The Heart Breaker

by Nicole Jordan

  Her eyes flew wide.

  He saw the pain and panic in them, but he thrust inexorably, smothering her gasp of surprise with a deep kiss as he sheathed himself in her body. Then he held himself completely still, waiting for the pain to dissipate, waiting for her to feel the pleasure of a man’s fullness stretching her.

  Her breath was coming in shallow pants, yet gradually it slowed, while her rigid body relaxed somewhat.

  “All right?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Yes,” Heather whispered, amazed that she could say so.

  He was staring down at her, his eyes intensely blue, burning and tender.

  She shifted her hips tentatively and saw him flinch. “I … don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

  “Wrap your legs around me.”

  She did so tentatively.

  “That’s right, honey, let me feel you move.” He arched over her, probing deep.

  Heather moaned, clutching at him. The pain was gone now, leaving nothing but a dark, secret pleasure. He was taking her someplace she’d never been before, somewhere brilliant and terrifying.

  “Don’t fight it,” he said in her ear as she arched against him. “Let it happen.”

  Heather whimpered, colors and blinding light blurring before her eyes. It was like being swept up in a storm, unable to do anything but go along for the ride.

  The first tiny convulsions swelled to shafts of fire. She strained against him, burning, pulsating, spinning away into a netherworld of shooting flames.

  Her writhing frenzy nearly shattered Sloan’s tenuous control. He clenched his teeth at the powerful hunger streaking through him, while her frantic cries filled the air. When the woman beneath him splintered into ecstasy, he groaned with a savage need held barely in check. At the rhythmic clenching of her loins, desire shot through his groin, white-hot and explosive.

  Unable to restrain his agonized arousal any longer, he surged into her, deep into the tight, wet welcoming of her body. With a final groan, he thrust into her fiercely one last time, before shuddering and collapsing against her, his body pulsing inside hers.

  For a long moment, while his ragged breathing slowed, he held her trembling form. Shutting his eyes, he inhaled her scent, silently cursing her for her desirability. Then he rolled away to lie on his back, staring up at the crimson canopy overhead.

  The desire that had blazed between them had caught him off guard. Blood still surged thick and hot through his veins, while guilt knotted his chest.

  He hadn’t once thought about his wife. When he closed his eyes now, he saw a ghost with dark liquid eyes and raven silk hair. Forgive me, Doe.

  Forcing his eyes open, he turned his head on the pillow, to face his new bride. She was watching him, her eyes large and questioning.

  “Was that… usual?” Heather asked quietly.

  “Usual?”

  “That powerful…”

  She couldn’t seem to find the words to describe the explosive fire that had ignited between them. Sloan shrugged, not wanting to acknowledge how unusual it had been.

  “Did I do something wrong?” Her voice was soft, uncertain.

  He cursed silently. What was wrong was him wanting this woman so much. He was grateful the shadows covered his reaction to her. “No. You did nothing wrong.”

  “But I disappointed you.”

  Disappointed him? Startled was a better word. The searing pleasure of their first joining had shocked him.

  Sloan shook his head. There was a clear explanation for the passion that had ripped through him. What he’d felt for Heather was carnal desire, plain and simple. A slaking of lust for a man who’d gone without for too long. Purely a physical reaction, nothing spiritual. It hadn’t touched his soul. There’d been none of the tender joy, none of the overwhelming love that had filled his heart when he’d made Doe his wife.

  “You surprised me, that’s all. Ladies aren’t supposed to feel such pleasure.”

  Her smile was soft, tentative. “But then, you are a great expert with ladies, I understand.”

  Sloan felt a fresh stirring of desire and a dangerous tenderness. Damn, but he needed to get out of here before he lost his head and crawled back between her legs and spent the night ravishing her body.

  “I guess you aren’t as cold and untouchable as you look,” he muttered. Sitting up, he pushed open the bed curtain and swung his legs over the side, giving her his back. “You won’t mind if I leave you now?”

  His question had the effect he wanted; he could tell by her shocked silence. He inhaled sharply. “I’ve done my duty. And that poker game won’t wait.”

