She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror of the medicine cabinet and washed the tear-streaked makeup from her face. She wasn't looking forward to going into the other room, but it was either that or go to bed and lie there wide-eyed and miserable for hours. The house was cold, damned cold. The only warm place was beside the fire.
Margaret slipped her contacts into the soaking solution and reached for her dark-rimmed glasses. For a moment she contemplated telling Chip to arrange her way back to Chicago, but then she remembered his taunts about the princess in the ivory tower. That was what he expected her to do—run. Damned if she would!
The big room was empty but warm. A cheery fire crackled in the hearth. She had braced herself to meet Chip's appraisal and was relieved to have a short reprieve. She grabbed some magazines and curled up on the end of the couch, not caring that her random selection had been Field and Stream, Woodsman of the North, and The American Rifleman.
She was flipping pages with shaking hands when Chip came into the room carrying two steaming mugs. He set one of them on the table beside the couch.
“Here's something to warm you up—a lumberjack toddy.”
“Thank you,” she murmured. She turned a page and stared at the colored picture of a flock of birds in flight and a highly polished rifle.
“Do you plan to load your own shells this year?”
“Uh…what?” She glanced up at him and automatically pushed her glasses farther back on her nose. “I couldn't shoot an animal if I were starving to death!”
He reached down and took the magazine from her hand. “Then this isn't the reading material for you.” He gave her a dry smile. “Have you ever been fishing?”
“Once, in Acapulco. We went out on a boat and Daddy caught a big swordfish. I felt sorry for it and wanted to let it go, but they said it would die anyway because it had been hooked so deeply. We had our picture taken with it, and Daddy had it mounted on a board.” She shivered, remembering.
Chip sat down on the couch and stretched his long legs out in front of him, then drew them up and removed first one boot and then the other. He was wearing ragg-wool socks. No wonder he doesn't feel the cold, Margaret thought resentfully.
Glancing at him in a secret, sidelong inspection, she concluded that Chip Thorn was almost unbearably attractive in his snap-fastened plaid shirt and tight jeans. That type of clothing suited him. She wondered vaguely what he'd look like in a business suit. Handsome, she grudgingly decided. He was like a chameleon; he would adapt to any environment or situation. As if becoming aware of her gaze, he slipped an oblique look at her and she turned away. He was something far beyond her comprehension: a man a woman would love or hate but never be indifferent to. It was a shred of comfort to know he had enjoyed kissing her. The blood in her veins raced crazily as memory flashed back to those moments in his arms. She picked up the warm mug and gulped, immediately coughing and groping blindly for a spot on which to set the cup down. It was taken from her hands.
“Easy. That's a pretty strong drink.” His hand patted her gently on the back.
“What…is…it?” she gasped.
“Whiskey, sugar, ginger, and hot water. Sip it slowly and it'll warm you clear to your toes.”
“I wanted to be warm, not on fire!” She felt her heated blood begin to gather in her cheeks.
His hand made circles on her back. “You okay? You really are a babe, aren't you, Maggie?”
“If you know so damn much, you tell me!” She was in no mood to be teased.
He smiled into her eyes and pushed her glasses up on her nose. “Smile for me, Maggie. You've got a beautiful smile. Why are you so stingy with it?”
She gave him an overbright smile, showing all her teeth, and she saw the laughter twinkling in his eyes. Before she knew what he was doing, he had lifted her legs up and across his lap and was removing her shoes.
“Hey—what—?” she choked in surprise.
“It's easier to relax with your shoes off. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?” He slipped the pumps off her feet and gently dropped them to the floor. One hand rested on her ankle, the other on the bottom of her foot. “They're cold!” he said with surprise, and he began to rub her feet and ankles vigorously.
“Of course they're cold. Nylons and open-toed shoes weren't designed for warmth,” she snapped, wishing desperately for the strength of mind to blot out the sensuous tingle of his stroking fingers. She swallowed hard and, without thinking, asked, “Why do you live in this barn of a house? It seems to me you'd want to live closer to the office.”
