about it, I'd miss it if I had to stop tomorrow," Hank said, dragging out a first-aid kit.

  Dara opened it quickly, pulling out necessary sup­plies and going to work on the cut hand.

  "I don't think it's too bad," she finally said, taping the wound carefully. “Be sure to change the dressing. I've tried to clean it up as best I can, but you should probably still have a doctor look at it."

  "I'll be home tomorrow. My wife can check on it," Hank said unconcernedly. "Thanks for the patch­ing job, though. Between the two of you, you've been right useful tonight!"

  "It's, uh, certainly been an adventure," Dara agreed carefully, slanting a greenish glance up at Yale's hard profile. He looked right at home. "How far are we going with Hank?" she asked softly.

  "I don't know. Hadn't thought about it," Yale murmured. "Why don't you crawl in the back and catch some sleep? You were tired earlier this evening, so I expect you're exhausted by now."

  "Yale," she whispered, "we can't just go off like this! What about your car? How will we get back to Eugene? Where are we headed, anyway?"

  "Go to sleep, honey. I'll take care of everything," he instructed gently.

  "Go on, Dara," Hank said soothingly. "Let your man have some fun. The sleeper's not as clean as it ought to be, but you'll be all right if you stay on top of the blankets."

  "Fun?" Dara eyed her escort. "Are you enjoying this, Yale Ransom?" she asked accusingly.

  "I don't know. Can't decide." He chuckled. "Stop looking at me like that and go to sleep. I'll wake you later."

  Dara licked her lower lip in thoughtful contempla­tion. But she was outnumbered and she was ex­hausted. And she had brought the whole catastrophe down on her own head, she remembered in a surge of self-honesty. And it really had been rather exciting.

  She smiled slowly to herself and climbed obedi­ently into the sleeping compartment. Yale could han­dle everything.

  Three

  “Where are we?"

  Dara's voice was a sleepy mumble as she stirred awake some time later. It was the lack of the muted roar of the heavy diesel engine which had roused her, and she realized the big rig had been stopped.

  "A couple of hours south of Eugene." Yale's voice came calmly from the front seat. "Come on, honey, this is where we get off."

  "A couple of hours south! Good grief! How are we going to get back tonight?" she demanded, scram­bling out of the sleeper compartment. She was aware that the burnt russet of her hair was tousled and the emerald dress was badly wrinkled. The sleeping com­partment had been strangely confining and she was glad to escape, even if she was still very sleepy.

  "We'll worry about that in the morning," Yale told her, reaching out to help her back into the front seat. His mouth quirked in amusement as she blinked up at him sleepily. "You look like a tabby cat someone's just rudely awakened."

  "Thanks," she muttered, knowing tabby cats tended to be plump and comfortable-looking, not sleek and racy. "How's the wound, Hank?" she added, eyes narrowing as she turned to peer at the other man's hand.

  He held it up and grinned cheerfully. "Fine. The bleeding's stopped and I can manage things now."

  "Oh. Well, I hope you have a good, safe trip on down to Sacramento," she said, returning his smile. "And...and I think you ought to consider finding an­other sort of job, Hank," she went on in an urgent rush. "This isn't a good life for a family man! Your wife shouldn't have to be raising that boy alone and—"

  "Come on, Dara!" Yale's crisp drawl cut across the flow of words as he opened the door and grabbed her wrist. She was practically pulled down out of the cab and he had to steady her as she landed off balance beside him.

  Hank's face appeared in the window above them as he slid behind the wheel. He was grinning.

  "You take care of that little lady, now, Ransom. She looks to me like she's got about everything a man could want on a cold night! See ya!"

  Yale wrapped an arm around Dara's waist and pulled her back out of the way as Hank brought the monster truck to life once more.

  "Thanks, Hank," Yale called, lifting a hand in farewell.

  "Anytime, pal, anytime!"

  Diesel fumes filled the air as the truck and trailer growled past on its way back to the only element in which it was truly comfortable, an Interstate highway.

  "It's cold out here!" Dara noted, wishing she hadn't left her coat in the Alfa Romeo. She glanced around at the scattered buildings.

  "There's a motel over to the right," Yale said con­versationally, holding her close to his side and start­ing off in the direction of the flashing sign advertising rooms.

  "A motel!" Dara frowned. "Aren't we going to head back to Eugene?"

  "Not tonight. We'll find a way back home in the morning. It's too late tonight to scare up a ride and we're both tired."

  "What time is it?"

  "Almost two o'clock. Did you get any sleep?"

  "Between Hank fiddling with the CB and you switching from one country station to another on the radio, no!" Dara lied feelingly. "And what's the idea of telling half the northbound traffic on the Interstate that you were traveling with your own personal stock­broker?"

  "I didn't tell anyone that. That was Hank on his CB," Yale defended with a grin that exposed the gold.

  "He got it from you!"

  "Well, he wanted to know your status in my life so he could share the gossip with his road buddies. I had to think of something."

