MATCH MADE IN WYOMING

by Patricia McLinn

  Too close. Taylor saw she'd edged too close to whatever kept him in that shell. The deepening of the grooves in his cheek provided the warning. She backed away. Not completely. Just enough to keep the conversation going and the entrance to his cave open.

  "But there are many different kinds of love," she continued smoothly. "And Matty does love you, and trusts you. And you trust her."

  He flicked a look at her, noting she hadn't repeated her assertion that he loved Matty. But whether he fully realized it or not, the tenor of that look also had acknowledged that he trusted Matty Brennan Currick, and that was a major concession.

  "She's my boss."

  "You're sidestepping the question."

  "Don't cross-examine me."

  She opened her eyes wide. "I was simply applying logic."

  His answering growl held some amusement, but she wasn't entirely surprised when he changed the subject with all the finesse of a sledgehammer.

  "Let's play cards."

  "Cards?"

  "Yeah, you know, deck of fifty-two, aces, spades, diamonds and hearts."

  "Okay," she agreed. At least he'd suggested something interactive. "What game?"

  Their repertoire of card games provided little overlap until they had reached far back into their childhoods.

  "Can't believe I'm playing this," he grumbled, not for the first time. "Can't believe a grown woman doesn't know poker. Any sixes?"

  "No. Go Fish. I can't believe a grown man doesn't know pinochle. Now, it's my turn to ask – do you have any nines?"

  "No. Go Fish. Didn't your brothers teach you anything? Do you have any queens?"

  "My brothers taught me lots, but my grandfather taught me pinochle."

  "Fascinating, but about those queens…?"

  "Yes, darn you!"

  She handed over two. "Do you have any tens?"

  "Nope. Go Fish – last card."

  She picked it up, heaved a sigh that indicated it hadn't helped in the least, then started to lay out her cards.

  "I win," Cal declared – again – as he compared his neatly grouped cards with hers. Then something caught her eye.

  "Wait just a minute. I asked if you had nines a couple turns ago and you said no."

  He looked up, his mouth straight, but the grooves in his cheek cut deeper and his eyes were alight with so much deviltry that she nearly gasped.

  She wished she could take a picture of him in that moment, then hand it to him whenever he dropped his barriers back in place, and say, Here, this is what life can be like when you leave your cave.

  She wished she could take his face in her hands and kiss him.

  Instead, she kept her face solemn and pushed accusation into her voice. "You cheated!"

  "Yup. I cheat." He sounded about eight years old and very proud of himself. Then all that was gone from his voice as he added, "That's something I learned from my father."

  Direct questions wouldn't do, not if she didn't want him retreating again.

  "This whole game is built on trust."

  "Yeah. That's why it's a stupid game. Besides, I'd expect a lawyer to know better."

  "Know better? You mean know better than to trust you?"

  "Know better than to trust anyone. You lawyers are supposed to know the truth about people and be absolute cynics."

  "We lawyers come in all shapes, sizes, genders, ethnic backgrounds and degrees of cynicism. I happen to be one who believes that being cautious is wise, but being cynical is counterproductive."

  "Counterproductive?" One side of his mouth lifted.

  "Yes."

  Flat and calm, she left it there to work its way up under his skin, and she took great delight in seeing that it did just that. "Counterproductive to what?" He did a fair job of keeping his question as flat and calm as her single word had been, but she caught the telltale tightening of the creases at the corners of his eyes.

  He was truly interested. Cal Ruskoff was definitely slipping.

  "To living, especially living a happy life. And to being open to the potential of love."

  Without turning his head, he slanted a narrowed-eye look at her, and she felt a little like she had when she'd been putting new wires on her stereo speakers. Her brother Mike had assured her by long-distance instruction that all she had to do was scrape some of the plastic protection off the wire, wrap the bare wire around the screws and screw them in. He failed to mention a couple steps. When she called and complained about that failure, he'd told her with astonishment that everybody knew to unplug the stereo first and never, ever to touch the wires.

