by Sandra Brown
He pushed the cowboy hat back far on his head and without moving his body, swiveled his head around to stab her with his eyes. “Who is Les?”
It wasn’t so much the question itself as the way he asked it that made her feel like she’d been punched in the stomach. She suffered all the symptoms of having sustained a stunning blow and having the breath knocked out of her. She sucked air greedily. “He’s my boss.”
“How convenient.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you carry on in the office or do you wait until work is done for the day? Does he know you were out in the woods last night letting another man kiss and fondle you, or would he care? Maybe it’s one of those ‘open’ relationships.”
Her cheeks flamed crimson, first at his allusion to last night and then with anger. “There is no relationship other than friendship.”
“Don’t lie to me, dammit. I heard you. ‘I know you love me, and I love you, too.’ ”
“You eavesdropped!?”
“I overheard. You were out in the hallway, you know, and you weren’t speaking in whispers. I was on my way upstairs. Of course I heard you.”
My God. How much had he heard? If he’d heard her promising Les she’d work on the son for information—No, he wasn’t quizzing her about that. He wanted to know about her and Les. But why? If it weren’t so ridiculous, she’d think he was jealous. Actually it must only be male pride. She was sure few women had fled Lyon’s arms to go call another man and tell him she loved him. “A gentleman would have made his presence known.”
He laughed harshly. “I quit being a gentleman a long time ago. Well, I’m waiting. Tell me about this Les.”
Why didn’t she tell him it was none of his business and order him to take her back to the house? Because for some unnamed reason, it was important that he did not misconstrue her relationship with Les. She’d examine the why of that later, when he wasn’t looking at her with such sanctimonious outrage.
Composure would be her counterattack. She wouldn’t countenance his anger, merely show that she was tolerating it, much as a parent tolerates the temper tantrum of a willful child. “Les Trapper is the producer of my show. We’ve worked together for years, before, during, and after I was married. He’s a friend. As for my telling him I love him, I do. As a friend. He tells every woman he meets from high-school girls to the elderly lady who cleans our offices that he loves her. It means nothing. At no point have Les and I been lovers.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
Her composure snapped. “I don’t give a damn whether you do or not. You branded a scarlet letter on my breast the moment I introduced myself to you.” She wished she hadn’t referred to her breast. His eyes dropped significantly to that region of her torso. Undaunted, she went on. “Just because I’m not a homemaker, doesn’t mean that I have no morals, Mr. Ratliff.”
“All right, say you and this Les aren’t involved. Did you fill him in on all the delicious details of our walk to the river? Did you gloat with him over how you’d wormed your way into the house and within hours had everyone eating out of your hand?”
“No!” So it was only his pride that had been crushed. He didn’t really care if she had a romantic relationship with Les or not, only if the two of them had made a fool of him. “No,” she said softly, shaking her head as she dropped her eyes to stare at the hands she held linked tightly together in her lap.
Lyon gnawed the lining of his mouth. What was it about her that infuriated him so? Why did he give a damn who she talked to on the telephone or what she said? Yet it had wrenched his guts to hear her wishing another man sweet dreams when he knew his own would be haunted by her.
She looked so sad, so contrite. And it could all be a role she was playing. He didn’t know if he wanted to strangle her or kiss her. Her mouth promised sweet relief from the bitterness that he tasted each minute of the day. Her breasts intimated surcease from the loneliness he lived with. Her body held the energy that would bring to life what had been dead in him for years.
He had found release for his physical appetites with no small number of compliant females, but each of these interludes had left him feeling empty and tainted. There had been only momentary satisfaction. What he wanted was intimacy with a woman that fully engaged all of the man he was, not just a physical conjunction that gave only fleeting pleasure.
He looked at her again and was surprised to see a tear rolling down her cheek. She looked up at the same time. No, her eyes were dry. That crystal wasn’t a tear. It was a raindrop.
“We’d better get back,” he said gruffly. “It’s starting to rain.”