  Heather flinched as if he’d struck her. Nothing he could have said could have hurt more.

  She bit her lower lip hard, holding back sudden tears, as he stood and crossed the car to his clothing. Feeling too vulnerable, too fragile to move, she remained silent as Sloan dressed with swift efficiency.

  He gave her one final glance, his expression shuttered and enigmatic. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he murmured before letting himself out of the car.

  When he was gone, she lay there numb and bewildered by what had just transpired. Her husband—her lover—had walked out on her on this, her wedding night.

  And Sloan McCord had called her cold.

  He had a heart of ice, Heather thought bitterly.

  She shut her eyes, willing herself not to cry. If not for his incredible tenderness and patience earlier, she would have called him cruel.

  But he had been a considerate lover after all. Her initiation into lovemaking had been breathtaking. She was slightly shocked by the intimacies he’d insisted on, dazed by the strangeness of it all. The initial pain had given way to a sensation so intense she’d almost wept, a rapture so stunning she still trembled.

  But it was Sloan’s remoteness afterward that had left her aching. She’d felt his withdrawal from her as if he’d physically raised a wall between them.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected afterward. Perhaps for Sloan to hold her and cherish her and reassure her. To explain what had happened to her.

  She hadn’t known her body could take control like that. Hadn’t known she could behave so wantonly, or feel such shameless joy. Hadn’t known she could come apart in his arms. The shattering experience had left her shaken … and filled with impossible longings for her new husband.

  Heaven help her.

  Heather drew the pillow to her body, breathing in his masculine scent and calling herself all kinds of fool. She had to resign herself to reality. Their marriage was a business arrangement, nothing more. She had to learn to still the wild pendulum of her emotions. Had to learn to guard her heart more closely. She had already exposed much more of her vulnerability to him than she could stand.

  Hardening her jaw with determination, she rose from the bed. Dragging the sheet around her body, Heather went to the mirror which hung on one wall.

  She didn’t look like a wife. She looked like a woman who’d just been pleasured—wanton and wild, with pale wisps of her hair escaping their pins, her mouth slightly swollen, her skin flushed.

  Her fingers wandered to her lips, where Sloan’s kisses still burned like a brand. For a moment she closed her eyes and re-lived his taking of her, remembering the feel of his hard body against hers. Every line and plane of muscle had etched itself into her memory, never to be forgotten. His incredible tenderness had etched itself onto her heart.

  The feverish madness that had seized them both had been remarkable; every womanly instinct she possessed told her so. She hadn’t been mistaken. The intimacy of their joining had gone beyond the physical. For the briefest moment she had felt so close to Sloan … as if she were a part of him, and he a part of her.

  But he was determined to push her away, to keep his heart closed to her.

  Heather let out her breath in a sigh. Sloan McCord didn’t want a true wife, she had to remember that. She had to crush the fledgling emotions she was beginning to feel for him and make the best
of an awkward situation.

  She had to uphold her end of the business arrangement—and protect herself from heartache, if she could.

  Chapter 5

  The Denver train depot was a bustle of activity despite the winter season, Heather noted with surprise. While she waited for Sloan to collect his buckboard from the livery and load her trunks, she watched curiously as passengers scurried along the platform.

  The station seemed less genteel than the one in St. Louis, with fewer ladies and frock-coated gentlemen and more cowboys sporting low-brimmed Stetsons and spurs with six-guns riding their lean hips. The stockyards in the distance marked the terminal as a main cattle-shipping center, while the buildings boasted painted clapboard instead of brick.

  It was perhaps colder here, as well, she thought. Snow covered the ground in patches, glittering in the bright afternoon sunshine.

  Heather was grateful for the added warmth of the sun. With her emotions so raw, she’d slept little last night and was weary after twenty-six hours on the train, with the prospect of a thirty-mile trip to the McCord ranch in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains still to come. Sloan had warned her they would arrive well after dark.

