“I—I know,” she whispered brokenly. “I want that, too.”
Glancing around, he worried for a moment at the lack of privacy the barn offered, wishing he had something better to offer her for her first time, then grabbed her hand and tugged her behind him as he stepped through the open doorway of the tack room. Turning, he pulled her into his arms again and pressed her back against the wall, crushing his mouth over hers. The pleasure of feeling her body molded against his drew a groan from deep within him.
Blinded to everything but this consuming need to touch her, to have her, he smoothed his hands over her hips and down her thighs, then brought them up, gathering the skirt of her dress at her waist. Nothing but a strip of lace with no more fabric than his handkerchief separated her from him. Anxious to rid her of that, as well, he slipped his thumbs behind the elastic and held his breath, sure that she would stop him before things went any farther. When she didn’t, he released the breath on a sigh, and peeled the lace down, letting it drop to pool around her ankles.
“Ahhh, Becky,” he groaned against her lips. He cupped his hands on her buttocks and squeezed, whispering her name again and again and again. “I won’t hurt you,” he promised as he slipped a hand between them. “I’d never hurt you.” To prove it, he pressed tender kisses on her eyes, her cheeks, against the gentle curve of her ear as he began to stroke her and prepare her for what was to come.
“Woody,” she gasped, arching against his probing fingers. “I—you—Oh, Woody,” she cried helplessly.
“Shhh. It’s okay,” he soothed and shifted. Catching her low on her hips, he lifted her higher on his chest until her feet cleared the floor. “Hold on to me,” he whispered. “And wrap your legs around my waist.”
When she’d done as he instructed, he braced her back against the wall, and freed a hand to fumble with the zipper on his slacks. With both arms around her again, he lifted her higher. His breath was coming hard, his chest heaving as he fought for a control that was quickly slipping away. “It might hurt a little at first,” he warned breathlessly. “But not for long. I promise.”
He saw the uncertainty in her eyes, as well as the desire, but it was the trust he saw there that squeezed his heart. Slowly he lowered her, guiding her down to him. He felt her tense when their sexes first met, heard a low guttural groan and recognized it as his own. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, dampened his back, as he strained, fighting the need to bury himself in her.
Gently he arched his hips upward, easing inside her. She dropped her forehead against his on a muffled whimper, digging her fingers into his neck.
And then she began to move.
Dancing, he remembered her saying. Making love was like dancing. And it was. The sweetest, most beautiful dance he’d ever partnered. Her hips rose and fell against his, taking him deeper, then deeper still, while the rest of her body swayed against his—her breasts caressing his chest, her abdomen chafing against his groin, fanning the flames of his need higher.
His arm cramped and he braced it against the wall, lengthening the muscle, supporting her with only one arm while he allowed her to set the pace, the rhythm. He could feel the quickening of her breath against his face, the tightening of her feminine walls around his erection, and knew that heaven was just a step away.
Unable to hold back any longer, he pushed from the wall, held her tight against him and thrust hard, burying himself deeply inside her. She braced her hands at his shoulders, and threw back her head, arching against him as she cried out his name. Never in his life had the sound of his own name brought him so much pleasure. He held her against him, feeling every tremble, every beat of her pulse, as if it were his own.
Then he began to turn slowly, then faster, until he was spinning her in a dizzying circle.
She grabbed for him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding on tight. “Woody!” she cried. “What are you doing?”
“Dancing.” He laughed and spun faster. “Damn, if you weren’t right. Making love is just like dancing.”
Forrest picked up his shirt and shrugged it on. “We can marry on your birthday, if you want. Marrying so soon after breaking your engagement might raise a few brows, but nothing we can’t handle.” He opened his fly and started stuffing his shirttail inside his slacks. “I’ll even go with you when you tell your fiancé you’re not going to marry him.” He stopped with one hand still inside his slacks when he saw the stricken look that came over Becky’s face. “What?” he asked in concern.
Sitting fully dressed on a bale of hay across the alleyway from him, she dropped her chin, but not before he saw the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Nothing,” she murmured.
