by Janet Dailey
When his mouth rolled off hers, Cat moved to reclaim it in quick aggression. But his head lifted and his fingers closed around her wrists, dragging her arms from around his neck and drawing them down to wedge a space between them.
Slow to surface, her senses still spinning, Cat swayed into him and tried to pull her hands free without success. “No, don’t let me go.” Her voice was a husky murmur, the words slurring. “Hold me.”
. “The song is over,” he told her and shot a look at the other couples making their way off the dance floor. But Cat took no notice of them.
“I don’t care,” she declared and arched closer, needing to feel his arms around her again.
For a flicker of an instant, his gray eyes mirrored that same desire, and her heart leaped in response. Then a muscle flexed along his jaw, and it was gone. No, not gone. Controlled, she realized. The same way Repp had. Fury swept her, blinding, hot, raw.
“Damn you.” Rage choked her voice. “How can you not want me? What do I have to do?”
Grimness hardened his features. “You need some coffee.” He shifted his hold on her, seizing her elbow and turning her toward the bar.
She twisted her arm away and all but stomped her foot. “Don’t you tell me what I need!” Cat stormed, suddenly embarrassed and dangerously close to tears. “You aren’t my keeper. I don’t need a keeper. I—”
“You sure as hell need somebody looking after you,” he muttered, jaw clenched, his eyes the hard color of granite. “In case you haven’t noticed, you are more than half drunk.”
“Maybe I am.” She weaved a little, feeling the effects of the margaritas and conscious of the world swimming at the edges of her vision. Pride lifted her chin high. “Maybe I need to be. It’s really none of your business though, is it?”
Something sardonic glittered briefly in his eyes. “You’re right—drunks aren’t normally my business, but there are always exceptions.”
“You talk big, but that’s all you are is just talk.” Cat waved a hand in dismissal of him, then looked him up and down with contempt. “You aren’t a man. You just masquerade as one.”
“You’re going to say that to the wrong man one of these times, lady.”
“Lady? Who asked you to treat me like a lady?” she hurled in anger. “I’m not a lady, do you hear?”
“That’s right.” The thinness of his smile held no humor. “You’re Maggie the Cat.”
“Yes. Yes, I am.” Hot tears suddenly burned in her eyes. “And I want off this damned tin roof!” Fighting the tears, Cat swung away and immediately lost her balance, staggering sideways. His hands caught her, steadied her. She shook them off. “Leave me alone. You didn’t want to touch me before, so don’t touch me now!”
“You’re wrong if you think I didn’t want to—”
Cat plunged onto the dance floor rather than listen to his explanation. She had heard them all before. She twisted her way around the dancing couples. On the other side, she found a path through the crowded tables and headed for the door, suddenly anxious to leave. In her haste, she bumped against a chair, caromed off it and stumbled straight into a plaid-shirted cowboy.
“Whoa, there, little darlin’.” He hooked an arm around her waist, catching her when she would have careened off.
“Sorry—” Self-conscious, she looked up.
“Oooowhee!” He turned wide-eyed with appreciation at the sight of her upturned face. “Look at the pretty package that just landed in my arms.” He grinned like a child on Christmas morning. “Little darlin’, I do believe that band is playing our song. What d’ya say we rub bellies?”
“I—”
“She’s with me.”
When Cat glanced over her shoulder, she found herself looking into familiar gray eyes, discovering a hard glitter of impatience in them. “I am not,” she denied hotly.
But the cowboy had already withdrawn his arm, turning Cat loose. “I saw the two of you dancing—if you can call it that,” he said. “Had a fight, did you?”
“Something like that.”
“We did not.” But neither man listened to Cat.
“I envy you the kissin’ and makin’ up,” the cowboy said. “It’ll be hot springs tonight—and I ain’t talking about Arkansas.”
“Now that is a laugh.” Sarcasm coated her words. Cat stayed long enough to see gray eyes narrow in temper, then swung on a heel and walked off, the cowboy’s laughter following her, masking the sound of a second set of long-striding footsteps.
Cat pushed out the door and stepped into the warm Texas night. The fresh air slammed into her. Everything started to spin, and she grabbed one of the wooden posts that supported the sidewalk’s shed roof. She held herself very still and waited for the ground to stop spinning. When it did, she saw a second pair of boots in her line of vision, and a pair of long legs. Her gaze traveled up them, but she already knew who they belonged to.
