“Use your imagination.”
Slowly, she climbed onto the bed and knelt naked beside him. His magnificent masculinity no longer shocked her. Instead, it left her tingling with sexual awareness. She wanted to reach out and satisfy her natural curiosity about his body. She actually ached to touch him.
“Touch me,” he murmured, echoing her thoughts. His eyes were hot and held dark promises. “Take my cock in your hands and hold me.”
Gently, he captured her hand to encourage and guide her. When her fingers closed around him, he winced slightly.
“Does that hurt?” she asked.
He gave a strangled laugh. “A good hurt.” His fingers wrapped about hers so she held him tightly. With a soft groan, he shut his eyes.
For the first time in their stormy relationship, Heather understood the effect she was having on him, and it soothed her initial panic. She took a deep breath. She had not given Sloan much pleasure during their first sexual encounters; she’d been too nervous and inexperienced even to try. But now he was giving her the chance.
And she wanted to take it. She wanted to make this man, as remote and icily detached as he was, feel the same hot, uncontrollable pleasure he aroused in her.
Her fingers cupped him tentatively as she watched his face. The bronzed skin was pulled taut across lean cheekbones while the pulse beat so strongly in his throat, she could see its throbbing rhythm. Her exploration grew bolder, learning the feel of him, the sensations of swollen sacks nestled in soft dark hair, the long, thick shaft that was hot and silken to the touch, the flushed, bulbous head with the encircling ridge....
With effort, Sloan lay completely still, allowing her to set the pace. Only his hand moved, guiding her, showing her how to stroke and arouse him.
“Like this?” she whispered.
“Exactly … like that…” he agreed, his voice an uneven gasp.
In fascination she fondled him, caressing until he arched his hips in fitful need. Yet Heather was not inclined to satisfy him just yet. She wanted to draw out the intimate moment, to drive Sloan as mad with desire as he did her.
Following her intuition, she rose up on her knees. She wanted to taste him. Daringly, she bent over him, her long hair caressing his body as she pressed her lips to his engorged flesh. Sloan groaned.
Her own body aching shamelessly for him, she placed a questioning kiss on the velvet-smooth head. His every muscle went rigid. Greatly encouraged, she touched him with her tongue, tasting salt and musk and male sweetness. His head moved restlessly on the pillow. Her tongue traced the rigid length, and she felt a surge of triumph when his fists gripped the sheets.
The last remnants of shyness fading, she continued her sensual assault, sliding her lips down over the swollen crown as her fingers caressed him.
It was the startling boldness of her next intimacy, however, that made him shudder. She sucked gently, drawing him into her mouth with an innocent passion that inflamed him.
Pulsating wildly, Sloan let the male ache wash over him in ripples of pleasure-pain. “Duchess…”
“My name is Heather,” she whispered against his hot flesh. “Say it, Sloan.”
He laughed softly and then groaned. “Heather … ahh … sweet Jesus, what are you doing to me?”
She was reveling in her sensual power—but suddenly it wasn’t enough for her. She wanted to take him inside her body. “Sloan … please… I want you.”
It was all the encouragement he needed. Reaching for her arms, he pulled Heather on top of him. The soft warmth of her naked breasts met the hardness of his chest with the impact of a brand. Their eyes met, his hot, hers dazed.
Trying to quell the raging lust that rippled through his body, Sloan lifted her up till she sat astride his sinewed thighs. Instinctively her back arched, her breasts filling his palms, hardening and thrusting out to seek his touch, his mouth—but he held her still.
His eyes had sharpened to a glittering awareness. In a soft guttural tone he demanded, “You sure I won’t hurt you?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
She was breathless and ready for him, hot and dripping wet. In a single swift motion, he raised her up and lowered her on his shaft.
The sensation of her sleek, heated flesh sheathing him was so exquisite he nearly came right then; his hunger was that raw, that explosive.
“Ride me,” he rasped, and she obeyed. Her soft thighs settled over him and she began to move, seeking an urgent rhythm, her hips undulating in search of the hot pleasure he had taught her.