  Dara was about to berate him further, but the truth was she had fallen asleep shortly after hearing Hank's cheerful announcement and she wasn't at all sure what had been said next.

  "Do you think this place is clean?" she demanded skeptically, surveying the old motel with a critical eye.

  "Hank assures me it's fine. Not elegant, but de­cent."

  "We're going to look a little strange to the desk clerk." Dara sighed, lifting a hand to graciously cover a yawn. Even the chilly night air wasn't going to keep her awake much longer. "I mean, what with no lug­gage and no car..."

  "I'll handle it."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Have some faith in your man, woman!" Yale gibed cheerfully as he opened the front door of the office.

  "I'm your stockbroker, not your woman, remem­ber?" she retorted sweetly.

  "Actually, we haven't even agreed on that states yet, have we?'' he noted. The door swung shut behind them, cutting off her next words.


  A thin, elderly desk clerk detached himself from a small television set and came forward reluctantly.

  "Can I help you?" he asked, not looking particu­larly anxious to do so.

  "Two rooms, Yale," Dara remembered to hiss be­latedly in his ear as he loosened his arm and started toward the desk. He ignored her, but the desk clerk didn't.

  “Only got one. A double. Take it or leave it, and you pay in advance," the thin man growled with an owlish glance at Dara.

  "We'll take it," Yale said quickly, fishing his wal­let out of his pocket. Swiftly he counted out the money and collected the key. He had signed the reg­ister and hustled Dara out the door before she fully realized what had happened.

  "I told you to get two rooms!" she gritted as the office door slammed shut behind them.

  "You heard the man. He only had one!"

  "Hah!"

  "Don't take that tone with me," Yale instructed, sounding aggrieved. "Our being in this situation is all your fault!"

  "My fault! Of all the nerve! It wasn't me who got involved in a fight in a sleazy bar, and it wasn't my idea to hitch a ride with a long-distance trucker and not get out of the truck for two solid hours! If we'd stayed at that nice country-western place I took you to earlier this evening, none of this would have hap­pened!"

  "Don't act the innocent victim," Yale muttered, sliding the motel key into the lock of number 53. "You had to keep pushing at me, trying to find out what was under my nice accountant image. You have only yourself to blame!"

  "Oh, my God!" Dara breathed in grim resignation as the door swung open to reveal a stark but clean room. "There's only one bed. Where are you going to sleep?"

  "On my side, naturally," Yale growled, closing the door behind them and switching on the light.

  Since she had guessed the answer to the question before she'd even asked it, Dara squelched a retort. There wasn't much else she could do under the cir­cumstances, and in spite of his almost blatant love-making on the dance floor earlier in the evening, Yale didn't look particularly amorous at the moment. And there was absolutely nothing romantic about the cheap, poorly furnished motel room.

  "I'll use the bathroom first." She sighed gloomily.

  Inside the spartan bath, Dara studied herself wryly in the mirror. She looked a little the worse for wear, she was forced to conclude, raking her fingers through her hair. Sleepy gray-green eyes gleamed back at her and she frowned as she realized there was a tiny hint of excitement in her own reflection.

  Things hadn't developed quite the way she had imagined, but there was no denying she had found herself in an interesting situation. She grabbed a washcloth and began scrubbing her face while she considered that. Yale Ransom was turning out to have several fascinating layers. Surely after their shared ex­periences this evening he would feel a degree of friendship for her.

  Perhaps enough friendship to give her his securities account. That would provide the excuse she needed to cement the relationship along business lines, and from there...

  Dara broke off her hopeful thoughts and told her­self not to get carried away. There was still a lot she didn't know about Yale. She wasn't even sure how he felt about her at the moment, although, judging from his reaction on the dance floor, she didn't leave him cold. Well, that was something, at least.

  Hanging the threadbare white towel back on the rack, Dara unzipped the emerald-green dress and re­moved her lacy bra. Rolling the undergarment into a Little bundle, she stuffed it into her purse and then rezipped the dress. It would be more comfortable try­ing to sleep without the bra, she told herself, wishing she could take off the dress, too. But that, of course, was impossible.

  Yale was sitting on the side of the bed, his weight putting an alarming sag in the old mattress as he leaned over to untie his shoes. He had removed the white shirt and was wearing only his slacks.

  "Your turn," Dara said cheerfully, determined to act with the casual comradeship the situation de­manded. Damned if she would let him see her act like a nervous female! Not at her age!

  He straightened, kicking off the dark leather shoes. The case containing the horn-rimmed glasses rested on the nightstand. His hazel eyes swept over her as she industriously began turning down her side of the bed.

  "Thanks," he murmured, getting to his feet.

  In spite of herself, Dara's gaze followed him as he disappeared into the bathroom. The broad shoulders and smoothly muscled back tapering into a narrow waist pulled at her awareness. She remembered how it had felt dancing with him earUer this evening and wondered at her own reaction. Never had she been so immediately attracted to a man.