  Otherwise he’d spoken little to her since the consummation of their wedding vows. Shortly after breakfast this morning, he’d returned to the car and lain down on the bed to sleep. A porter woke him when the train was a half hour outside of Denver, and he’d shaved and changed clothes with scarcely a glance at Heather. It was all she could do to concentrate on her book. She felt bare, exposed, far too vulnerable in his presence, especially with him performing such intimate tasks, the way a real husband might in front of his wife.

  That defenseless feeling rose again unbidden as she saw Sloan pushing through the crowd, his tall, lean body moving with athletic grace. When she stepped down from the train, carrying her carpetbag, their gazes locked.

  “You ready, duchess?”

  His expression was cautious, wary, distant. Heather was the first to look away. It hurt to see that remote, impersonal look in his eyes, as if their explosive joining had never happened. As if she’d never lain beneath his body and cried out with the wonder of it. She was still desperately fighting the emotions he’d unleashed in her last night.

  She had been a stranger to herself. No one had ever told her about the madness, the fever, the blindness of desire. She never expected to feel sensations so sweet, so powerful, that she would shatter in a million pieces. She never expected, either, to feel such conflicting sentiments for this hard man, one part of her wanting to burrow into his arms and reclaim the tenderness he’d given so unwillingly last night; another wanting to rail at him for shutting her out so coldly; another yearning to understand the deep sorrow she sensed in him, the complex forces that had made him the uncompromising stranger he was.

  Taking her bag, Sloan led her to the buckboard and handed her up. When he considerately tucked a blanket over her skirts, she thought of those hands touching her last night.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, her face flushing from the vivid recollection.

  “It’ll be cold,” he replied matter-of-factly. Climbing up beside her, he gave her a single glance before the brim of his hat shaded his face. “Jake and Cat will be expecting us. I sent them a telegram.”

  She nodded, trying to forget the memory of his hard fingers and soft mouth, of his heated lips on her skin.

  Sloan slapped the reins and the team moved forward. Leaving the crowded depot behind, they traveled along streets lined with ornate false-fronted buildings and bustling stores and less refined saloons.

  As they left the city, they maintained a mutual silence, Sloan concentrating on driving over roads patched with ice and mud, while Heather studied the scenery. The land surrounding Denver was flat prairie dotted with shrub, yet the snow-covered mountains seemed quite close, shining in the distance.

  Eventually the level grassland gave way to rugged hills flecked with cattle and the occasional ranch. The cold air had a cleaner, sweeter smell here, it seemed, while the view from the ridgetops was utterly spectacular. Beyond the foothills the main range of the Rockies rose up in jagged splendor, their snowy peaks glistening in the sunlight, their slopes covered with frosted ponderosa pine and tall spruce and bare, white-trunked aspen.

  Heather found herself staring in awe. It was an unbelievably beautiful country, splendorous and wild, with a sheer vastness that was breathtaking.

  Once toward sunset, Sloan drew the team to a halt and sat for a moment in silence, regarding the panorama. Heather could understand his reverence for the untamed grandeur. The mountains had turned purple and gold as the sun slid down their massive shoulders.

  When he glanced at her to gauge her reaction, she offered him a quiet smile. “It’s beautiful.”

  “God’s country,” he said simply.

  A while later they heard the staccato sound of hoofbeats behind them. With one hand Sloan reached for the rifle stowed in the scabbard beside the wagon seat. He kept the weapon slung across his knees until the three riders, all older cowboys, passed with a greeting and a tip of their hats.

  “Are you expecting trouble?” Heather asked in a low voice when they were alone.

  “No, but the range war hasn’t been over long enough to go around unarmed. I want you to always carry a gun with you when you travel.”

  Hearing his grim tone, Heather recalled soberly what Caitlin had told her—that Sloan’s Indian wife had been killed by gunmen while simply driving home.

  The road became rougher as it grew dark, with boulders and ruts and broken snow choking the trail. Sloan made frequent use of the brake on the steep inclines and had to dismount several times to lead the horses through particularly treacherous patches. Shortly, though, a full moon rose to bathe the countryside in pale luminescence, lighting the way. As they edged alongside dangerous precipices, Heather clung to the rocking buckboard, yet somehow she felt safe in Sloan’s care.