  Not everybody, she'd told Mike with some asperity, and she had the memory of that distinct tingling sensation up her arm and through her body to prove it.

  Now that memory was the closest thing she could liken to her response to the charge in Cal's look.

  "Another game?" she asked to break the silence.

  "Your shuffle."

  She leaned over to shuffle on the coffee table, grasping half of the deck in each hand. But instead of alternating neatly, then meshing together, the edges of the leading cards butted up against each other, like kissers bumping noses. Only kissers could shift and try again … and again. The cards fountained up, then spewed over the table and down to the floor.

  "Oh!"

  She surged forward, tried to grab the cards in midair, missed and followed them down with her outreached hands. Cal was already there, leaning over to pick the cards up off the floor before the last ones landed. Her arms tangled with his. Already off balance, she tried to gain traction by planting her right foot. Her sock-covered foot encountered something slippery, and her foot shot out from under her, toppling her onto Cal's knees.

  Before she could slide off them onto the floor, he gripped her upper arms, setting her up on the sofa cushion like a rag doll.

  And that was exactly how she felt as their positions brought them face-to-face.

  Blue blazed at her from his eyes. No coolness anywhere. And yet he was backing away, contradicting everything she saw in his face, everything she felt in her blood.

  She might have made a sound. But it was definitely his move that stopped his retreat and brought them together.

  His mouth on hers brought tears to her eyes. Tears of relief, maybe. Tears of rightness, certainly.

  She met his tongue, swept her own into his mouth, tasting the chocolate there, and the hunger.

  His rumbled growl of pleasure brought a shiver that tightened her breasts and pulsed at her core.

  Her fingertips traced his jaw, then moved to map the grooves she'd so often watched. He shifted purposefully, one arm going around her back. His other hand unerringly found her breast, cupping it so softly through the material of her clothes that she could almost think she'd imagined the touch, except her body knew better, filling and tightening, as if straining to deepen the contact.

  Another sound came from him, and his hand was under the hem of her sweater climbing her ribs, and covering her breast with only the material of her bra separating flesh from flesh. He swept his thumb across the hardened tip, bringing her back off the cushion as she tightened her arms around his shoulders.

  An intimacy, a definitely erotic touch, though far from the most intimate of embraces. Yet Taylor knew in that moment there would be no turning back. Nor would there be a gradual acceleration of embraces, a gradual deepening of intimacies. This was the moment with Cal – the moment they crossed a one-way bridge.

  And then he drew back.

  * * *

  Chapter 8

  « ^ »

  Taylor reached for him, stifling the cry that rose to her throat.

  He held her off by her shoulders, breathing hard, his mouth a stern, determined line, but his eyes still hot and hungry.

  "If we do that again – ever again – it won't be the end."

  "I know."

  Her calmness surprised him. He stared at her, and she knew he was looking for a sign of hesitation, of doubt. She raised no barriers, she
simply let him see.

  He started to move closer again, though the unwillingness remained. He could have been a bull with its feet planted against the rope drawing him in a direction he didn't want to go, except Cal was also the one pulling the rope.

  "Taylor." It was a plea. A plea to stop him, and simultaneously a plea to meet him. She did neither. She held absolutely still.

  "I know, Cal."

  She knew the turmoil inside him from needs and urges pulling him in opposite directions. She didn't know the reasons for them, but she didn't need to. Not yet.

  He released her shoulders.

  For the first time in her life she understood how women could wail at the loss of a loved one, at the denial of love. She didn't make a sound.

  But instead of retreating, he tunneled his spread fingers into her hair, so she felt them and his long palms molding against her skull. And he kissed her.

  Slow, thorough, lips to lips, but no more.

  And yet so much more.

  The restraint, almost an unwillingness, she had sensed the other times they'd kissed was gone.

