"No, I'll take your word," she said quickly, her body still throbbing in newly awakening places. "Besides, it must be getting late."
He slanted her a rueful look, then led her to an empty chair and eased her into the cushy seat. "Wait here, I'll get your shawl."
She was almost certain she could speak coherently, but just in case she was wrong, she simply nodded. He returned almost immediately, moving like a man intent on a mission and determined not to be diverted. Even in civilian clothes he had the rangy look and fluid walk that came from lean muscle and steel sinew working together in perfect marriage. And his shoulders were as wide as any she'd ever seen, even in the northwest where big men were the norm.
"Ready?" he said when he was still a few feet away.
"Something tells me it doesn't matter if I am or not," she teased, rising. Sensing the impatience in him, she took the shawl from him and draped it over her shoulders before allowing him to steer her toward their host, who was perched on the arm of a brown plush sofa, his hands measuring the air in what Sophie took to be a whopper of a fish story. Spotting them approaching, he broke off immediately and leapt to his feet. He didn't exactly come to attention, but as close as he could get.
"You give a great party, son," Ford told him, extending his hand.
"Yes, sir. I mean, thanks for comin'." His gaze darted to Sophie. "You, too, ma'am."
"Thank you, Eli. You have a lovely home, and the baby's room is adorable."
"Ellie gets the credit for that. I just tacked up the pictures and such."
Sophie glanced around, but Ellie was nowhere in sight. "Please thank Ellie for me, as well. Tell her I'll call her tomorrow for those recipes we talked about."
"Yes, ma'am, I sure will." He darted a glance toward the other side of the room. "I think she's in the powder room. She does that a lot these days." His face got beet red, and Sophie wanted to hug him.
"I understand." She extended her hand. "Happy New Year."
Two minutes later they were back in Ford's car and heading away from the party.
"What a nice young couple," she murmured. "I liked them both."
He shot her a curious look. "You're not all that much older than either one of 'em."
Maybe not in years, she thought, drawing her shawl tighter. "Neither are you."
"I've got a few hard years on all of you." His voice was shaded with an emotion she didn't recognize.
"Not that many."
"Enough so those youngsters you met tonight refer to me as the 'old man' when they think I can't hear 'em."
Sophie slanted him a curious look. "Perhaps that's more a term of affection than a description."
His gaze sliced her way briefly, edged with the same impatience she'd sensed in him earlier. "If it is, I'm not doin' my job."
Sophie watched the trees whizzing past the car. "Don't you want to be liked?"
"It's not a matter of wantin'. It's a matter of makin' sure the streets are safe and folks sleep easy every night."
He braked for the intersection where Clover crossed Lost Creek Road
. Instead of turning left, however, he shifted to neutral and turned to face her. "I can turn left and you'll be home and tucked into bed by midnight. Or I can turn right and take you to my place, which means that we'll both be awake to see the new year in properly."
Sophie's heart took a violent tumble. "I'm not sure your idea of 'proper' is the same as mine."
His grin flashed. "Champagne and clean sheets?" He sounded so pathetically hopeful that she burst out laughing.
"How about coffee and conversation instead?"
He groaned. "I guess that's a start," he said, and spun the wheel to the right.
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Sophie stood in the middle of the pine-and-glass living room and turned a slow circle, noting the bookshelves covering one wall and the huge stone fireplace taking up the one opposite. In between was a wall of windows overlooking what she assumed was the Lost Creek of Lost Creek Road
.
The room itself was small, and her immediate impression was one of meticulous order and restraint. Nothing was out of place, suggesting impulse or haste. The colors were muted, reflecting the taste of a man who preferred the melancholy browns and golds of autumn over the more frivolous shades of the other seasons. Though of good quality and generous proportions, the furniture seemed more appropriate for a hunting lodge than a home and, though not shabby, had been well used.
"It's bigger inside than it looks," she remarked when her gaze settled on his again.
Ford shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto a muddy brown easy chair. "It wasn't much more than a shack when I bought it. Probably paid more than it was worth, but I liked the view."
"I imagine it's marvelous."
"You'll have to come back in the daytime and check it out."
Sophie smiled, grateful that he hadn't suggested she see it in the morning—from the bedroom window.
"How long have you lived here?" she asked, walking to the center of the largest window to look out at the night. A thicket of trees was silhouetted against the dimly lit sky, lending an air of isolation she wasn't sure she liked.
"Goin' on nine years. As soon as Lucy turned eighteen, she wanted to try livin' on her own, claimed I was still treatin' her like she was nine and helpless."
"Were you?"
His grin flashed. "Probably." He ambled across the room to stand next to her. "She went through a rough patch for a while. Kept tellin' me she was seein' things before they happened."
"You sound as though you didn't believe her."
He shrugged. "I think she got things a little mixed up in her mind. Doc Gossely told me that happens sometimes when a person's had a violent shock, especially a child who's missin' her mama and daddy. After a while we got it straightened out."
"Something tells me you went through a rough patch of your own."
"If you're askin' me if I'm still carryin' baggage from years ago, I'm not."