  The bitter cold was another question. She buried her face in the wool blanket as she found herself shivering.

  “Not much farther,” Sloan said sympathetically. “We’ll turn off before we reach Greenbriar.”

  Heather nodded. Caitlin had told her about the town that was the local watering hole for ranchers and miners.

  “Is Greenbriar part of the district you would represent if you run for the state senate?” she asked.

  Sloan gave her an odd look, as if surprised she would concern herself with such details. “Yes. The district’s large—stretches from a few miles back to twenty miles into the mountains, and nearly a hundred miles north to south. Part of the problem has always been balancing ranching and mining interests.”

  Some ten minutes later they left the main road and traveled along a rocky trail that wound through the foothills. The McCord ranch was nestled in a moonlit valley, at the base of a dark, pine-clad slope. Welcoming lights shone in the distance as they drove through a gate marked Bar M.

  In the moon’s silver glow, Heather could see a handsome split-timber house, two stories tall, flanked by corrals and outbuildings. A lantern illuminated the front porch of the ranch house, while wood smoke curled from several chimneys.

  Sloan had scarcely pulled the team to a stop in the yard when a raven-haired woman came hurrying out of the house, her slender form now bulky with pregnancy.

  Heather felt a surge of joy at seeing Caitlin, yet a bit alarmed when she negotiated the slippery porch steps in order to greet them.

  Without waiting for Sloan to help her, Heather climbed down from the wagon seat and found herself drawn into her friend’s warm embrace.

  “At last,” Caitlin exclaimed. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.”

  “I, too. I didn’t expect to find you here.”

  “We wanted to welcome you to your new home. Sloan, you should be roped and tied for making her endure such a hard journey,” Caitlin scolded. “I’ll do it myself if you don’t bring her inside at once.”

&n
bsp; Sloan’s mouth curved in a reluctant grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Heather’s brows rose in surprise at their easy rapport. She suspected few people had the nerve to order Sloan McCord around, much less threaten him.

  “You must be frozen,” Caitlin remarked. “Come warm yourself by the fire. Supper’s heating in the oven.”

  When Heather had collected her carpetbag from the back of the buckboard, the two women went up the steps arm-in-arm and encountered a man dressed in a chambray shirt and denims.

  “Heather, this is my husband Jake—Ryan’s father.”

  In the lantern light, Heather regarded the former outlaw curiously. Like Sloan, he was tall and rugged, with the same lean-muscled build and roughly chiseled good looks. His hair, too, was the color of dusty wheat, but his eyes were a vivid green, lacking the frost that glittered in his brother’s ice-blue ones.

  Just now those striking eyes were inquisitive yet cautious, as if Jake McCord intended to withhold judgment of her. His work-hardened hand, however, felt warm and strong as he offered it to her to shake.

  Heather smiled. “I’m pleased to meet you at last. Caitlin has told me a great deal about you, Judge McCord.”

  “Call me Jake. Cat told me about you, too, but she didn’t warn me I’d be getting such a handsome woman for a sister.” His easy grin was as unconsciously seductive as it was dangerous, with the potent masculinity his brother possessed in full measure. “Welcome to the family.”

  “Where’s Janna?” Sloan asked from behind them.

  “In your study,” Caitlin replied. “She wanted to stay up to see her papa and meet her new mamma.”

  At the remark, Sloan went still for an instant. But then he moved past them and entered the house.

  At the urging of her friend, Heather followed. She caught a glimpse on her left of a darkened parlor, with brocade furniture and flocked wallpaper that looked surprisingly modern. On the right, however, was where Sloan disappeared.

  Her first impression of the study was one of warmth and comfort and enduring solidness. Rustic beams stretched across the ceiling of the large room, while colorful woven rugs covered the floor and bookshelves lined one wall. The furniture was masculine, overstuffed tanned leather of black or rust hues—far less formal than that in the parlor and a good deal more inviting.