He quickly yanked up his zipper and crossed to hunker down in front of her. Bracing a hand on her knee, he tipped up her chin. “Doesn’t look like nothing to me,” he said softly, thumbing away a tear that leaked onto her cheek. “You’re not sorry about what we did, are you?”
She wagged her head. “No. It’s just that—”
“Forrest? You in there?”
They both jumped guiltily at the sound of Greg Hunt’s voice. Slowly Forrest stood, placing himself between Becky and Greg, giving her the opportunity to compose herself. “Yeah. I’m here.”
Greg Hunt stepped from the shadows and into the doorway. “Man, I’ve been looking all over the place for you!”
“Just wanted to get away from the noise for a while,” Forrest replied.
Greg snorted a laugh as he stepped inside the barn. “Can’t say that I blame you, but unfortunately your presence is needed. Seems there’s a problem with that foreign deal we’ve been trying to put together.” He squinted up at the ceiling and the darkened light fixtures as he crossed to join them. “Why didn’t you turn on some lights? Hell, I can’t see a thing.”
“Didn’t want to disturb the animals.”
Greg snorted again, then grinned when he saw Becky. He leaned around Forrest to extend his hand to her. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
She looked up at him in confusion as she accepted it. “What for?”
He laughed. “Your engagement, silly. Sterling was just telling me that you’re getting married. Is it in the water or something?” He gave Forrest a poke in the arm. “If it is, I don’t know about you, buddy, but I’m swearing off the stuff.” He laughed again as he turned and headed back outside. “Hank’s waiting for us in Sterling’s office,” he called over his shoulder. “Better put the hustle on it. He said it was important.”
Forrest stared at Becky’s face, watching the tears bud in her eyes again. “Don’t,” he said, his voice raw, sure that it was guilt at the mention of her engagement that drew them.
She caught her lower lip between her teeth and squeezed her hands into a fist in her lap. “Woody, I need to tell you something.”
By the misery in her voice, Forrest suspected that the guilt was eating pretty deep.
“Hey! Are you coming, Forrest?”
Forrest snapped his head around at Greg’s impatient call and frowned at the door and the darkness beyond. “Yeah, I’m coming,” he yelled.
He dropped to his knee in front of Becky, covering her hands with his. “Wait for me. This shouldn’t take long. As soon as I’m done, we’ll talk. I promise. We can work this out. Everything’ll be okay.”
Seven
“I just received word that our foreign friend has boarded a jet for the United States.”
Standing with his shoulder slouched against a paneled wall in his home office where the men from the Alpha team had gathered, Sterling straightened, his eyes sharpening with interest. “Alone?”
Hank tossed the fax onto the desk. “Far as we can tell.”
“Let him come,” Greg growled. “I’d like to go a round or two with that son of a bitch.”
Reared back in the chair with his fingers templed over his chest, Hank replied thoughtfully, “You may get your chance.” He rocked the chair forward and picked up the fax again. He studied it for a moment, then c
arefully folded it and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He shifted his gaze from one man to the next. “But our first concern is Blake and those kids.”
Forrest scraped his hands through his hair, trying to shove back the thoughts of Becky that nagged at him. Though he’d wanted to stay with her, soothe away her worries, strip her of whatever guilt that might be eating at her, at the moment his presence was needed more here. There were lives at stake. Lives that he was responsible for. Blake. Anna’s niece and nephew. With Prince Ivan in hot pursuit, Forrest knew that the danger surrounding Blake and the babies had increased tenfold. Anna had already lost her sister. It was up to him and the rest of the Alpha team to see that she didn’t lose her niece and nephew, too. “Have you heard from Blake?”
“Not recently.”
Greg rose to pace. “Do you think Ivan’s picked up his trail?”
Hank shook his head. “I don’t think so. That brother of yours is slick. He knows how to travel without being seen.”
Forrest snorted. “Easy enough when you’re traveling alone, but kind of hard when your luggage includes two little babies.”
