by Nina Bruhns
Kit continued to stare at him, remembering that teenage crush she'd had on the neighbor boy who'd owned both a horse and an ancient Ford truck with a leather bench seat—every young girl's fantasy come true.
Beau glanced at her curiously, then turned to answer a question his mother asked.
She'd mooned after the boy for a good two summers before he'd finally gone off to college in his truck, leaving her unrequited, but with a taste for the smell of leather on a man. Surreptitiously, Kit slid over in her chair, trying to catch another whiff to test its effect.
"Katherine?"
Yep. Pure ambrosia. Lord, who'd have thought after all these years… She could still see that boy's lean hips perched in his fancy western saddle, moving enticingly back and forth, back and forth as he rode. Gazing dreamily at Beau, she bet he looked even better on the back of a horse.
From somewhere far away, Jolene's voice registered. "That's what you get for coming to the table smelling like a stable, Beau. You've appalled her so much she's speechless."
"Apparently."
It was Beau's wicked smile that finally knocked her back to the present. "Wha— Oh!" She looked around at the amused faces, mortified at having been caught daydreaming. "Sorry. I was just thinking, uh, how much I like … that is, how long it's been…"
"Since you've been riding?" Beau helpfully suggested, his crooked smile growing even more disreputable.
"Yes," she hurriedly agreed. "Riding."
"You must take her for a ride soon, son," admonished Gunny, who leaned back in his chair, thankfully oblivious to the twinkle in Beau's eyes.
Kit glared at the rogue, willing the heat from her cheeks.
"Nothing like seeing the plantation by horseback," Gunny continued, a wistful look creeping over his face. "Wish I could still sit a saddle. It's the leg, you know. Too stiff." He gazed off. "No horses up-country, though. Just Jeeps."
"The estate is lovely by horseback," Dori quickly interjected. "Why, I remember…"
Kit silently thanked goodness for the distraction from her embarrassing relapse and settled back to listen to Dori's long, meandering reminiscences of life on Terrebeau when there had been more horses than motorized vehicles. The tales were a lot like her grandmother's old stories, which she'd always loved hearing.
Obviously, the Beaulieux clan loved telling stories, too. Breakfast stretched on and on, and nobody showed any particular hurry to end it. Including her. But finally the reminiscing wound down and Jolene looked at the clock on the mantel and declared she must get to the shop.
"You'll come by this morning, right, Beau?"
He nodded as everyone stood and wished each other a good day and went their separate ways.
Kit let Beau take her by the hand and lead her out to the stables. They went inside the huge old barn and walked along the stalls, where he introduced her to the plantation's four Thoroughbreds. It was cool and pleasant inside, filled with the scent of fresh hay and oats.
"They're all geldings?" she asked when they reached the last enclosure.
"Seemed cruel to bring in a mare to remind them what they're missing," he said with a grin.
She laughed. "You are such an old softy."
"You aren't looking in the right place, darlin'." He turned, and somehow she found herself backed up against an empty stall, facing him. There was an amused intensity to his expression. "Now, tell me what was going on at breakfast."
Busted. She fought to keep a straight face, but it was impossible. She smiled coyly. "I seem to recall eating."
"Uh-huh."
He moved closer. His body rubbed lightly against hers. God, he smelled good.
"And listening to some interesting stories."
"Mmm-hmm. I want to hear the one you were thinking about while you were undressing me with your eyes."
She widened them now, all innocence. "I beg your pardon?" But her hands betrayed her by sliding up his chest and settling on his broad shoulders. Why, oh, why, could she never resist this man at close quarters?
"For a moment at the table, I was actually beginning to fear for my virtue." His arm snaked around her waist and pulled her tight against him.
She lost what few wits she had left. The powerful combination of the earthy, erotic smells surrounding them and the nearness of this exquisitely tempting man were much too much for any woman to withstand.
"I couldn't help myself. You smell so good." She closed her eyes and put her nose to his neck, breathing deeply of his maleness. "So-o-o good."