That was an understatement. No sooner had he started the Jeep, than they were deluged by the cloudburst. The rain came down in blinding sheets. “Hold on,” he shouted and spun the Jeep around in the opposite direction from the house. He drove pell-mell over the uneven road. His hat was ripped from his head and went sailing off. Andy held on for dear life, the wind tearing at her hair and the rain pelting her face and arms.
He was heading straight for what looked to her like a solid wall of rock. As the cliff rushed toward them she saw the indentation. Lyon pumped the brake, and the Jeep slowed to a crawl that carried it through the mouth of the shallow cave. It was gloomy on the inside, but not ominous. The gloominess was due mostly to the darkness of the sky outside.
Lyon cut the motor, and they were plunged into a heavy silence, broken only by the pounding of the torrent just beyond the entrance of the cave and the slow drip of raindrops off the jeep onto the pebble-floor of the cave.
“Are you all right?” he asked at last.
She was shivering from the cold cloth of her knit top, now clinging damply to her body. From anxiety. From anticipation. “Yes.” Her teeth were chattering. Her nipples contracted against the cool air and wet fabric that covered them.
Lyon noticed. He dragged his eyes away. His gaze ricocheted off the walls, ceiling, and floor of the cave, the hood of the car, the back seat, before they came back to her face, which was pale and tense.
He followed the path of a raindrop that rolled from her hairline down her temple, over her cheekbone, and along her jaw until it made a right turn to cling precariously to the tip of her chin. Entirely unplanned, he watched as his index finger reached out and caught it, then withdrew hastily.
Andy sat transfixed.
Lyon turned his head away from her and stared at the rock wall of the cave. His fist lightly thumped his thigh, the only outlet he allowed his inner turmoil. He was like a man holding onto his last few strands of conscience and control, and the knot was slipping.
Then in one swift motion he turned back to her, leaned across the dashboard, and cradled her jaw between his work-roughened palms.
Tilting her head up and back, he raked his thumb along her lower lip. “Please don’t be a lie. Please don’t be.”
His mouth was hot and avid on hers, pushing her lips apart and thrusting his tongue inside. It sank deeply into the warm hollow of her mouth with a purpose so transparent that a groan issued from deep in his chest. Her hands came up to clasp either side of his face, holding his mouth to hers while she met the kiss with heedless fervor.
Finesse and gentleness were forgotten. This was a kiss governed by need, ruled by passion, unplanned, undeniable, and unrestrained—a tidal wave of desire engulfing them both and sweeping them along in a mindless current, a wildfire burning out of control.
They drank of each other thirstily. His tongue teased along the roof of her mouth, her teeth. He compared textures, tasted her, relished what he tasted. The rain had made her skin moist and fragrant with her scent. He abandoned her mouth to bury his face between her throat and chest to breathe and capture it all.
His hands stroked her arms. “Are you cold?”
“No,” she sighed. “No.” While one hand tugged gently at his earlobe the other was sliding up and down contours of his muscled back.
“Andy, you’re not involved with
Les Trapper?”
“Only as a co-worker and friend. I’m not involved with anyone. Haven’t been since Robert.”
He lifted his head to peer at her closely, looking for signs of mendacity lurking in the golden pools of her eyes. “I want to believe you.”
“Do. It’s true.”
“Why do you want to interview my father?”
His question genuinely puzzled her, and her bewilderment showed in her face. “For the reasons I’ve already told you. Do you think I have some ulterior motive?”
“No. I guess not,” he said slowly. “So many have tried for years to invade his privacy. He didn’t want the world he had created for himself, my mother, and me to be disrupted. Perhaps if he had consented to give interviews years ago, he wouldn’t have been the object of so much speculation.
“The reasons for his reclusiveness are personal. Up until you came he had resolved to go to his grave without ever having to answer a question about himself in order to satisfy the public’s curiosity. On the one hand, I’m glad he didn’t throw you out.” He smiled and ducked his head to kiss her collarbone. Then his eyes grew grave, and he stared fixedly at her earring. “And on the other, I’m afraid for him.”
