Prime Time

by Sandra Brown

  “For an instant,” he said on a whisper, “after you woke me up, I thought that maybe you had come to my room for another reason.”

  She stumbled on the first few stairs and her gracelessness had nothing to do with the floor-length hem of her nightgown. Not deigning to recognize the suggestiveness of what he’d said, she asked, “How long had you been asleep? What time did you get home?”

  “About eleven thirty. Some of us went out for a drink after the meeting.”

  Some? Who? Women? He must surely never be long without a woman. “I read for a while, boning up for tomorrow. Then about eleven I went to sleep. I didn’t hear you when you came in.”

  “Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “How did you hear our night prowlers?”

  They were at her door now. She leaned against the jamb. “I don’t know. I just woke up suddenly, knowing instinctively that something wasn’t right.”

  “You weren’t really frightened, were you?”

  “Not until you started packing heat! I wasn’t frightened until you got that gun.”

  “Pistol.”

  “Pistol. And did they think we wouldn’t hear those girls giggling?”

  Lyon’s shoulders shook with silent laughter. “We scared the hell out of them.”

  “Does that happen often? People rafting on the river, I mean.”

  He took the pistol out of his waistband and set it with the flashlight on a credenza in the hall. He propped one shoulder against the wall.

  “Frequently during the spring and summer. There are rapids all along the Guadalupe. People rent rafts, usually for the day. Most of the trips only take several hours. But some require spending the night on the river. Of course, the rafters have to camp on public grounds and not private property. We get waved at occasionally as they drift by. That’s all. The Guadalupe only makes one loop through a corner of our property.”

  She loved listening to the lulling sound of his voice. It occurred to her that for an hour they had forgotten their antipathy. They had laughed, shared a memorable experience, and the hostility between them had given way to companionship. She grieved for what could have been had they met under different circumstances. He wouldn’t have been suspicious of her motives. She wouldn’t have looked upon him as an obstacle, an enemy, but only as a man.

  The sky was turning gray with the encroaching dawn, and the darkness of the hallway had been gradually dispelled enough for her to see his features clearly. Relaxed now, his mouth lacked the hardness that often drew it taut. The laugh lines around his eyes were more evident when he smiled. White against the dark tan of his face, they etched a fine network she’d love to track with her finger. The muscles in his arms bulged as he crossed them over his chest, the broad chest that was so alluringly furred with dark hair.

  “Will you go back to sleep?” he asked softly.

  Was he looking at her mouth? “No. Probably not. I’d only get a headache if I dozed off and then had to wake up shortly. You?”

  He dragged his unwilling eyes upward until they met hers. “Uh, no. I usually get up around dawn anyway.”

  She nodded, looked down the length of the hallway, at the floor, at her bare feet positioned so close to his. She had been with him for over an hour wearing nothing more than a wisp of a nightgown and a scanty pair of underwear. Only now, in the quiet of the predawn house, was she self-conscious about her flimsy attire. “Well, thanks for the adventure,” she said lightly, though her throat felt heavy. Her whole body felt heavy, laden with need.

  “My pleasure. I’ll see you later.”

  “Yes.”

  There was nothing else to say except maybe “Why don’t you come in?” or “We could continue this discussion in my room,” or “I ache for you. Please kiss me.” But she could say none of those things. Rather than say anything else that would be superfluous, she went through the oak door and softly closed it behind her.

  She listened for his footsteps, but after a moment remembered that he was barefoot and finally left her post at the door. At loose ends and not knowing quite what to do, she decided she’d shower and wash her hair now. Then she’d used the remaining time until the crew arrived to study her notes.

  The water felt delightful, and she was refreshed and wide awake afterward. Not that she’d needed anything to revive her. Every sensory impression was heightened. Her nerves tingled. She was aware of each one as she dried herself, applied a citrusy after-bath splash, and smoothed lotion on her arms and legs.

  She hadn’t brought any underwear into the bathroom, so she slipped the batiste nightgown back on. The soft, thin cotton settled around her like a cloud. Scoop-necked and held on by two thin spaghetti straps, it coolly caressed her clean body.

