Lover in the Rough

by Lowell, Elizabeth

  Whatever Reba had been going to say was lost in the exquisite sensations coursing through her. The heat and overwhelming sensuality of his caress, the pleasure he so plainly took in her body, completely undid her. She gave herself to him, reserving nothing, consumed to her core by the liquid fire that he brought with each movement, each rough velvet touch. When his teeth closed with savage delicacy on her flesh she arched like a bow, clinging to him and shuddering, calling his name in broken sounds and sighs, wholly lost.

  While she was still shaken by the aftershocks of a pleasure more overpowering than any she had ever known, he flowed up her body in a muscular surge. He took her swiftly, holding both of them motionless, savoring the extent of his possession. Then he moved once, hard, setting fire to her again. She cried out and sank her nails into his shoulders without knowing it, gripped by a pleasure so intense it was almost indistinguishable from pain. He laughed and moved slowly, powerfully, watching her come apart with each movement, her eyes a cinnamon blaze in a face transformed by an ecstasy as fierce and potent as the man inside her.

  He called her name once, a cry wrung from the depths of his need. She shuddered and flowed over him, nails raking down to his hips, asking him to ride the liquid waves of her ecstasy. With a hoarse sound he let go of control, sinking into her endlessly, giving himself to her as wholly as she had given herself to him.

  Ten

  Reba took three steps on the narrow beam, did a back walkover, two forward walkovers and a cartwheel off the beam onto the resilient pad that covered the floor of the room. Breathing deeply, her skin misted with perspiration, she reached for a towel.

  “Finished?” asked a deep voice from the doorway.

  She turned suddenly, gracefully, startled as always by Chance’s silence of movement. “Where did you come from?”

  “The Objet d’Art. I left the press release about Jeremy’s collection on the coffee table. Gina wants your okay before closing time. She was frothing about not being able to mention the wedding,” he added in a neutral voice.

  “I told her we’d announce it at the del Coronado when we show Jeremy’s collection,” said Reba. “Until then, I don’t want to cope with all the curiosity and nasty cracks. I just want to enjoy you in peace.”

  Chance looked at Reba for a long moment, then nodded. “I see. I was beginning to wonder if you’d changed your mind about marrying me.”

  She ran lightly over and threw her arms around him. “You don’t get away that easily,” she said, smiling and very serious as she looked into his unique, silvergreen eyes.

  “It’s not me I’m worried about.” His hard, slightly rough hands caged her face. “It’s you, chaton. Things that you see very clearly when you look at death tend to fade with safety. The further away we get from that cave-in, the longer you stay in the city, the more I’m afraid you’ll decide not to marry me.”

  Closing her eyes, Reba put her cheek on the warm, hard flesh that beckoned through the open neck of Chance’s forest-green shirt. It had been less than two days since they had come back from the China Queen, but it seemed as though she had loved Chance forever. She had no doubts. Tomorrow they would be married.

  “Tomorrow is my birthday,” whispered Reba against his skin. “You promised me the only gift I want. You. You won’t get out of that if I have to lock you inside the Objet d’Art’s walk-in safe.”

  Chance’s laugh was little more than a vibration against her cheek. Long fingers lifted out the bone chopsticks that held her hair in a tight coil on top of her head. He rubbed her scalp while honey hair whispered and slid over his skin. The tip of his tongue found the pulse beating in her throat. He felt it quicken as his hand moved down her body, savoring the heat and firmness of her flesh beneath the fuchsia leotard she wore.

  “I’m yours,” he said almost roughly, “marriage or no marriage. I meant what I said before I made love to you by that spring. You belong to me with or without the vows. But I’d rather be married to you. I want my ring on your finger and my name after yours—Reba Farrall Walker. I want men to know that you’re mine.”

  “And I want women to know that you’re mine.” She smiled crookedly. “I have your ring all picked out.”

  “Are you possessive?” he asked softly, his eyes very green as they memorized the shape of her mouth, the tip of her tongue glistening pinkly as she touched her lower lip.