"No one escapes the past," she murmured sadly, "but if you're warning me not to ask you questions about yours, I'll make you a bargain. You don't ask me questions and I won't ask you."
He narrowed his gaze, seemingly reluctant to agree. "Am I at least allowed to ask you if you take regular or decaf?"
Sophie felt the knot in her stomach ease. "Regular. Otherwise, I might not even make it to midnight."
"Don't worry. If you fall asleep, I'll make sure you wake up in time." He gestured toward the far end of the room. "Coat closet's next to the bathroom—in case you want to use either one."
She used both, returning to find he'd lit a fire in the fireplace and was in the process of adding another log. He looked up when he heard her heels clicking against the plank flooring.
"Figured that since it was almost January, a fire would be a good idea."
"Seems appropriate to me." Suddenly she was nervous, and not really sure why. To calm herself—and, she admitted, to put some distance between them—she wandered over to the bookshelves.
There seemed to be an even mix of paperbacks and hardbound and all seemed well-read. Lightly running her fingers along worn spines, she read some of the titles. He seemed to favor westerns and thrillers—and a lot of very dry-looking volumes on military history.
"How come I don't see any police procedurals?" she asked, looking back at him.
"Too boring." He watched the flames greedily lapping at the seasoned oak for a moment before closing the mesh screen.
"How about you?" he asked, joining her. "What do you read?"
She felt the rigid line of a shelf pressing into her spine and realized that she'd taken a step backward. "You mean besides books on child rearing?" she murmured, smiling ruefully.
"And cookbooks," Ford reminded her, fingering a bit of beaded fringe. The delicate, shimmering beads were surprisingly warm to the touch, though not nearly as enticing to a man as the warmth of a woman's skin.
"I forgot about the cookbooks," she admitted, shaking her head.
He noticed that she'd changed her hair. Curled it some and pulled it back from her face so that the vulnerable curve of her throat seemed more accessible.
"Any ideas about Mike's party?" he asked, letting his fingers toy with one of the shimmering curls.
"A few." His fingers brushed her jaw and she drew a quick, nervous breath. "The coffee smells ready."
He glanced toward the kitchen. He'd forgotten he'd set a pot to brewing. Coffee and conversation. She'd made the rules, and he believed in rules.
"How do you take it?" he asked, stepping back.
"Black."
"Have a seat. I'll just be a minute."
"Anything I can do to help?"
He'd told himself he wasn't going to rush her, yet he found himself stepping closer.
"Come to think of it, there is. You can put this old boy out of his misery."
Her eyes grew wide, and her lips parted. Though he wasn't an expert by any means, he knew enough about body language and facial expressions to know that she was aroused, perhaps as aroused as he was, but even a wisp of fear in those bottomless blue eyes would have had him backing off instantly. That her gaze remained drowsy and just a little excited had his own need swelling.
"We shouldn't," she murmured, even as he was framing her face with his hands. She seemed as fragile as her daughter, and as innocent somehow.
"It's all the way right," he murmured, his voice hoarse with a need so violent it left him feeling raw inside.
"I don't want you to care about me," she whispered, her soft lips trembling.
"Too late, sweetness, way too late," he grated before his mouth closed over hers. He'd intended the kiss to be brief, a release of tension, a leveling of need. Instead, he found himself craving more than a taste, needing more than the simple pressure of her mouth against his. His mouth grew greedy, his hands close to frantic as they framed her face, stroked her neck, moved down to caress her breasts. He probed her lips with his tongue, impatient, driven. When she parted her lips, he tasted deeper, his hunger growing more razored, his senses more clouded. The need grew unbearable, his control stretched to the last tenuous thread. Drawing back on a harsh, shuddering groan he neither planned nor could prevent, he fought to clear his head. She, too, seemed shaken.
"I think you should get that coffee now," she murmured, drawing a shaky breath.
Ford drew a long breath of his own, shaken to find that she could make him drunker with just one kiss than a gallon of Eli's best Scotch.
"I want to make love to you, Sophie. Not just tonight, but as often as we can arrange it." He found himself holding to a razored line between asking and taking. It was painful and terrifying and he wished like hell he'd read a few of those romantic novels Lucy liked so much. Maybe then he'd know how to talk straight to a woman without sounding like a horny bastard or a damned wimp.
"I guess what I'm askin' is for you to tell me if I'm goin' too fast or pushin' too hard."
Sophie was suddenly powerless in the face of such honesty. "I'm scared," she admitted. "Oh, not of you," she hastened to add when hurt shot into his eyes. "But of … consequences," she finished lamely. How could she tell the man she was beginning to love very deeply that she didn't want to draw him into her web of deceit? Not only for her own protection, she realized suddenly and with shock, but for his.
He used his left hand to trace the curve of her mouth. "I'm not carryin' anything contagious, if that's what's botherin' you. If you want proof, I can get it. Everyone in the department is required to have a complete physical on his birthday."
"That's not it," she assured him quickly, deeply touched.
"I won't make you pregnant. If you want me to wear a condom, I will. I don't promise I won't complain mightily, however. I hate the thought of anything comin' between us."