  Returning to the bedroom, she sat in the window seat to dry her hair. Since it seemed to have a mind of its own, she had given up years ago trying to make it conform to a rigid style. Now, as it dried, she wielded a hairbrush like an animal trainer does a whip, never totally successful in taming the beast. To her amusement she was often asked where she had her hair done.

  The sun broke over the farthest hill and poured a golden pink glow over the landscape. It was a breathtaking sight, pastoral and peaceful. Lyon’s love for his land was understandable and justified.

  A tentative tap on her door distracted her from the view. “Yes?”

  Taking that as assent, Lyon opened the door, holding a tray aloft. “I made some coffee and thought you …”

  He’d never seen anything more beautiful nor remembered ever wanting a woman more. Her arm was curved over her head, holding the hairbrush where it had been when he surprised her by opening the door. The honey-colored hair swirled around her head like a halo, reflecting the new sun. Her skin looked translucent in the soft light. Beneath the nightgown her dusky nipples were promising shadows that peaked temptingly against the cloth.

  The tray was set down and forgotten on a small table. Lyon shut the door and crossed the room, his eyes never leaving her, compelling her not to move, not to speak. He’d never felt this way in his life. From adolescence he’d known his way around the female anatomy, and he’d never lacked for partners to practice what knowledge he possessed.

  For a while after Jerri left, he hadn’t been kind, but had approached each woman selfishly, never caring about her, only wanting what he felt was owed to him because of the humiliation he’d suffered at the hands of his wife. That attitude had mellowed considerably, and any woman who had known his love, for the brief time he alloted her, would never forget his touch. His masculine pride had been restored.

  Now he felt as callow as a boy. He only hoped Andy couldn’t sense his susceptibility as he came to the window seat and sat down beside her where she was curled in the corner.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Always raspy, his voice was even huskier now.

  “You didn’t.”

  He embraced her first with his eyes. The gray irises that she had seen hardened and as cold as steel were now warm with emotion as he studied her face. Each feature was catalogued before his eyes surveyed her throat and the smooth expanse of her chest. In no respect did he find her wanting.

  “You smell good.”

  “I just took a shower.”

  Their inane conversation was only an outlet for the tension that shackled them both, an excuse to release some of the excess energy that had welled up inside them, a reason to expel the breath that had become trapped in shrinking lungs.

  He touched her hair, threading his fingers through it and then combing it outward until each strand had drifted through them to settle once again on her shoulders.

  His fingers ghosted over her face, touching brow, eyelids, nose, cheekbones. Her lips were smoothed by alternating index fingers until he had them memorized by shape and texture. Certainly by color. Hopefully by taste.

  She wanted him to kiss her then, but he didn’t. His hands continued on their wandering down her neck, across her collarbone, detailing the hollow between it and her shoulder with a
playful finger. Then he arrived at the piping that outlined the neckline of her gown.

  He looked deeply into her eyes hypnotically, and like an obedient subject she closed them. He brushed his fingers across her nipples, fanning them gently. He was instantaneously rewarded with their pouting response.

  “Andy,” he breathed. He hooked his thumbs under the thin straps, and the nightgown was drawn down to frothily encircle her waist. She lifted her arms free and placed her hands around his neck, stroking his jawline with her thumbs.

  He looked at her breasts. From beneath he cupped her and lifted her slightly. Gently his thumbs stroked the peachy crests. “You’ve never had a baby?” he asked gruffly.

  “No.” She responded in kind.

  “Why?”

  “My husband didn’t want one.” She didn’t want to say Robert’s name, didn’t want a third party to intrude on this occasion.

  “What a waste.” He lowered his head and kissed the lush top curve, then inched his lips down, dropping damp kisses that cooled against her warm skin, until his lips skated over the nipple. Andy heard her own whimper of need. He heard it, too, and his mouth opened over her. With a sweet urgent tugging she was enveloped by his mouth. His tongue nudged her with the most erotic caress she’d ever experienced.