He made a desperate sound way down in his chest, then wrapped her chin in his fingers and brought it up. "I'm trying to keep my promise here, but you can't look at me that way and expect me not to rip your clothes off."
Desire surged through her veins, filling her with hot, achy languor. It must have shown in her expression.
His mouth came down hard on hers, cutting off any protest she might have made—not that she had the least notion to object. The stall door behind her gave way and he backed her into the small enclosure. Her pulse kicked up even further as she realized what he intended. But his lips and tongue were on her, in her, ravishing her willpower to resist, robbing the very breath from her lungs. How he could kiss!
And how she wanted this! She closed her eyes and let her self dissolve into his arms, formless, bloodless, kissing him back, accepting his caresses, welcoming them. Craving them. From far away, a voice intruded. "Yoo-hoo! Beau, sweetheart! Katherine? Are you here?"
The sound of Dori's voice came sailing through the stables like a bucket of ice water. Kit leaped from Beau's arms, and they stared at each other, panting, ragged, in desperate need.
"Where are y'all?" Dori called out, the click of high heels echoing off the concrete floor.
Beau drilled his fingers through his hair and let a single curse word hiss out from between his clenched teeth. Taking a gulp of air, he turned and stalked out of the stall. "We're over here, Mama."
Kit straightened her blouse and stepped out after him.
"Oh, there you are, my dears. Heavens, your hair looks a fright, Beau! You've been doing that finger thing with it."
He stabbed his hand through it again.
"Yes, like that. Exactly. Bad habit. Be sure to comb it."
"Was there something you wanted?" he asked, his voice a study in control.
Dori had the grace to look embarrassed. "Yes. Girard Ferrand telephoned to see if you're still coming for lunch today. I told him you'd call right back."
Kit watched with considerable admiration as Beau wrestled himself back into polite gentleman mode. It couldn't have been easy under the circumstances.
"All right, Mama. I'll do that."
Dori's eyes flickered to Kit. "I just wondered, dear. Perhaps Katherine would like to go with me to the historical society while you're working this afternoon. It might be—"
Beau cut her off. "Katherine will be with me. Anything else, Mama?"
His mother must have sensed his volatile mood, for she hitched her purse and turned. "No. No, nothing else."
* * *
Beau had just about gotten his anger under control by the time he'd called Girard back, taken a shower and retrieved Kit from the kitchen, where she was busy slicing apples for Delia. He was certain his mother had deliberately come to the stables looking for them in order to disrupt what anyone sitting at the breakfast table could have seen coming a mile away.
He'd really have to do something about his mother. He wouldn't have her meddling in his life—even if she believed she had his best interests at heart. If he wanted to make a huge mistake, he was old enough to do so all by himself, without any lectures from his mama. She should trust him enough to know that even if he ended up suffering because of his folly, he'd never let Terrebeau share that fate. Hadn't he proved his commitment again and again from the day he'd given up going to college? What did he have to do to convince her he wasn't still a little boy who needed minding?
He made his apologies to Delia for stealing h
er helper and ushered Kit out to the foyer. There, he picked up his briefcase, beeper, his shotgun and a bag he'd left there on his way downstairs. He handed her the bag and dismissed his mother from his mind.
Kit looked sweet as sugarcane dressed in a pair of old jeans, sandals and Jolene's blouse. He figured she'd rather be wearing a T-shirt than all that lace, but the only one in the house was that Verdigris P.D. shirt, which she still refused to wear in public. He smiled to himself. Stubborn little thing.
"You'll have to tell me which car you want to take today," he said, feeling a hundred percent better just looking at her.
"There's a choice?"
"Yes, ma'am." Punching a series of buttons on the side of the restored carriage house, he set down his briefcase and awaited her reaction. She didn't disappoint him.
Her mouth flew open and she gave a squeal of delight when all eight doors around the structure—two on each side—rolled up to reveal the innards of a huge modern garage. In it were parked six cars.