It hadn't come out exactly as she'd wanted it to, and he answered defensively.
“What's wrong with it? It may not be what you're used to, but I doubt if there's a house in the state that is.” His grip on her feet tightened. The charm had left his face, and his lips twisted sardonically. “In case you haven't noticed, this house is far more comfortable than that of any of our employees.”
“How would I have noticed? I've not been in another house. I only know that this one is damned cold.” Their eyes met in a piercing glance. She picked up the mug and sipped at the warm drink. It was surprisingly good when taken in small doses.
“You think this is cold? You should be here in January when the temperature gets down to twenty-five below.” She looked away from him and tried to swing her feet off his lap, but he held them and continued his massage.
After a few minutes he lifted her legs from his lap, saying, “Why don't I make us another drink?”
A sharp feeling of apprehension struck Margaret as she watched him leave the room. His very presence was beginning to mean everything to her.
Neither said anything for a long while after he returned with the hot mugs. He put more wood onto the fire, replaced the screen, and sat back in the recliner.
Margaret was feeling more relaxed now. The drink was warming her, as Chip had promised. The soft glow of the lamp behind the couch, the dancing flames in the hearth, and the music coming from the stereo Chip had turned on all added to the feeling of time suspended. She let the music wash over her. It was the score from a romantic movie. She would have guessed he'd prefer countrywestern. They sat in companionable silence and sipped their toddies. When her cup was empty he took it from her hand, placed it on the table, and sat down beside her on the couch.
“Talk to me, Maggie.” His eyes gleamed through halfclosed lids, and Margaret felt her heart jump as his appreciative gaze wandered over her face. “You have lovely eyes,” he murmured.
“Not as lovely as yours,” she said, obeying a totally reckless impulse.
“I can hardly believe you're real,” he said huskily, his voice promptly making her heart turn flip-flops. “How could you have come out of that place as sweet as you are?”
“What do you mean?” It seemed to her she was always asking him that.
“Sweet. That's the only word to describe you.”
“Are you sure you don't mean—”
He quickly put his fingers over her lips. “I mean sweet. May I have this dance?”
“I'll have to check my dance card,” she quipped.
He reached for her glasses and placed them on the table beside her mug. “You won't need these. I like to look into those shining green pools and try to figure out what's going on in that mind of yours.”
“I can't see six inches past my nose,” she protested.
“I won't be any farther away than that.” He smiled at her, a warm, almost loving, smile and pulled her to her feet. She melted into his arms without a trace of nervousness. They moved slowly to the romantic music. He rested his cheek on the top of her head. Margaret was so enchanted by the magic of it all that she was afraid to speak lest the spell be broken. She relaxed against him, oblivious to everything but the feel of his arms encircling her, the hard strength of his hands that lay flat on the taut swell of her hips, pressing her to him with urgent force.
“I don't really like this feeling I have for you,” he whispered into her hair, an
d she wasn't quite sure she'd heard correctly.
“You don't want to like me?” she asked, her heart hammering crazily against his chest.
“No,” he whispered huskily. “I was all prepared to dislike old Ed's spoiled darling.”
“And now?”
“Not spoiled, but still a darling.”
She was slowly losing the ability to think rationally. Her arms encircled his body, glorying in the feel of his hard warmth. “Do you think I may be a little drunk from the whiskey? I should be saying something like ‘Unhand me, you cad.’”
“You haven't had enough whiskey to be drunk. So why aren't you kicking and fighting and calling me a seducer of innocent maidens?” His lips were nuzzling her ear, and they felt so good she pressed against them.
“I don't know.” She tilted her head back so she could look at him. “Did you ply me with drink so you could seduce me?”
“Uh huh. Are you going to resist me?” There was a teasing glint in his eye.
“I haven't decided,” she readily admitted.