  “Lyon.” His name was half sigh, half ecstatic cry, and she grasped his head between her hands and held him fast.

  “You taste like thick, sweet cream,” he murmured as his mouth glided from one breast to the other. His ardent attention continued until her nerves were quivering like harp strings.

  Lifting his head, he saw that his mouth had added a glossiness to her already glowing skin. He smiled. His arms went around her and drew her closer, until, as they both watched, the tips of her breasts pressed into the curling mat on his chest.

  Lifting their eyes, aware that their heartbeats were resonating with each other, they smiled. “You’re cream and”—he lowered his lips to hers—“honey.”

  His mouth fastened on hers possessively and cohesively. His tongue scoured her mouth repeatedly as though he truly were gathering honey.

  She strained upward and forward until she was molded to him as closely as their bodies would allow. Not believing that skin could feel so satiny, time and again his palms made the journey from her shoulder to her waist. For heart-stopping moments his hands lingered at that curving indentation. Then, emboldened, they slipped below the nightgown gathered at her waist and cradled her hips, lifting her up.

  Together they stood. The nightgown floated unheeded to the floor. He lifted her free of it as he picked her up and carried her into the deeper shadows of the room where the unmade bed was an open invitation.

  He lay her down and followed with his own body. It was heavy and hard and rough compared to her soft smoothness. She loved it, yet she fought the explosive desire that flooded her. “This is wrong, Lyon.”

  “God, don’t you think I know that?” He kissed her hungrily. Impatiently he groped for the buttons on his jeans. He tore his mouth free. “But do you want to stop it? Can you stop it?”

  His hands roved over her flesh, finding erogenous places she didn’t know were there. No, I can’t stop it, she thought vaguely with what mental capacity was left to her. She surrendered to the intuitive caresses of his hands that swirled her into a maelstrom of longing. “We didn’t plan it, did we?” she asked, arching against him. “We didn’t … ah, Lyon, Lyon.”

  He lifted his head only long enough to look at what he touched. “Soft. So soft. Such a golden girl,” he whispered hoarsely. “A beautiful golden girl.”

  It was tormenting to wait while he grappled again with the fly on the jeans. They were laughing quietly about their shared frustration when an insistent tapping rattled the door.

  The laughter broke off abruptly and all motion on the bed ceased.

  “Andy?” Gracie’s voice was muffled—fortunately the panels of the door were thick. “Andy, are you awake yet, honey?”

  Andy cleared her throat and tried to sound as though she had just been awakened. “Yes, Gracie. What is it?” Her eyes never left Lyon’s as he remained poised above her. His chest expanded like a bellows with his uneven, harsh breathing.

  “Your boys are here. Four of them just arrived in a van.

  I’ve given them coffee and told them to wait for you downstairs.”

  Lyon’s soft, but expansive curse scorched her ears. “I’ll be down shortly,” Andy said.

  “Take your time,” Gracie called back. “I’ll feed them breakfast.”

  “Thank you,” Andy said miserably.

  For long moments neither of them moved, then Lyon eased away from her. He levered himself off the bed and deftly fastened the buttons that had been so contrary only moments ago. Andy reached for the sheet to cover herself.

  “Modesty at this late date, Ms. Malone?”

  His sarcasm banished any lingering passion or regret over their being interrupted. “No.” Disdaining the sheet, she jumped off the bed, walked across the bedroom, and pulled on a light robe.

  He eyed her with derision. “So you are ashamed.”

  She faced him defensively. “All right. Yes! Yes, I am I should never have let you touch me.”

  “I thought as much,” he said scornfully. “You’d hate to be accused of consorting with the enemy. Or are you afraid Les will find out about your close call with dalliance?”

  “I’ve told you that Les and I—Oh, it doesn’t matter. You’re only going to believe what you’ve already made up your mind to. Why are you angry with me? I’m no more to blame than you are. I didn’t know the crew would arrive at just this moment. Do you think I arranged this to humiliate you?”