Desire flared hot and bright inside him, a desire he couldn’t hold back. The frantic rhythm became a frenzied hunger. He bucked wildly beneath her, driving relentlessly. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as she cried out, her head thrown back in ecstasy as her climax came. His release followed instantly in a fiery explosion, and he spilled his seed in pulsing spasms.
Panting, she collapsed against him, her lush body flushed and dewy with perspiration.
This was how he wanted her, Sloan thought weakly, with her elegant, aloof image shattered. And yet remorse tinged his triumph. He’d been way too rough with her. But then… he couldn’t have controlled himself, any more than he could have stopped a wildfire racing up a dry canyon in the heat of summer.
“Is it always like this?” she whispered long moments later.
When he didn’t answer, she drew back a little to look down at him.
His eyes grew hooded. He didn’t want to meet her searching gaze.
Just then, they heard the sound of a child’s gurgling laugh through the partially open door. Janna was awake.
Grateful for the interruption, Sloan eased himself from beneath her and left the bed. Giving her a glimpse of taut, bare buttocks, he bent to pull on his denims.
“Hell, it’s just sex, duchess,” he lied. “Happens all the time. Nothing to get worked up about.”
Chapter 11
Their relationship changed that day, at least physically. Where once Sloan had ignored her, now he couldn’t seem to get enough of her. He took her whenever and wherever he pleased.
Helpless to resist, overwhelmed by his heat and sexuality, Heather gave him everything, her body, her honor, her pride.
He became master of her body. Under his tutelage she discovered a wild, uninhibited side of herself she never suspected existed. To her dismay, she reveled in her liberation, appalled yet renewed at the same time.
He showed her the many different facets of passion. She’d never realized that lovemaking could be a slow, languorous tangle of bodies, or a feverish battle of wills. She never felt so alive as she did in his arms, losing herself in a pleasure so intense she became mindless.
Sloan, however, appeared to escape the devastating impact of their smoldering encounters. The words he whispered to her in the heat of passion were of lust and carnal need, merely that. She could put no stock in them.
Oh, he wanted her body, of that she was certain. She couldn’t mistake the taut, savage look on his face as he took her. But their lovemaking was raw and hot and purely sexual, nothing more.
Heather tried not to let it wound her. She tried to ignore the fact that Sloan’s bedchamber was still off limits to her. He never took her there, although any other location in the house seemed acceptable—her bedchamber, the kitchen, his study in front of the hearth, the spare room upstairs that was used for sewing and storage and extra overnight guests. Each time, she desperately fought the feelings he unleashed inside her. If she was to survive, she would have to keep her distance emotionally. She would have to try her level best to hold herself aloof.
But she feared she was fighting a battle she could never win.
The battle proved easier once spring roundup began in mid-May. She’d heard tales of the West, thrilling stories of cattle drives and gunfights, but the reality of a ranch was endless days of grueling, mundane work as Sloan and his cowboys brought the cattle down from the hills to mark them with the Bar M brand.
Several times Heather dro
ve out with Janna to observe the operation at a safe distance. The scene looked chaotic, the air filled with the smells of dust and smoke and burning hide, as well as the lowing of hundreds of cattle and the singing and calling of the drivers at their flanks.
Watching, she thought she understood how cowpunchers got their name. There were several members of a branding crew. First a cowboy on a racing horse would cut out a calf from the herd, rope it, then drag to closer to the fire, where a bulldogger would throw it to the ground and tie it. Then the brander would shove a hot iron into its rump, all in a matter of seconds. Lastly the ears were marked with a sharp knife, and if the animal was male, the testicles were castrated and the fries thrown into a pile to be cooked later.
Heather felt for the poor calves. Their pitiful bawling as they ran crying back to their mamas wrung her heart. But Rusty assured her it wasn’t as brutal an ordeal as it looked.
“Their hides are tough,” he insisted, “and they’re more scared than wounded.”