  Reba looked into Chance’s eyes and felt the wildness stir in her, powerful currents of emotion and need only he had ever tapped. “I never was possessive before. When my husband started seducing his students I was more disgusted than angry. But if you so much as touched another woman, Chance Walker, I think I’d do something rather violent.”

  He smiled like a hungry tiger and kissed her until she melted against him, her softness and strength fitting perfectly along the hard length of his body. “Don’t worry, my woman. Once a prospector has touched diamonds and gold dust, he’ll never settle for less.”

  He kissed her again, gently this time. Reluctantly he loosened his arms. “If I don’t stop soon, I’m going to find myself suggesting that I help you take a shower.” His look and hands wandered over her, touching the hard buttons of her nipples, the provocative curve of hip, the shadowed warmth between her thighs. “The next thing you know,” he said, his voice husky, “I’d be nibbling on you, tasting you from your delicious little ears to your ticklish toes.”

  Reba’s breath shortened as she arched into his touch.

  Chance closed his eyes and moved his hands back to her shoulders. “But if I did that, I’d never leave and we wouldn’t be able to get married tomorrow. Why does your bloody government insist on so much paperwork?”

  “It’s your bloody government, too,” pointed out Reba reasonably, her eyes brilliant with desire.

  He sighed and stepped back. “Right. I keep telling myself that every time I want to just grab you and say to hell with all the rules.” His fingertips smoothed the line of one dark honey eyebrow. He brushed his lips over hers. “Be here when I get back.”

  “Always.”

  Reba watched the door closing behind Chance and had to use all her discipline not to call his name. The fact that he’d be in her arms this evening didn’t ease the ache she had now. It was more than simple desire; now that she knew what life could be with Chance sharing it, life without him was like an inferior gem—faded, bland, flat, and dull.

  She showered quickly, ate a midafternoon snack in place of the lunch she had forgotten, and settled in the living room to read Gina’s press release. As usual, Gina had said what needed to be said with a minimum of fuss and a maximum of clarity. Reba set aside the papers, reached for a phone and called the Objet d’Art.

  “Gina? The press release is excellent. Send it out right away. Any calls for me, or hasn’t anyone noticed I’m playing hooky?”

  “Todd Sinclair dropped by. I finally told him what your two choices were from the collection. I hope you don’t mind. It was the easiest way to get rid of him, short of Tim’s method.”

  “A blackjack?” hazarded Reba.

  “That’s my Tim,” said Gina dryly. “Not that I blame him. I could cheerfully take a blackjack to Todd myself.”

  “I’m glad I wasn’t in the office.”

  “Not as glad as Todd was. He was definitely relieved that you—and Chance—were nowhere around. I do believe that your man put the fear of God in Todd Sinclair.”

  “Hallelujah. Maybe I’ve combed that toad out of my hair for the last time.”

  “The other calls didn’t amount to much. Everyone is unhappy about having to wait until the del Coronado to see Jeremy’s collection, but Tim is holding firm. No special previews, just as you wanted.”

  “Good. If we let in one, we’ll have to let in all. I’d rather enjoy my honeymoon in peace.”

  “Somehow, peace and Chance Walker seem a contradiction in terms.”

  Reba’s smile wasn’t transmitted over the phone, but the throaty softness of her voice was. “Not re
ally,” she murmured, remembering how peaceful it was to fall asleep in Chance’s strong arms. “He can be a very soothing man.”

  There was a sudden commotion on Gina’s end of the line, an unknown woman’s voice and then Tim’s voice.

  “Hold on, Reba,” said Gina.

  The sound of the phone changed, telling Reba that she had been put on hold whether she liked it or not. She waited with relative patience, assuming that a customer had needed Gina.

  “Reba?”

  It was Tim’s voice. “Still here,” she sighed. “What came unstuck this time?”

  “Nothing. Chance’s sister is here, looking for him.”

  “What? Glory is there?”

  “So that really is her name?” asked Tim, trying to smother a laugh. He spoke in a muffled aside that Reba could overhear. “Sorry, Mrs. Day. Your name struck me as, er, unusual. And we’ve had a lot of news types sniffing around here lately, what with Jeremy Sinclair’s collection and all.”