  “I think that you, Ms. Malone, are relieved that you were rescued in the nick of time.”

  “I think you are, too,” she flung back.

  “Damn right. This was the height of stupidity,” he said, slamming the fist of one hand into the opposite palm. “I knew better, know better, than to …”

  He paced, talking to himself, not to her, but each word was like a wound in her heart. He whirled around to face her again. “Why do you have to look like a damn goddess if you’re untouchable? Huh?” His anger was fearsome, and she shrank from it. “You’ve driven me crazy since the first time I laid eyes on you, but stay away from me from now on.”

  “What!” she exclaimed, pushing away from the security of the wall where she had been cowering. Her fists ground into her hips. “Me? Stay away from you? How dare you insinuate that I initiated this. I didn’t exactly chase you around this bedroom this morning.”

  “No, but you came sneaking into mine in the middle of the night wearing a sorry excuse for a nightgown.”

  “You were naked!”

  “In my own bed. I didn’t come creeping into your room that way.”

  “I only came creeping into yours because I thought we, especially your father, could be in danger. If not us personally, then your property. Forgive me for warning you!” she shouted.

  “You could have put on that robe a little sooner!” he shouted back.

  “In the rush I didn’t think of it.”

  “Well, think about it next time.”

  “There won’t be one.”

  “You’ve got that right. You stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.”

  “Fine!” she screamed, but she didn’t think he’d heard her. He’d already slammed out the door.

  She stood in the middle of the room for several minutes, staring at the door, pressing balled hands to her lips. Gulping at air that seemed to have been vacuumed out of the room with Lyon’s angry exit, she wondered how she was going to explain her tear-reddened eyes to her crew.

  Chapter Six

  The crew greeted her warmly when she joined them in the kitchen a good half-hour after Gracie had knocked on her door. It had taken her that long to recover from the verbal blows Lyon had dealt her.

  “Sorry,” she said, hugging each of them in turn, �
�but I had something in my eye that took forever to get out.” It was possible, though highly implausible, but they seemed to accept the explanation for her red, swollen eyes. “Think you can camouflage them on camera, Jeff?”

  “You’re so gorgeous, who’d notice a couple of bloodshot eyes?”

  Lyon chose that moment to push open the swinging door. Stiffly, but trying to act normally lest she alert the crew to the undercurrents between Lyon and her, she introduced him around.

  “This is Jeff, our cinematographer.” Andy hadn’t taken Jeff’s comment seriously about her being gorgeous. He was a notorious flirt, and his camera was his license to get away with it. He used the mystique attached to a motion-picture camera to its full extent. Andy felt sorry for his pretty, meek wife, who waited patiently at home while he went out on frequent assignments. Jeff had never passed up an opportunity to be unfaithful, but early on Andy had let him know she wasn’t interested. His flirting with her was all for show.

  She wondered if people had pitied her when Robert was away in the same way she did Jeff’s wife. More than likely they had. During the last year of their marriage Robert hadn’t been satisfied with the romantic aspects of it and had sought consolation elsewhere.

  “Jeff,” Lyon said, shaking the photographer’s hand. “Lyon Ratliff.”

  “This is Gil, our sound man.”

  “Mr. Ratliff.” Gil shook Lyon’s hand deferentially. He was a likable guy who offended no one and did his job so well he was often ignored. His self-effacing personality had endeared him to Andy, and she could ask for the moon and he’d try to get it for her.

  “Tony does our lighting.” Andy presented him to Lyon. Tony was often querulous, probably because he had six children to clothe and feed. But he was a master at highlighting, shading, and filtering.

  The last crew member was a PA—production assistant. To him fell the jobs that had to be done and which no one else had any time or desire to do. Warren, a skeletal frame with skin stretched over it, had the strength of an ox and the agility of a monkey. He had been known to climb trees, ford rivers, tunnel through brush, or dangle from perilous perches to help the specialists get just the picture or sound they wanted.