  Shaking her head, Dara slipped off her high-heeled shoes and panty hose and slid beneath the covers. Very carefully she arranged herself on the far side of the bed and lay on her back, gazing at the ceiling. Was there such a thing as love at first sight? she won­dered. Probably not. But until tonight she wouldn't have expected to encounter attraction at first sight, either.

  And attraction was a good place to start, she as­sured herself with a small smile, provided it was mu­tual.

  "Don't tell me you're going to sleep in that dress!" Yale exclaimed, emerging from the bathroom and flicking off the overhead light as he walked toward the bed.

  "As I didn't think to bring a nightgown, that's ex­actly what I'm going to do," Dara told him acidly and then winced as she heard the sound of a buckle and zipper being undone.

  "Suit yourself," he remarked carelessly. She lis­tened anxiously as he slung the dark slacks over a chair. A moment later the bed sagged once again and the large male body moving in beside her raised the temperature under the cold covers by several degrees.

  "The least you could do is wear your slacks," she said in brisk annoyance, lying rigidly on her side of the bed as he shifted and stretched beside her.

  "In order to keep warm, you mean?" Yale asked politely and reached for her with shocking swiftness. "That's what my own personal stockbroker is for," he informed her, dragging her into the curve of his body.

  "Yale! Stop that! What in the world do you think you're doing?"

  Dara flung out a hand in protest and encountered the pelt of curling hair on his chest. She pulled her fingers away as if they'd been burned. "Stop teasing me like this!"

  "Teasing!" he growled, his arm moving around her waist to anchor her against him. "You're the tease in this little party. You've been badgering me all eve­ning, and I've finally decided to give you what you want."

  "I'm not in the mood for any more of your truck-stop manners!" she snapped haughtily. "You've had your fun tonight. Behave yourself!"

  The hand on her waist slid around to her stomach and moved upward to settle just under the full curve of her breast.

  "So you don't like my truck-stop manners? That's unfortunate, isn't it? You didn't seem to like my more gentlemanly behavior, either. You're a hard woman to please, Dara Bancroft. But I'll try...."

  Dara opened her lips to annihilate him verbally, but his mouth came down on hers before she could get the words out.

  "Yale!" she managed in a muffled voice, and then the heated mastery of his kiss overwhelmed her senses. His mouth was like a narcotic, she realized dimly. A drugging, overridingly powerful thing that roused her emotions as nothing else had ever done. If she didn't stop him soon, she wouldn't be able to do so.

  His fingers followed the under curve of her breast, seeking the nipple and finding it easily. She should have left on her bra, Dara thought wretchedly. Now his hand was shaping the softness of her as if the dress she wore was only a nightgown. The sensations he was causing began undermining her will power, urg­ing compliance.

  "Hank was right," Yale said huskily against her throat as he dragged his mouth away from hers. "You have got what a man needs in bed."

  "Don't talk to me like that, Yale. We both know you've come a long way from the kind of world where men treat women like this!"

  "I've got news for you, honey,'' he murmured, let­ting the tip of his
tongue touch the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her throat. "Some things a man doesn't leave behind."

  "No!" she gasped as he pulled her against his na­ked chest and reached for the zipper at her nape. "You're a gentleman, damn it! I'm holding you to that!"

  His fingers hesitated, the zipper halfway open. "What makes you think I would have behaved any differently if I'd gotten you into bed tonight while I was still in my gentlemanly role?" His lips burned on her earlobe now, and she wedged her hands against the strong chest.

  "We would never have wound up in bed like this if you hadn't taken over the evening!" Dara wailed.

  "I really don't feel like arguing over whose fault this is," he soothed, lowering the zipper sensuously down to the base of her spine. "And don't try telling me you don't want me. I know what you were doing to me on that dance floor back at the bar and I know how you were responding." "You don't understand!"

  That brought a deep laugh from the back of his throat. "I understand, honey. Don't worry about that!" His fingers danced wickedly up her spine as she struggled futilely to lever herself away from his chest When they reached her naked shoulder, the bold fingertip slid under the fabric of the dress bodice and pushed it forward, exposing the rounded femininity beneath.

  Dara gasped, knowing that by now both his eyes and her own were adjusted to the darkness. He could see what his hands had revealed.

  "Yale! Stop it! Please!" The cry was torn hoarsely from her throat as he lowered his dark amber head to taste the sweetness of her breasts. Her fingers curled unconsciously into the muscles of his shoulders and she heard him groan.

  "You don't mean that," he rasped, his tongue cir­cling a nipple, urging a physical response.

  "Yes! Yes, I do, damn you! Please, Yale. This isn't the way I wanted things to be between us. It's too soon. We have to get to know each other. I want you to..." Her words trailed off. How could she tell him she wanted his love, not merely his desire? He would never understand how she could have fallen so com­pletely for him in such a short period of time.

  "You want me to what, sweetheart?" he whispered deeply, his teeth closing gently around the nipple his tongue had drawn forth. "Tell me. I'm willing to please...."