He held her tightly in his arms, scarcely moving to the music. “I want to kiss you with your arms about my neck, feel your breasts against me, and hold your hips in my hands. Okay? Then you can decide if you're going to that cold little room or staying with me.” He brought his hands around to clasp hers and guide them upward. When they were moving on their own accord he wrapped his arms all the way around her so that his hands rested on the sides of her breasts. “You're a delicious armful, Maggie. Maggie, Maggie, puddin' n' pie, kissed the boys and made them cry.”
“That was Georgie Porgie, silly.” She laughed softly and, in complete disregard of the common sense that told her she was acting wanton, unrestrained, and foolish, she placed soft little kisses on his neck.
“It's no wonder they cried!”
His fingers lifted her chin, and a sweet, wild enchantment rippled through her veins as his mouth moved over hers with warm urgency. The desire to push her fingers through his hair was irresistible. It was so thick and so soft, like the mustache that had swept across her cheek and was now pressed tightly beneath her nose. Her head was spinning helplessly from the torrent of churning desires racking her body. The intensity of these feelings was strange to her, and she was powerless to control them. The sensations were heightened when his tongue caressed her lips, sought entrance, and found welcome. The male hardness pressed against her was an erotic stimulant, arousing her, taking her over, and making her want the physical gratification of uniting with him in the most intimate way.
“Maggie…sweetheart…we shouldn't have started this.” His crossed arms moved down, and his hands cupped her buttocks, hard.
Caught in a spinning whirlwind of sensuous desire, Margaret was nonetheless aware that his pulse was racing as wildly as hers. She was causing this! His virile, vitally strong body was reacting to hers!
“Why not?” she whispered recklessly.
He stood very still for several seconds as if absorbing her words. Then his lips moved hotly down her cheek in search of hers, found them, and molded them to his in a devastating kiss. Her senses responded with a deep, churning hunger for his touch, and she rose on tiptoe, arching to meet his height, her fingers clinging to his shoulders. Stirred by her incredible arousal, she met his passion with intimate sensuousness and parted her lips to glide the tip of her tongue across the edge of his teeth.
“God! Sweetheart…help me stop this while I still can!”
Finding what her body had craved for so long, Margaret ignored the danger signals flashing in her brain and allowed the warmth of his tenderness to wash over her. The world could be ending the next minute and her only concern would be to stay with him, relieve them both of the trembling hunger bedeviling them.
“Don't stop.” She moved her hips against him in instinctive invitation.
“Don't tease me!” he whispered harshly. “I'm not a man to be teased!” His lips raked her face from cheek to chin.
“I'm not teasing!” she moaned desperately, afraid that he was going to move away from her.
“I'll not be satisfied with just playing. It's everything or nothing!” he whispered raggedly.
She burrowed her face against the warmth of his neck. “I know,” she whispered back. “Love me, Chip.”
Her hushed request seemed to act as a potent aphrodisiac, and his body responded with violent trembling. He pulled her roughly against his hard arousal, as if to leave her no doubt that he was desperate for relief. “You're sure?”
“Please!”
“Oh, sweetheart…”
It was only a couple of steps to the couch. Chip's arms left her to lift the seat, take a blanket from the storage space, and flip the back of the couch down to make a small bed. Margaret stood with her back to him, worried by her lack of sexual experience and racked with the violence of her own need for him to make love to her. Her eyes were wide open, staring at nothing, when she heard the click of the lamp switch and realized the room was now lighted only by the fire.
Arms encircled her from behind, and warm lips and a soft mustache nuzzled the sensitive spot below her ear. His hands moved to cup her breasts, squeezing them gently.
“You're the most utterly feminine woman I've ever met.” She closed her eyes and let the soft purr of his voice and the feel of his hands consume her. “I think you've bewitched me. I seem to have lost control where you're concerned. My head says stay away from you, but my hands want to know every soft curve of your body. Maggie…Maggie…come quench this thirst I have for you.” One hand moved down to pull her tightly back against him.