Greg whirled on him, his face flushed with fury. “If anybody can do it, Blake can.”
Forrest held up his hands. “Hey. I’m on your side, remember?”
Hank stood, pushing back his chair. “Let’s don’t lose our heads now. We’re too close to winning this thing.”
“Well, what the hell are we supposed to do?” Greg cried in frustration. “Just sit here, twiddling our thumbs, and wait?”
Hank rounded the desk and placed a calming hand on Greg’s shoulder. “That’s exactly what we’re going to do.” He gave his friend’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “But while we’re twiddling, we’re going to keep our eyes peeled and our ears tuned for any sign of trouble.” He glanced around the room, meeting each man’s gaze in turn. “My guess is that Prince Ivan won’t waste his time chasing Blake. It’s Anna he wants. To get her, he’ll have to go through us. And that means he’ll have to come to Royal.”
Forrest strode across the lawn, searching among the remaining guests for a mane of red hair and a dress the color of midnight that shimmered like fool’s gold when the light hit it just right. He made it all the way to the barn without finding either, then started working his way back. He tripped on something in the darkness, stopped and looked down, and realized it was Becky’s shoe that he’d stumbled over.
He stooped and picked it up, chuckling to hunself as he slipped it into the pocket of his tux’s jacket. He gave the pocket a pat, then continued on his search. He scoured the grounds for half an hour before he finally had to admit that she was gone.
It’s late, he reassured himself, when panic tried to slip in and grab him. He’d told her he’d only be a few minutes, but the meeting had taken more than an hour. She’d probably grown tired of waiting and gone home.
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his slacks and headed for the line of uniformed valets, waiting by the driveway. It might be late, but he didn’t care. He was going to the Rusty Corral and get this mess straightened out. He wasn’t going to let whatever sense of duty Becky might feel toward her fiancé to force her into marrying a man she didn’t love.
By, God, she was marrying him!
Becky climbed from her truck, then braced a hand against its side as she slipped off her one remaining shoe. Feeling the swell of tears rising again, she fell back against the side of the truck and turned her face up to the star-filled sky.
How am I ever going to get myself out of this mess? she cried silently.
It had all seemed so innocent when Miss Manie had first laid out the plan. Make Woody jealous. Tease him a little. It was all a matter of forcing his hand, Miss Manie had said. She’d insisted that Becky just had to keep up the farce long enough for Woody to realize he loved her and was ready to put up a fight for her.
She dragged a hand across her cheek, swiping angrily at the unwanted tears. Not that she blamed Miss Manie for the mess she was in. Becky knew that she, herself, was the one who was responsible. She was the one who had told the lie. She was the one who had worked so hard to make Woody jealous. She was the one who had teased.
Oh, Miss Manie might have given her a little nudge of encouragement to keep the lie going and given her a few pointers on how to tease. And Woody’s mother might have played a small part in the deception by helping her select a proper dress. But the lie itself was hers, and hers alone. The problem was that it had grown to the point where she wasn’t sure how to unravel it. She knew she had to tell Woody the truth and was scared to death that, when she did, he might never forgive her.
So now here she was, alone, standing barefoot in the yard of the Rusty Corral, feeling a little like Cinderella must have felt after leaving the ball. And she probably looked a bit like her, too, she thought, glancing down at her dress. She caught the skirt of her dress, let the moon dance on the metallic threads, then let it drop. Yeah, she was Cinderella incarnate, all right, she thought with a selfdeprecating laugh. All decked out in a new dress that she’d spent almost a month’s wages on and with a broken down truck instead of a pumpkin for a royal carriage.
Remembering the shoe she still held, she lifted it, letting it dangle from one crooked finger. No glass slipper for this Cinderella, though, she thought wryly. Just a fancy black sling-back shoe, worthless to a woman who wore boots most of the time, and even more so since she’d lost its mate.