“Why don’t you go back to Dakota and leave me alone?” she demanded, her voice thick with a confusing churn of emotions. “I told you before—I don’t need a keeper. I can take care of myself.”
“I saw the way you were taking care of that cowboy.”
“I could have handled him”—perversely, Cat had to add—“assuming I wanted to.”
“I suppose you’d rather be back inside, ‘rubbing bellies’ with that rodeo Romeo,” he mocked.
“What do you care?” she taunted. “You sure as hell weren’t interested.”
His hand shot out and gripped the post directly above her fingers as he suddenly loomed closer, a ridging of anger in his face. “You just keep digging that spur in, don’t you?” he muttered. “For your information, I’ve made love to a woman in a lot of different places, but never in the middle of a public dance floor. I draw the line there, odd as that may sound to you.”
She felt the heat of embarrassment creep into her cheeks and quickly lowered her gaze, looking anywhere but directly at him. He dropped his hand from the post and took a step back, dragging in a deep steadying breath.
“Now,” he continued, “I don’t know who you’re trying to get even with or why—though I can guess. But I suggest you find yourself a telephone, give your boyfriend a call, and patch things up if you can.”
“I can’t,” she flashed, unable to check the tears that filled her eyes.
“Why? Or are you too proud to make the first move?” he challenged.
Cat looked at him for a long, tension-filled second, fighting the words and the pain of them. “No,” she said at last. “He’s dead.”
Stunned by her answer, he drew back. “I’m sorry. I—”
“I don’t want your pity.” She couldn’t take it, not from him. “I don’t need anyone’s pity.”
“Of course you don’t.”
“What would you know about it?” Hurting, Cat lashed out. “What would you know about anything?” Her throat tightened, turning her voice hoarsely thick. “Dear God, why am I even talking to you?”
Cat let go of the post and started forward, blindly digging in her pocket for the ignition keys. He stepped into her path. “Where are you going?”
“It so happens I’m leaving—if it’s any of your business.” She struggled to hold onto her anger. It was the only defense she had. She was suddenly tired—tired of fighting, tired of thinking, and most of all, tired of the loneliness. Catching hold of the key ring, she pulled the keys from her pocket.
“You are in no condition to drive.” He took the keys from her before Cat had a chance to protest. “Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know. A hotel somewhere. I haven’t gotten around to checking into one.” Cat wasn’t looking forward to searching one out, but she wasn’t about to admit that.
“In that case, you might as well get a room here at the Stockyard Hotel.” He motioned to a set of double doors a few feet away.
Cat hesitated, then nodded. “Good idea.”
This easy acquiescence seemed totally out of character for a woman who had
exhibited no signs of being either meek or submissive. Logan’s gaze sharpened on her. The fiery sparkle of temper was gone from her eyes. Shadows lurked in them now, darkening and dulling the green of them.
It touched something inside him and made him gentle when he cupped a hand under her elbow and escorted her into the hotel lobby. “The registration desk is over here.” He pointed to it.
“Wait.” She stopped beside a chair upholstered in unshaved cowhide, her expression a study of concentration when she pushed her hand into a side pocket of her jeans. “I’ve got my money and credit cards.”
“I’ll make sure they have a room available.” He left her by the chair and crossed to the registration counter.
The mustached clerk nodded a hello. “What can I do for you?”
“The lady would like a room, if you have one.” He glanced back as she swayed on unsteady legs and sank down to perch on the chair arm.
“Celebrated a little too much, did she?” the clerk observed.
“A little.”
“At least she’s got sense enough not to be driving.” He pulled out a registration slip. “What’s her name?”
“Maggie…”
“Smith?” the clerk suggested with a faint smile.
Logan glanced back, but she was still frowning over her money.
“That’s good enough.”
“And the method of payment?”
“If she doesn’t take care of it in the morning, you can bill it to my room.”
“Very good, sir.”
Scant moments later, Logan walked back to her, room key in hand. “You’re all set.”
She looked up, with that same furrow of concentration still creasing her forehead. “Don’t they need my credit card imprint?”
“Not tonight,” he told her. “You can pay for the room in the morning.”
“Oh.” She seemed momentarily puzzled, the furrow deepening. Then her expression cleared with a dawning thought. “I guess you told them who I am.”
It was his turn to frown. “I beg your pardon?”
But she didn’t appear to hear his question as she pushed off the chair arm to stand erect. Swaying suddenly, she reached to grab hold of something and fastened a hand on his arm. Immediately he placed a steadying hand on her waist.