His persuasive whisper, the touch of his hands, called out to something deeply feminine in her, and the explosion of sensation choked off her voice. His fingers worked at the waistband of her full skirt, then the zipper, and he moved back so that the fabric could fall to the floor. He lifted the loose blouse up and over her head and turned her in his arms. Lace bra, briefs, and pantyhose were all that covered her. She kept her eyes closed, reveling in the glory of his touch.
“You're beautiful, sweet Maggie. Small, perfect, and beautiful.” He blew gently into her ear, kissed her temple, and stroked her back with hard palms. “I get the feeling you haven't done this before…and yet you couldn't have reached the age of twenty-five and not have,” he murmured hoarsely.
“No,” she breathed. “I couldn't have.”
“Who was it? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know!”
She lifted her face, and their eyes locked for a long moment before he reached out and unfastened her bra. He swept the straps from her shoulders and moved a fraction away from her. The lacy cups remained curved about her upthrust breasts. Slowly he peeled them away and looked at the white skin tipped with dusky rose. In the flickering firelight he shaped his hands to cup her breasts, and she looked down to see sun-browned fingers moving seductively over her sensitive nipples. A tremor pulsated across her nerve endings, and she pressed her breasts into his hands. Her breath came in small gasps, and her eyes sought his.
He stepped back for a moment, and her body felt bereft without his touch. It seemed to take an eternity for him to strip to his shorts, and crazily she found herself wondering if they were the same ones she had folded so carefully from the dryer. His hands reached for her again and pulled her to him.
His shoulders were wide and powerful, his chest smooth except for a sprinkling of dark hairs in the center. It felt pleasantly rough against her breasts. His waist was narrow, and there was not an ounce of extra flesh on his flat stomach. Free of shame and embarrassment, she ran her palms over his body, from the hollow beneath his armpits to the elastic at the top of his shorts, around and over his back. He stood still, his head tilted down toward hers. She pulled away and smiled up at him, her lips parted with the pleasure of touching him. She saw his nostrils flare with a quick intake of breath when her fingertips moved lightly down to his navel. Her eyes followed her fingers, and instead of being frightened by the obvious arousal they e
ncountered, she exulted in her power to excite this man of her hidden dreams. She raised her eyes to his and saw the smoldering desire he was holding tightly in check.
“I want to know all of you,” she whispered.
He hooked his two index fingers into the top of her pantyhose and began to work them down over her hips.
Forgotten was the coldness of the room as the smoky look in his eyes and the intimate touch of his fingers heated her blood. She watched his face, her chin tilted almost fearlessly, as joyous thoughts whirled and flitted through her mind. This is the most precious moment of my life…I'll have this much of him to remember forever…for this small space in time I'm all he wants…me, Margaret Anthony. Oh, God, help me to make him want me with him always!
She felt a lightness, a sweetness, and a rightness when he lowered her to the couch and pulled the blanket up over them. She gave a shiver of pure pleasure.
“Are you cold?” he asked solicitously. His arm moved beneath her head and he gathered her to him, holding her naked length against his.
“No. But…” She clutched him tightly, her hands biting into the warm, solid flesh of his back.
“But what? You can't have doubts now,” he moaned hoarsely against her cheek. “It would kill me to stop.” He pulled her even closer to him.
“Not that, darling!” Her hand moved to his face, and she pressed her palm to his cheek. “It's just that…this has been amazingly easy for you, hasn't it?”
A low protest came from his throat. “Don't think of that! I want, you want…I've never wanted a woman as much as I want you!” His broad hand moved down her spine, found her taut buttocks, and pressed hard. The evidence of his need was captured against her.
The feel of his body, the stroking of his hands, the warm moistness of his breath, the love filling and spilling from her heart, erased the last shred of her inhibitions, and with a soft cry she gave herself up to the sweet abandonment he was urging upon her, telling herself that no matter what happened in the morning, she would have this night to remember always.
Wishmakers Page 9