With a sigh, she pushed away from the truck and headed for the house, swinging the useless shoe at her side. At the back door, she paused, and looked over her shoulder one last time at the moon. A falling star streaked across the velvety sky. She closed her eyes and made a quick wish, praying that somehow Woody would find it in his heart to forgive her the lie. Without looking back, she opened the door and stepped inside.
“Hi, Beck.”
She froze, her eyes going wide. “Shorty?” She glanced behind her and to the shadowed yard beyond. “I didn’t know you were here,” she said, turning back to her father. “Where’s your truck?”
“Sold it.”
Her eyebrows shot up, then slammed together over her nose as she narrowed a suspicious eye at him. “Sold it or lost it?”
Her father lifted a shoulder, but kept his gaze on the table and the toothpick he was shredding between his fingers. “Same thing,” he muttered.
“No,” she said, tossing her shoe onto the kitchen counter. “If you’d sold it, you’d have something to show for it. If you lost it on a bet,” she said, her voice rising, “then you have nothing.”
“No need to yell,” he complained, tugging on his earlobe. “I can hear just fine.”
“I’m gonna do more than yell, if I find out you’ve gambled something other than your truck.”
He shifted uncomfortably in the chair and plucked a new toothpick from the holder to shred.
Becky watched his gnarled fingers pluck nervously at the toothpick and her blood slowly chilled. “What have you done?” she whispered.
Shorty kept his eyes on the splintered wood. “It was a sure thing,” he muttered defensively. “The sweetest deal I’ve ever come across. I wouldn‘t’ve bought in, if I hadn’t been sure it’d pay off big for us.”
She took a hesitant step toward him. “What deal?”
He screwed his mouth to the side, but didn’t reply.
“What deal?” she repeated, her voice rising.
“A stud,” he said, scowling at the toothpick. “A handsome thing, too. Good conformation. Good bloodlines. Won plenty on the track.”
“You bought him?”
He shook his head. “Too rich for my blood. Just bought into the syndication.”
“How much?”
He caught his lower lip between his teeth and concentrated harder on shredding the toothpick.
“Shorty! How much?”
“The ranch.”
The blood drained from her face. “You traded the ranch for a share in a hor
se?”
He tossed the toothpick to the table, and rose, pacing away. “It wasn’t supposed to end up that way. The ranch was just collateral until the money started coming in.” He jerked open the refrigerator door. “We were puttin‘ him up for stud. Ten grand a pop.” He pulled out a can of beer, and ripped off the tab. “I’d’ve made my money back in a month’s time, and bought back the deed, just as I’d planned, ‘cept...”
“Except, what?”
“‘Cept the damn horse shot nothing but blanks,” he muttered, and lifted the beer to his lips.
The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in tighter and tighter, until there was no air left to breathe. Becky bent double, hugging her arms around her middle. She was afraid that if she let go, she’d shatter and fly into a million pieces.
The ranch—her home—was gone. Traded for a share in a sterile stud.
She felt a hand on her shoulder, the touch as weak as the man who placed it there. “It’ll be all right, Beck,” he said gruffly. “We’ll think of something. We always do.”
“We!” she cried, flinging his arm from her as she jerked away from him. “Who is we? I’m the one who has worked this place and kept it together all these years, while you,” she screamed, jabbing a finger at his chest, “chased your tail, gambling every cent I managed to save on some wild scheme.”
He reached for her, but she backed away. “No. Don’t touch me,” she warned him, her voice trembling with rage. Then, choking on a sob, she whirled and ran from the house, letting the screen door slam shut on its rusty hinges behind her.
Forrest pulled up in front of Becky’s house and rolled down his window, frowning at the dark windows. He started to open the door, then stopped and glanced at the clock on his dash.
Three in the morning.
Though tempted to go inside and crawl into bed with her, if for no other reason than to just cuddle, he dropped his hand from the door handle and reached for the ignition key. She would already be asleep, he told himself as he started his truck. No sense in waking her, not when he knew that she’d have to get up in a couple of hours to feed her stock. What he had to say would wait till morning. She wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was he. A couple of hours either way wasn’t going to change anything.
Billionaire Bridegroom Page 11