  Reba heard the phone change hands. A woman’s voice spoke, her Australian accent clear. Unlike Chance, Glory had totally lost the vocal rhythms of her birthplace, using instead the sounds of her adopted land.

  “Chance?” asked Glory. “It’s about bloody time I found you.”

  “Not quite. I’m Reba.”

  “Chance’s woman.” Satisfaction sounded in every syllable. “He won’t be far away then. He’s been a long time looking for you, Reba Farrall. Can I talk to him for a minute?”

  “He’s out cutting red tape.”

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Glory. “Well, back to the hotel to wait for him, then.”

  “Chance won’t be coming back to the hotel. I don’t even know when he’ll be coming here. Why don’t you let Tim drive you over to my house? We can wait together.”

  “I’d like that.” Glory chuckled, a slightly rasping sound that reminded Reba of Chance. “I’m curious about you, Reba. A lot of sheilas went prospecting for Chance. Not one of them found anything but hard rock and heartache.”

  “I’m quite ordinary,” said Reba dryly.

  Glory laughed and turned the phone back over to Tim, who assured Reba that he’d bring Chance’s sister over right away. Reba hung up, showered, and dressed. She pulled on a black cashmere sweater, plucked a few long golden hairs off her soft wool slacks, and went into the kitchen to start coffee. She’d spent enough time in the throes of jet lag to know that Glory was going to be punchy after her long flight from Australia.

  Besides, the weather had turned cold and cloudy again, a typical Los Angeles reversal—yesterday eighty degrees, today fifty-five. Hot coffee and cashmere felt good today, especially with a wind off the ocean rattling her windows.

  She walked barefoot across the wine-colored rug, enjoying its resilience and warmth. The long, low couch was done in a subdued oriental pattern, heavy silk shot through with cream and wine and midnight blue. The colors were repeated and combined in huge pillows piled randomly about, pillows that invited lingering touches with their suede and cashmere and silk textures. Cream brocade wallpaper gleamed subtly, giving the room a feeling both of space and intimacy.

  Beyond the floor-length windows, wind leaped and pounced, shaking grass and houses with equal ease. A western wind was rare in southern California, but when it came, it came with a vengeance. From her cliff-top house, Reba could see that the sea had been churned into burnished silver and exploding whitecaps from shore to horizon. There were no boats on the water. Today, the Pacific was not an ocean for small craft or dilettantes.

  Reba sat and watched the wild sea until chimes rang, telling her that Glory had arrived. She went quickly to the front door and opened it. For a moment, she and Glory looked at each other with equal curiosity.

  Chance’s sister was perhaps fifteen years older than Reba, no taller and nearly as slender. Her short hair was black, combed back from her tanned face. Grey was sprinkled in the midnight color, turning into shining wings of silver on the sides of her face. Her mouth was wide, shaped for smiling. Her eyes were pale green, but without her brother’s silver shading. Lines of laughter and sadness and strength radiated out from her eyes, giving her face a character that was both beautiful and calm.

  Without thinking, Reba smiled and held out her arms, drawn to Glory as intuitively as she had been drawn to Chance. Glory’s expression changed to relief and pleasure and sheer happiness.

  “Thank God,” said Glory, giving and receiving a hard hug. “I was afraid Chance had settled for a city sheila with no more idea of love than a handful of rock.”

  “And I was afraid that Chance’s very special sister might be the kind who wouldn’t like any woman her brother liked.”

  “ ‘Very special’?” said Glory, laughing and sinking into the comfortable couch Reba had led her to. “Honey, the only thing special about me are these damned white wings in my hair.”

  “There must be more than that. As far as I can tell, you’re one of the few human beings on earth that Chance loves.”

  “Did he tell you that?” said Glory, surprised.

  “Not in so many words. It’s there, though, in his eyes and voice when he talks about you.”

  Glory sighed. “Chance doesn’t use the word love. Ever.”

  “I know.” Reba’s voice was quiet, constrained. Even knowing that she was going to be Chance’s wife hadn’t removed the hurt of not being told she was loved. “But he shows it in other ways,” she said firmly.

  “It would go better on him and the world if he could talk about it,” said Glory, her eyes distant, sad. “That may never be, though.” Pale eyes focused on Reba. “Can you live with that?”