  His hand at the hem of her sweater once more had her anticipating his touch against her skin … but not that he would simply pull it over her head, so her choices were to become entangled in it or to lift her arms in cooperation. Cooperation, definitely cooperation.

  "I'd wondered."

  Since he was looking at her exposed body, the words lit a fuse on her insecurity. Yet, his voicing of them sent a warm breath across her skin that would need to heat up a good deal to match his tone.

  "Wondered?" she managed.

  "How much the lace showed." His fingertip traced the pattern of lace over her nipple, and her back came up off the cushion. She reached for him to steady herself, and grasped his open collar.

  That was convenient, because she'd wondered, too.

  Working down from the collar, she quickly reversed the status of his shirt's buttoned buttons. Cal gave her a lopsided grin when she gave a disgruntled sound as she discovered he wore an undershirt. But he did his bit for cooperation and the end of wondering by tugging off both layers in short order.

  His chest still held faint remnants of summer's gold, though the pattern of hair down the center was a shade darker than his head from not being exposed to the weather year-round. The rigors of his work showed in muscles roped across his shoulders and ribs, and bunched at his arms. It also showed in the darker V at the top of his chest, where open collars exposed that skin more often to the elements. And in a fading red mark shaped like a comet over his heart, with its tail stretched almost to the opposite nipple.

  It was nearly healed, surely no longer painful, yet Taylor couldn't stop herself from bending to press her lips to its starting point. If she could soothe his pain retroactively, she would.

  The hammer of his heartbeat picked up speed as she gently licked the spot, then kissed it again. Kiss by kiss, she followed the mark's path across his chest, to its nearly invisible conclusion, then put her mouth over the flat brown disk so temptingly close, and felt its response against her lips.

  "Never thought I'd be grateful to a stubborn piece of fence."

  He cupped the back of her head, urging her up toward another involved kiss, then met her more than halfway as they slid deeper into the cushions.

  When the mundane necessity of breathing forced an end to that kiss, Cal looked down, to where her breasts were pressed against his chest.

  "This thing doesn't show enough, not nearly enough." Her fogged brain might have taken a while to make sense of that, except that he slid one bra strap low off her shoulder, exposing the top of her breast to his heated kisses at the same time he reached behind her and undid the hooks in one smooth motion.

  She smiled to herself. She'd known his hands would be skilled.

  And she had further proof as he shifted their positions slightly, his guiding hand running down her leg until he found the thick sock over her ankle and pulled that free, duplicating the move with her left side.

  He settled his lower body between her thighs, and even separated by layers of clothing, the first touch of his hardness against her made her gasp. The gasp deepened and lengthened into a moan when Cal's lips covered her nipple.

  The sensation there became a tug that wound all through her. She lifted her hips against him. He met the motion and returned it. A rocking rhythm that reached higher and hotter with each repeat, as he sucked at her other nipple.

  Cal lifted his head, then began kissing up her throat, seeking her mouth. A second ago she had thought the loss of his mouth on her breast unbearable, but the press of his chest against her taut nipples sated them, and she found more than compensation in the increased pressure of his body at the juncture of her thighs.

  He slid one hand between them, cupping her and bringing her hips off the cushion when he pressed one finger deeper through the fabric.

  "Taylor…" The sound of his harsh breathing gave her more pleasure than the most beautiful music.

  "Hmm."

  "Are you on birth control?"

  "Oh. I … no."

  He stilled for an instant, releasing a single, heartfelt curse.

  He sat, letting the cool air rush in across her heated flesh. He bundled up what clothes he could reach. "Hold these," he ordered, as he set them in her arms. He stood, bent down and picked her up.

  "Cal!"

  Her arms went around his neck instinctively, adding stability. But it also added something else, as the side of her breast pressed against the hard warmth of his bare chest.

  "I have condoms in the bedroom. This is the fastest way."

  She wasn't going to argue with whatever got them there fastest, even though she did enjoy the short ride into his bedroom.