"It's not just a little piece of latex or whatever that might come between us," she admitted, determined to tell him as much of the truth as she dared without compromising Jessie's safety. "There are things in my past that I can't tell you about, things that if you knew—"
"Don't," he murmured, pressing hard fingertips against her lips. "We agreed to forget the past."
If only they could, she thought sadly, but perhaps, for a time, she could pretend the past really didn't matter.
"I don't want to hurt you," she cried softly, her hands going to his chest. Instead of pushing him away, however, her fingers clutched at his sweater, curling and uncurling against the thick wool like kitten claws. Longings rose in him, powerful and compelling, and not easily mastered.
"I'll risk it," he murmured, testing the softness of her cheek with the back of his hand.
"I'm not free," she whispered. "I have obligations, debts."
Ford thought about the obligations he'd once carried. "Maybe I can help."
"I wish you could, but you can't. No one can."
Even without knowing the details, he wanted to tell her to trust him with her problems and her pain, that he would take care of her. But once made, promises like that had to be kept, and he wasn't sure how much he had in him to give.
"I'm not askin' for more than tonight."
Sophie felt something catch and tear inside her. Perhaps if she been dealing with only her own desire she could have resisted. But the rough burr of need in his voice touched her heart as nothing but Jessie's smile had been able to do in months.
"It's been a long time," she told him, her voice catching. "Since before Jessie was born."
Something changed in his eyes. "Then we'll go as fast or as slow as you need," he promised, touching his mouth to hers in the gentlest of kisses. "Tell me what you want, honey."
"More of the same," she murmured, waiting for a smile to find his eyes.
"My pleasure," he drawled, kissing her again, harder this time and longer before he drew back. "Your turn," he invited, his eyes dark as the night beyond the windows.
Yielding not only to him but to her own craving to feel those hard lips against hers again, she rested one hand on his hard shoulder and brought her mouth up to touch his. He stood motionless, his body tense but passive. His hand remained tangled in her hair but exerted no pressure.
There was no rush, no demand, to deepen tenderness to passion, and yet she felt the connection between them in every part of her. Even as she ended the kiss, she felt her body sway toward his, felt his arm come around her, his strength like a warm blanket on a cold, lonely night.
His chest was hard under the soft wool, his hands comforting as they stroked her back. She clung to him, feeling relief and pleasure run through her. He was strong enough to hold her up when her knees went weak, secure enough to accept her desperate need to keep her secret, even from him. Especially from him.
Holding her, his desire spiking close to his ability to ignore, he felt the last of her resistance melt away, leaving her warm and vulnerable in his arms.
This time it was he who brought his mouth to hers, he who increased the pressure. Using his tongue Ford traced the line of her lower lip, testing its softness, savoring its sweetness. Her body was warm and pliant against his, the beaded fringe on her dress whispering sex with every movement she made.
He needed to absorb that warmth, to draw in the subtle shifts and twists of emotion that fascinated him, even as he worked at shoring up walls he didn't dare let her breach.
His mind, usually so well-ordered, spun with impressions and sensations he hadn't felt in years. Perhaps had never really felt. His senses, too, seemed beyond his control, driving him beyond the bounds of reason.
He'd never known another woman like her, so strong, so resilient, and yet utterly feminine and giving, a creature of passion and emotion, of feelings that flowed over him like sweet spring rain, soothing the parched, aching wounds on his soul.
It was dangerous to need so completely, so desperately. But even as he fought to pull back, to keep himself apart from her, he knew it was too late.
Dragging his lips from hers, he buried his face against her throat, waiting for the need pulsing for immediate release to ease off. When he took her, he wanted it to be with the care and gentleness of a first-time lover.
When his mouth left hers, Sophie murmured a protest, only to gasp as his lips trailed moist kisses along the curve of her throat. Instinctively, she drew back her head, giving him more intimate access to her throat. On her lips was the lingering taste of the Scotch he'd drunk, still potently intoxicating, though not nearly as intoxicating as his kisses. Nestled against him Sophie sensed his struggle for control, her own needs churning in a delicious whirlpool deep inside her.
No one had ever needed her like this before. No one had ever made her need so wildly in return. She had known pleasure before—mild and sweet and all mixed up with a need to nurture and protect. But nothing she'd ever experienced with Wells had prepared her for the all-consuming violence of the demands Ford was making on her body, on her soul. Nor had she expected her own needs to grow stronger with each kiss, each touch of his hand.
He muttered something against her skin she didn't understand, and then he was nibbling at her ear. The scent of sandalwood and aroused masculinity seemed to envelop her, as though pulsing from his pores. And then he was claiming her lips again, his hard mouth hot and drugging while his fingers slipped beneath the fringed hem, seeking skin. Sensations bunched and gathered inside her until she thought she would shatter.
When his hand went to her breast, she moaned. And then he was stepping back, his glittering gaze running the length of her.
"That's one hell of a dress, honey, but it sure makes it rough on a guy tryin' his best not to look like a fool gettin' you out of it."
The raw frustration in his voice had her biting her lip, trying not to laugh, even as the thought of appearing naked before him had her throat going dry and nerves rioting in her stomach.
THE BACHELOR PARTY Page 17