She brushed back a strand of disobedient dark hair that lay damply on his wide forehead. “Why, Lyon?” She gloried in the sound of his name spoken aloud by her own lips and repeated the question just to hear it again. “Because of his health?”
“That and—” His fascination with her earring waned, and he found her eyes much more intriguing. “Never mind.” He kissed her. “You’re very beautiful, Andy,” he murmured against her open lips.
She had experienced a moment of panic as Lyon voiced his private thoughts. Had Les’s uncanny ability to sniff out a secret been confirmed again? Was there something about his father that Lyon didn’t want known? No! Please God, don’t let me uncover something that would have to be made public. Conflict of interest was the curse of every reporter who strove for objectivity. She forced the troubling thoughts from her mind and concentrated on the feel of Lyon’s lips against hers.
His tongue tickled the corner of her mouth before his lips skimmed along her cheek to play with the earring he had found so interesting before. With one arm clamped firmly around her shoulders, holding her tight, the other hand stroked down her chest. At the upper edge of her top he paused, absorbing the cadence of her heartbeat with his palm.
“Andy?” Permission sought.
“Lyon.” Permission granted.
His hand closed over her breast. It was a talented hand, unerringly touching what throbbed with the need to be touched. The damp cloth that clung to her skin only enhanced the friction between his inquisitive fingers and her nerve endings.
“From the moment I saw you sitting on that stool at Gabe’s, I wanted to touch you.” His whisper in her ear was a caress in itself. “You’ve been blessed in this department.”
“I’ve always been self-conscious about my size.”
He chuckled softly. The exploration continued, became bolder, heightened the tumult building inside her. “You shouldn’t be. My adolescence was spent fantasizing about figures like yours.”
“And it was fantasizing adolescent boys like you staring at me all the time who made me self-conscious.”
“Touché.”
“What was your first impression of me when you saw me in Gabe’s?”
“That you had gorgeous eyes and a terrific pair of—”
“Besides that!”
“Oh, then you’re asking for second impressions.”
“Lyon, I’m serious.”
He laughed. “So am I.” Then he did become serious as he lifted his hand from her breast to sift his fingers through her hair, which was still damp with rain. “I thought that you were a very attractive woman whom I would very much like to take to bed.”
She swallowed around the knot of emotion in her throat. “And now?”
“Now I think you’re a very attractive woman whom I would very much like to get to know better and then take to bed. The first impulse was based solely on lust. The second on something I can’t yet put a name to, but the ultimate goal is the same.” He held her chin firmly between his thumb and forefinger as his eyes beamed straight into her brain. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Tremulously, half-fearfully she said, “I think so.”
“I don’t want there to be any misunderstanding,” he said steadily. How could he be so calm when her entire body was trembling? “I want to make love to you. Slow and leisurely and fast and wildly, in every way conceivable and in some ways inconceivable.”
No man had ever had the temerity to talk to her this audaciously, except maybe for Les. But he was always teasing, and Lyon was deadly serious. Embarrassment fired her to respond. “How do you see me? As a trophy for your mantel? A challenge for you to conquer? Guess again, Lyon. I’m not nor ever will be that easily had.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest that it would be a conquest. I wouldn’t want you if you were easily had. I only thought it fair to tell you exactly how I feel. When we do make love, it will be because we both want to, and it will be a mutually satisfying experience.”
All the previous encounters of her adult life hadn’t prepared her to handle this. She didn’t know what to make of this man, her feelings for him, and the things he was saying to her now. Was he only trying to put her off her guard so he could undermine her project? Was that what all this passion was about?
No, he couldn’t have pretended that kiss. If he had, he had missed his calling as the world’s greatest actor. If he were planning on using sex to stop her from doing the interviews, she’d better set him straight now.