  "Get the quilt," he ordered, dipping his knees beside the bed. She grabbed the corner and held it as he brought them both down to the mattress, with her holding the quilt up like a tent over them.

  They were a tangle of arms, legs, clothes on and clothes off. It was ridiculous. And it was erotic.

  Cal kissed her, sucking her bottom lip into his mouth, sliding his tongue over it, then returning to the corner of her mouth.

  "Oh … wait," she protested at the sensation of compression against her ribs.

  He grunted, rolling back onto one hip to grab the wad her sweater had formed and toss it over his shoulder out of the bed. He started to roll back, but encountered one of the buttons from his shirtsleeve. He tugged at it, and material kept coming and coming like a scarf out of a magician's hat – first one cuff, then the sleeve, then a shoulder, the back. By the time he'd freed the second sleeve, she was giggling.

  "You think this is funny, do you?" he demanded, but the deepened grooves and his eyes gave him away.

  "Yes."

  He threw back the quilt, rolled her to one side to free the rest of the shirt, and tossed it to join her sweater. Socks followed, her bra, and his undershirt. All urges to giggle evaporated as he stepped off the bed, unhooked his belt buckle, unsnapped his jeans and slid down the zipper. One motion, and he'd slid off jeans and briefs, shucking them into the same pile.

  He saw her watching him as he returned to the bed, and his already swollen erection stiffened more. Holding her gaze, he knelt beside her, his hands going to the waist of her sweats and catching the top elastic of her panties as well, but instead of stripping them off in one quick motion as he had with his jeans, he drew them down slowly, the backs of his fingers stroking over her waist, then the point of her hips.

  She lifted her hips off the mattress to let him draw them lower. He paused, kissing her waist, then her belly button before brushing his mouth lightly over her damp curls. Her hips arched higher, and he made a sound blended of satisfaction and torment.

  Nothing had ever made Taylor feel more desirable than that sound torn from Cal Ruskoff.

  But he didn't hurry as he slowly stroked down her legs, carrying the material of the sweatpants with his touch, even stroking her feet as
he pulled them free of the material. He never took his eyes off her as he dropped the pants over the side of the bed.

  Torn between the urge to haul the quilt over her nakedness and the desire to stretch and arch under the provocation of his regard, she remained still, watching him watch her, and gaining pleasure from it.

  Finally, with a hand at each ankle, he gently parted her legs, moving to kneel between her calves, then stroking the tense muscles of her thighs before moving up higher, spreading her legs wider.

  It was too much. Too exposed. She reached for the quilt.

  But he caught her hand, held it in his.

  "Touch me."

  He didn't force her, he didn't even guide her to him. He waited.

  She touched him. The smooth, hard heat against her fingertips and palm communicated itself to her, coursing through her. This was what she had needed. To touch, not simply to be looked at.

  And in the pleasure-tensed planes of his face, she knew this was what he needed, as well.

  "Cal … now."

  She urged him toward her. His hands covered hers, stilling her, though he had no such control over the pulse of desire his flesh enclosed by her hands gave.

  "Let me get…"

  Balancing on one stiffened arm, he reached across her to the drawer of the tiny bedside table, yanking it open at an awkward angle. He didn't seem to notice as he dragged out a foil packet. With only one hand free, he was clearly prepared to rip it open with his teeth.

  "Let me." She took the packet and opened it readily despite the tremors in her fingers. "Let me," she repeated, but with a hint of a question in her voice, as she caught and held his gaze.

  He answered with a quick, jerked nod.

  She doubted he would have agreed if he'd known her inexperience at this task. It required fumbling, stretching, stroking, rubbing concentration. In the end, she had her reward in the hissed breath he released, and the head-back, eyes-closed, jaw-clenched groan that preceded a growled "Enough."

  He shifted away from her, made a slight adjustment, then came back between her legs, high and tight, the tip of him pressing against her. He framed her face in his hands and kissed her.

  "Now, Taylor."