  “I don’t have any choice. I love him.”

  Glory sighed and closed her eyes, leaning tiredly against the back of the couch. “I know he loves you. You’re the only woman he’s ever wanted to marry. He’s in such a bloody great rush to make you a Walker that he wouldn’t even wait a week no matter how I pleaded. So I moved heaven and earth and my husband, and here I am.” She yawned. “I’ve been up since I got Chance’s call thirty-four hours ago. I hope that he’s going to be one surprised gouger when he sees me here.” She smiled tiredly. “It’s my only wedding present to the brother I love.”

  “It’s the only kind of present that matters,” said Reba. Her smile widened into laughter. “I can’t wait to see Chance surprised. He’s a hard man to sneak up on.”

  Glory’s yawn ended in a chuckle. “Don’t hold your breath, honey. No one’s taken Chance by surprise since he was fourteen.”

  “When Luck died?”

  Glory’s eyes opened, green and speculative. “Did he tell you about that?”

  “Some of it. He told me how much it hurt—still hurts—that Luck was killed before Chance could prevent it. I don’t know what fourteen-year-old could be expected to do.”

  “Nobody expected anything, least of all what happened.” Glory looked closely at Reba. “What did Chance tell you about that day?”

  “That he was too late. That Luck was dead. That he found the miner who had killed Luck.”

  “And then?”

  Reba shook her head. “He wouldn’t say any more. But I think,” she said, remembering the men in the mine and Chance’s swift, deadly skill, “I think that if Chance had been older, the other miner would be dead.”

  “You’re half right,” said Glory, her eyes haunted. “Chance was only fourteen but he killed that miner just the same. Size never counted for much with Chance.”

  “My God …” Reba’s voice died.

  “If you’d seen what was left of Luck,” said Glory grimly, “you wouldn’t blame Chance. I stole a gun and went looking for that bloody miner myself. Chance found him first. The miner had a knife. It didn’t do any good, though. Chance took it away and killed him with his bare hands.” Glory shook her head. “Lord, it’s been a long time since I remembered that. I used to wonder why Chance went crazy over Luck’s death like that.”

  “It was the time in the mine,”
said Reba slowly, “when your father turned off all the lights and Chance screamed and Luck held him and cursed your father until he turned on the lights again.”

  The older woman looked carefully at Reba. “When did that happen?”

  “Just after your mother died. Chance always wanted to help Luck as much as he had been helped.”

  “Chance never told me about that, even after Luck was dead.” A thoughtful expression crossed Glory’s face. “It explains a lot. Dad never had much use for Chance. Even as a child, Chance was independent. The only one he gave a damn about was Mum. Luck was different. He was Dad’s child, period. But Luck loved Chance, too. Bloody odd, watching those two together. Never saw two brothers closer, or with less in common. For all his charm, I never really liked Luck. Chance was different. Tough little beggar with a smile like sunrise.”

  Glory yawned again, then apologized. “It’s not the company, honey, just the hour. Back home, I’d be asleep.”

  “That’s all right,” said Reba. “Jet lag always hits me like a falling mountain. Do you want coffee or a nap?”

  “Coffee,” said Glory promptly.

  Reba went to the kitchen and returned with thick mugs of steaming coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

  “No thanks.” Glory smiled. “That much of me is still American.” She sipped the black brew and sighed. “Heaven, Reba, pure heaven. Pretty name you have. Is it short for something?”

  “Rebecca.”

  Glory looked over the rim of her mug. “Of Sunnybrook Farm?”

  “Only in my mother’s fantasies,” said Reba. “The real me was a considerable disappointment.”

  “Parents can be a bloody pain in the arse,” said Glory bluntly. “You’re not a Becky, either, are you?”

  “Much to my ex-husband’s disappointment.”

  Glory blinked, then laughed shortly. “You haven’t had an easy time of it, have you, honey?”

  “I wonder if anyone has.”

  Glory sighed and closed her eyes for so long that Reba thought she was asleep. “You’ll do, Reba Farrall. You’ll do just fine. And thank the Lord for it. If ever a man deserved a break, it’s Chance.”