"Six cars?" she asked, laughing. "Isn't that just a bit excessive?"
"We actually have eight. But my parents have one, and one's in the shop." He gave a shrug. "Once I get attached to a car, I can't bear to part with it. Go on. Take a look and choose."
She walked around the carriage house, running her hands along the front of the cars as she went. He tried to guess which one she'd pick. The Eldo? Or maybe the new black Cherokee? She paused briefly in front of the '59 Austin Healey, Jolene's favorite, but then moved on. Shooting him an upraised brow she bypassed the Volvo station wagon with a shake of her head—now there was a shock—and came to a halt before his '54 Ford truck.
Surprised, he watched as she touched the dull, dusty fender and went around to peer in the window. She closed her eyes for a second, then turned to him with an enigmatic smile.
"This one."
"You haven't even looked at the last vehicle," he said, nevertheless inordinately pleased with her choice.
The truck had been his first major purchase, bought at age fifteen with the sweat of three summers' work in neighbors' fields at a time when the Beaulieux's world was collapsing along with his daddy's mental health after Vietnam. Beau had kept the truck running like bourbon at a wedding, but had never restored it. He preferred it as it was—a reminder of the precariousness of life and fortune, and a symbol of the rewards of diligence and hard work. He'd never loved a car more, before or since.
Kit glanced at the fancy Mercedes sedan next to it and wrinkled her nose. "The truck," she said with conviction.
"That woman is positively dangerous," he muttered, picking up a portable police cherry from a workbench and opening the door for her.
"What's this?" She held up the bag he'd given her earlier.
"Your shoes. After we help Jolene with the racks, you can pick out a dress while I get some stuff done at the station."
"Beau…"
"Yeah, chère?"
She hedged, but he could guess what was coming. "I really don't want you buying me a dress."
"It's the least I can do for kidnapping you," he countered with a wink. "Besides, Jolene will want you to have something from the shop, and if I don't buy it, she'll insist on giving it to you. She can't afford the loss right now."
Kit let out a sigh and her shapely mouth pressed into a stubborn line. "All right. But I'm paying for it."
"No, you're not."
"Beaulieux, you may be able to bully everyone else, but you can't bully me. I'm paying for it."
Dieu, she meant it. He'd never run across a woman so averse to accepting anything from a man—be it help, comfort or gifts. Well, she'd just have to learn.
"Jolene won't allow you to pay for it. You're just going to have to let me do this or be responsible for my sister's fledgling business going under."
She made a frustrated sound. "Ooh! You are the most stubborn, overbearing, obstinate—"
"Don't forget chauvinistic."
"Bull-headed man I have ever had the misfortune of meeting," she groused.
Starting the engine, he only grinned.
* * *
Chapter 11
« ^ »
Jolene's shop brimmed with silk-and-lace confections of her own creation, and they were all gorgeous. Kit didn't want to accept anything from Beau, but one look at Jolene's face and she knew she'd be taking something home one way or another, so she might as well decide on one and fight with Beau about the bill later.
Kit studied the three beautiful outfits hanging against the dressing-room wall, trying to decide which to try on first. The trouble was, she liked all of them. But none was very practical for investigative work. Ah, well. She had no choice.
First, she tried the classically tailored silk suit in pewter gray, but it didn't feel right. Discarding that, she went for an indigo-blue silk cocktail dress. It fit like a glove and made her pale blond hair sing in contrast. But it reminded her just a little too much of a certain other blue dress—the one that had gotten her into this whole mess in the first place. The last thing she needed was more inspiration to folly.
The third outfit was an all-lace dress in pale mauve that was much too impractical even to consider. The bodice and waist were fitted, flowing into yards and yards of full skirt. Long sleeves and a plain scooped neckline offset the intricate pattern of the lace. Soft and romantic, it beckoned from the hanger.
Casting off the blue dress, she put on the satin slip that accompanied the lace dress, then slid the lace over her head. Stopping briefly to admire the effect of the slightly darker slip that barely showed under the dense lace, she pulled up the back zipper, but it snagged halfway up. Bother.