On her first visit with Janna, Sloan broke away from the branding operation and rode over to greet them. His smile was chiefly for his daughter, but his gaze held Heather’s for a long, sensually charged moment. “Glad you could come.” When he bent near, she caught the hot, earthy scents of sweat, sun, leather, and man, and her blood quickened.
The spell was over in a moment. Sloan scooped Janna up in his arms and set her before him on his horse.
“Come on, darlin’. It’s time you got a look at your heritage.” Much to the child’s awed delight, he rode slowly around the camp, showing her the sights.
Except for the few sojourns to the range, however, Heather saw little of Sloan during the weeks of roundup. After putting in a long day branding calves, he came home late and fell wearily into bed each night, only to rise before dawn to begin all over again.
She found herself missing his presence. There were no longer any quiet cozes in his study, or homey, peaceful meals with Janna between them, or pulsing nights of darkness and desire.
She kept herself occupied, though, as spring slipped into early summer, and was not discontented with her lot. In helping to raise Janna, she’d found a sense of renewed purpose in life, and her former existence in St. Louis began to seem like a distant dream.
Until, that is, she encountered Quinn Lovell.
For the past month or more she’d heard various accounts of Sloan’s political opponent, but she first met him face-to-face one morning when she drove into Greenbriar for supplies. The wealthy mining baron had already begun campaigning for state senator, it seemed, and Heather discovered him holding sway on a street corner before a small crowd of townspeople, explaining the bleakness of the future of Colorado’s cattle industry.
She drew the buggy to a halt and pulled Janna onto her lap as she listened curiously. The intent crowd was questioning him about his plan to start new silver mines in the district. The few hecklers apparently were cattlemen, but the town marshal, Luther Netherson, stood to one side, keeping the peace, his pair of six-guns prominently visible.
Mr. Lovell seemed a persuasive speaker, with a powerful, booming voice any Shakespearean actor would envy. He ran to portliness perhaps, but he was tall enough to carry the bulk, and the superbly tailored suit he wore helped to disguise his paunch. He might be considered handsome, Heather reflected, but he reminded her of Evan Randolf, not merely because of his dark-chestnut hair and sideburns and curling mustache, but his suave manner.
The discussion ended with Lovell appealing for votes, and the crowd dispersed. Before Heather could drive on, though, she found her buggy approached by Lovell himself, accompanied by Marshal Netherson.
When the marshal introduced them, Mr. Lovell tipped his hat to her. “Ah, the lovely Mrs. McCord. I understand you are the wife of my political opponent.”
Heather nodded politely. “How do you do, sir.”
“I am delighted to meet you at last,” he returned, displaying a graceful social address. “We share a common acquaintance, I believe. Evan Randolf thinks very highly of you. He asked me to look you up.”
“You know Mr. Randolf?”
“We are both on the board of the Union Pacific Railroad. I travel to St. Louis frequently on business. I understand you recently quitted that fine city. You must find it vastly different from the state of Colorado.”
“Different, yes, but pleasantly so.”
His eyes swept her body, taking in her jacquard bodice and skirt, as well as the half-Cheyenne child she held on her lap. “This is the little Indian child I’ve so much heard about?”
Protectively, Heather wrapped her arm more tightly around Janna. “This is my stepdaughter, Janna McCord.”
“Her features are more pronounced than I expected.”
His tone conveyed the slightest hint of triumph, and he had no need to explain his rationale aloud to Heather: Janna’s lineage would likely prove a disadvantage to Sloan’s campaign. The good citizens of Colorado would not be able to forget who her mother was.
“Yes, isn’t it fortunate?” Heather replied evenly. “With her fine bone structure, she will doubtless grow up to be a real beauty. And she has the sweetest disposition… Anyone who meets her, loves her at once.”
“Perhaps.” His smile was patronizing, but he seemed to tire of sparring with her. “A pity you are supporting the wrong candidate, Mrs. McCord.”
Heather smiled coolly in return. “I don’t believe my husband is the wrong candidate, sir.”