“I’ll do my job, Lyon, whatever happens between us. You … this has no bearing on why I’m here. I’ll never let anything or anyone interfere with my objectivity. I certainly didn’t anticipate getting involved with you on any level.”
“I didn’t exactly foresee my attraction to you either. And I’m still dead set against these interviews.”
“You have nothing to fear from me.”
“You’ll have everything to fear from me if I find out your motives are less than sterling.”
On that portentous note he glanced over his shoulder to see that the rain had subsided to a fine drizzle. “We’d better get back. Dad and Gracie will be worried.”
Rather than being worried, the two were delighted to see Andy and Lyon stamp through the kitchen door wet to the skin and laughing over the way her feet were slip-sliding in her sandals.
“Since neither of you showed up for lunch, the general ate his here in the kitchen.” Gracie mentioned this to explain why Michael Ratliff’s wheelchair was occupying one end of the butcher-block table.
“This soup is delicious,” he said. “Why don’t you two go dry out and then come eat some.”
That’s what they did, meeting each other at the top of the stairs after they had changed. Andy noted which room was Lyon’s and was seized by a feminine curiosity to know what lay behind the door.
“You look like a teenybopper,” he said, playfully pulling her wet ponytail. “Well parts of you, anyway.” His eyes spoke for him as they dropped to her breasts. “Just for the record, I liked the other top better.” She had put on a crisp cotton shirt with rolled-up sleeves and epaulets on the shoulders.
“Lecherous, sexist chauvinists like you would.”
His grin was satanic and far too appealing. “Precisely.”
His good mood prevailed through the meal they ate in the kitchen, with Gracie and the general for company. When he was finished, Lyon went out, saying that rain didn’t stop the work to be done around the ranch. He shrugged on a plastic poncho that was hanging on a hook by the back door and crammed another straw cowboy hat onto his head.
“I’ll see everyone at dinner,” he said to no one in particular, but he was looking at Andy. Then he winked at her and went out. She made a big production of daintily blotting her mout
h with her napkin, but knew that both the general and Gracie had seen Lyon’s gesture.
“I’m going to take a short nap, Andy. Then if you want to cover some preliminaries, I’ll be at your disposal until dinner.”
“That will be fine, general.”
“Very good soup, Gracie,” he repeated, wheeling out of the room.
“Poor old dear can hardly eat anything. Sometimes the things I have to cook for him make me sick.”
Without offering to beforehand and without admonitions that she shouldn’t, Andy began helping Gracie clear the table. “He’s very ill, isn’t he?” she asked quietly, referring to the general.
“Yes, he is,” Gracie said bluntly. “I’m trying to prepare myself, but I know I’ll grieve the day he finally departs this earth. He’s a great man, Andy.”
“I can see that having just met him. You’ve worked for him for years.”
“Almost forty. I was just a girl barely clear of twenty when he and Mrs. Ratliff hired me on. She was a real lady. Delicate as a flower and devoted to him and Lyon. The general never took an interest in women after Rosemary died, though I thought Lyon needed a mother. I think the general subconsciously turned that responsibility over to me.”
“Lyon told me that you had taken care of him in place of his mother.”
Gracie momentarily stopped sponging off the counter top. “He said that? Then I guess I was successful in mothering him. I worry about that boy. He’s got a bitterness eating at him that frightens me.”
“He told me that he’d been married.”
“To one of the prettiest girls I’ve ever seen.” Gracie sniffed the air as though she were smelling something foul. “Too bad her beauty was only skin deep. She had Lyon dancing on hot coals every day of that doomed marriage. She never gave that boy a day’s peace. This was wrong or that was wrong. She whined, complained. Her life was ‘wasting away out here in the boondocks.’ She needed ‘more out of life.’
“She’d always fancied herself being a model or having a career in fashion. So one day she up and hightailed it to New York. Never came back, and as for me and the general we said good riddance. Lyon, though, took it hard. Not so much because he missed her. Frankly I think he was relieved to see her go. But she twisted something on the inside of him.”