She opened the dressing-room door and ran smack into Beau.
"That one's pretty," he said, taking her in at a glance.
"What are you doing back so soon?"
He casually took a step into the dressing room. "It's been two hours, darlin'. How many of those things have you tried on?"
"Three." She shrugged at his upraised brow. "The shop was quiet so Jolene and I had tea and talked." She turned and lifted her hair. "Could you fix the zipper for me? It's stuck."
"What did you talk about?"
A frisson of alarm skittered up her spine when she heard the dressing-room door softly close. Suddenly, the walls of the small space seemed to move in, trapping her, squeezing the air from her lungs. Uh, no. The memory of their heated encounter that morning zinged through her blood.
His hands touched her back and she shivered. She felt the zipper go up, and allowed him to turn her toward the full-length mirror on the side wall.
He stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders. The stark contrast of the light lace and her pale looks against his dark hair and nearly black jacket was stunning. She closed her eyes, unable to bear the heart-stopping image of them together.
"I don't like it," he said.
Her eyes opened in surprise. "What?"
"The slip. I don't like it."
"But without the slip you could see—"
"Your legs. I want to see your legs through the lace. Try it without the slip." He pulled down the zipper again.
"Forget it, Beau. I'm not—"
"I'll behave," he said as he slid the sleeves from her arms. "I promise."
She licked her lips. What would it hurt? Of course, she could never wear the dress like that in public, but it might be really sexy just to see how it looked. What could happen in a dressing room, his sister within shouting distance?
"All right. But no mischief."
"On my honor as a gentleman."
Taking a steadying breath, she wriggled out of the satin slip and let it slither down her hips under the dress. Quickly, she pulled the dress back on.
In the mirror, Beau's eyes roamed hungrily over her, lingering on her peach lingerie, which showed subtly through the lace. The intensity of his gaze nearly did her in. Her skin heated, sending waves of warmth to collide with a shivering desire that suddenly gripped her. She tried t
o escape, to take a step forward, away from his overpowering nearness. She couldn't make the same mistake she had this morning.
His fingers dug into her shoulders and tugged her back against him. With his hands he smoothed down the back of the dress, holding the edges of the opening together.
"Better," he murmured, appraising her in the mirror. "Much better." Tightening his grip, he pulled the fabric taut over her breasts and peered at her bra. "What color is that?"
"Peach," she rasped, the sensitive crowns of her breasts quickening from the pressure of the tight bodice. "Beau…"
"Hmm?" he responded lazily, dropping his gaze over her shoulder to take a closer look at the real thing. "Maybe beige would be better. Or pink. Hard to say…"
"I don't—"
Her heart stalled as he reached up and slowly slid the dress off her shoulders. Mesmerized, she watched the reflection of the lace slipping lower and lower over her breasts.
He took his time, going agonizingly slowly. She should say something, anything, to stop what was happening. She wanted to, desperately. And just as desperately she wanted him to continue.
His hot breath shuddered over her temple and cheek, drawing her eyes to his in the mirror. He held her gaze captive as he dragged the lace down her midriff. His body pressed into her, his arousal hard and thick against the small of her back.
Again he trailed his hands up her arms and let them rest possessively on her shoulders. Her heart pounded in her throat. She felt her resolve slipping toward oblivion.
"I'd like it better with nothing at all under it," he said, his voice low and impossibly erotic.
She swallowed. "Beau, I—"
"Hush, darlin'. Trust me."
Every rational thought she could muster told her to run like hell out the door. But every cell in her body screamed at her to trust, to let them have this stolen moment of pleasure. Caught in a quagmire of indecision, she felt him unhook her bra and pause for a moment. Oh, Lord. Her determination fled and her eyes fluttered shut in guilty anticipation. She swayed back against him, breathless.
Her straps skimmed down her arms and the cups loosened.
The kiss of cool air rippled over her bare skin.