“Well, we shall see…”
Quinn Lovell tipped his hat again and politely took his leave, while Heather breathed a sigh of relief. Normally she reserved judgment until she knew someone better, but instinctively she did not like Mr. Lovell. She had the uncomfortable suspicion he possessed the same ruthless ambition as Evan Randolf.
Sarah Baxter seemed to agree with her assessment. Sarah was behind the counter of the general store when Heather entered, and wasn’t at all shy in giving her opinion about Quinn Lovell.
“He’s a low-down sidewinder, that’s what.”
“A sidewinder?”
“A rattlesnake,” Sarah explained. “Pure poison—preying on decent folk down on their luck.”
When Heather eyed her quizzically, Sarah explained. “Lovell’s been buying up cattle ranches hereabouts. He offers the owners a pittance, but with the terrible winter we had and the price of beef so low, they have no choice but to sell. And that isn’t the worst of it,” she added darkly. “I’ve heard he’s assayed a dozen sites and means to start digging new mines any day now.”
“He suggested as much in the speech he gave just now. But why is that a problem?”
“Have you ever seen a slag heap? Mine tailings are about the ugliest thing you could ever lay eyes on. It’s going to destroy this beautiful land.”
“If that’s so, then I should think the voters would object to having Lovell as their representative.”
Sarah gave a ladylike snort and shook her head. “He already has a lot of support. A good third of the business in this town comes from miners, and they want someone who’ll look out for their interests. And folks who lose their ranches could find work in Lovell’s mines… It’s a prime pickle for sure. We have to stop him, Heather,” Sarah said earnestly. “We have to do our darnedest to make sure Sloan gets elected.”
Late that night, though, when Heather told Sloan about Lovell’s speech in town, he only nodded with grim resignation.
“Lovell is getting a head start on the campaign,” she pointed out. “If you’re not careful, the election will be over before it’s even begun—and he will have won.”
“Even so, I can’t afford to spend time campaigning just now. I have a ranch to see to. When roundup’s over, I can concentrate on the race.”
“Could you not let your foreman run things for a while now? You could hire more hands to replace you, could you not?”
“I can’t spare the cash.”
“But there must be something you can do.”
Heather winced silently, remembering precisely why Sloan was short on resources: because he’d paid her debts. She dropped the subject for the moment, but the issue gnawed at her.
She would have to ask Vernon Whitfield what jobs might be available for a woman with her skills. Perhaps the schoolteacher would know where she could find work as a part-time tutor. But this was not the best time to begin looking. School would be letting out shortly and not resume until the fall.
Meanwhile, however, she would do what she could to help Sloan’s senatorial campaign. She needed no convincing to know he was the better candidate. Sloan’s political aspirations were different from his opponent’s. His was not a search for power or wealth, but a fervent desire to make life better for the ranchers.
The roundup ended the second week in June. Sloan and his cowpunchers drove a herd to the railhead in Denver, a short distance compared to the long treks of most cattle drives. He left Rusty as guard and general handyman.
While he was in Denver, Sloan planned to meet with a group of politicians who were interested in seeing him beat Lovell. He intended to be gone only three days, but Heather missed him more than she cared to admit. The day after his departure, she was gathering Sloan’s clothing to launder when she found the chambray shirt he’d worn when they’d first met in St. Louis.
Wistfully, she rubbed the soft collar between her fingertips. Bunching the fabric in her hands, she brought it up to her face. She could still smell his male scent. Unbidden, the vulnerability, the loneliness, the longing rose up in her like a tide. She longed for a true marriage, a husband who cherished her. She longed for Sloan.
Her heart aching, Heather shook her head. She was a fool for wasting her emotions on an impossibility. Sloan had made it clear he didn’t want love. She yearned for a man beyond her reach. Despite the intensity of his passion, he kept himself shut off from her, elusive and terrifyingly remote, guarding what was left of his soul like a miser.
The Heart Breaker Page 17