A small, self-conscious laugh bubbled from her. “I stood up too quickly that time, didn’t I?”
“It looks that way.”
“Where’s my room?” Her gaze traveled over the lobby, the first traces of fatigue showing on her face.
“It’s this way.” Keeping a supportive hand under her elbow, he walked her over to the broad staircase and pressed the room key into her palm, then pointed up the steps and repeated the clerk’s directions, “Second floor, turn left at the head of the stairs, third door on the left.” She gave a great show of listening intently, then nodded her head once in understanding. “Can you make it all right?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He remained at the bottom of the staircase, watching as she started up the steps, keeping one hand on the banister’s wood railing and using it to pull herself along. A third of the way up, she paused and turned back to him with a puzzled frown.
“Hey, Dakota, where did you say it was again?” The note of annoyance in her voice was self-directed.
It brought a glint of amusement to his eyes. Obviously, she didn’t like this addled, helpless feeling that had resulted from too much alcohol in the system. He stared at her for another long minute, conscious that she stirred something more than amusement in him, something that quickened his senses and his desires. It was more than her undeniable beauty that drew him. Beauty, in his experience, had too often been a shallow thing. But in this woman, there was more than mere beauty; there was a pride and strength of character, an assertion of independence in the way she had rejected his sympathy. Someone weaker would have welcomed it, perhaps even wallowed in it. But not this woman. He had the feeling that weakness was something she despised in anyone, including herself.
All of this went through his mind in that flashing instant between her question and his briefly delayed response. “I’ll take you to your room,” he said, and knew that he welcomed the excuse to remain in her company a little longer, despite the fact that he also knew she was privately grieving for another man.
He joined her on the stairs and spread his hand across her back to guide her up the steps. In a different way, he was just as conscious of her nearness as he had been on the dance floor.
“I can find it on my own.” She gave him a perplexed little frown.
“This way will be quicker.”
She looked at the key in her hand and nodded. “True.”
Together they started up. She caught her toe on the next step and stumbled against him. He reacted instantly to catch her against him and keep her upright. She dipped her head briefly against him, then tipped it back, a rueful laugh slipping out.
“My legs suddenly feel so rubbery,” she admitted, a faintly bemused light flickering in her green eyes.
From other women, such a remark would have been a plea to be carried, but not her. Instead, she gathered herself and started up the stairs again on clearly unsteady legs. He stayed with her for two more steps, then scooped her into his arms.
After a startled gasp, she looped her arms around his neck and murmured, “I probably should object, but I’m too tired and this is too comfortable.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t pay any attention to you anyway.”
As he took the next step, she rested her head on his shoulder.
“I’ve never been carried before, not since I was a little girl, when my daddy would carry me upstairs and tuck me into bed.”
The idea of tucking her into bed was a tantalizing thought, conjuring up images that were far from the innocent ones she recalled. It was a woman’s body in his arms, not a child’s.
“It makes me feel safe,” she murmured. “Safe and protected.”
Something strong and fiercely tender surged through him. Logan subtly shifted his grip, gathering her closer. At the same time, he was disturbed by his reaction, and oddly irritated as well. He was a man, pushed by the same lusts as other men. Alcohol had lowered her defenses, but only by the law’s definition was she drunk. With her guard down, it wouldn’t be that difficult to work his way into her bed, and he knew it. If she had been like other women he had met in bars, none of this would be bothering him. But she wasn’t. She was a different breed entirely.
She snuggled closer and nuzzled his neck. “You smell good, do you know that?”
“Probably the aftershave I used,” he replied as heat curled through him, triggered by the warmth of her lips against his skin. He saw, with a bedeviling mix of relief and regret, that he was nearly to the top of the stairs.
“I like it,” she murmured. “It reminds me of the tall grass plains in summer—with a storm coming.”
As far as he was concerned, the storm had already arrived. The charged tension of it licked through his nerve ends and sharpened all his senses, making him aware of the curve of her hips and the firmness of her breasts. It was an easy step to remember the taste of her kiss and the way her body molded itself so naturally to his. Much too easy.
By the time he reached the door to her room, her nuzzling had turned into a provocative nibbling, and his breathing had roughened.
He let her feet sink to the floor, her body sliding over his and making him harder than he already was. Her hands remained around his neck, her face upturned and her lips softly parted in a woman’s age-old signal of invitation.
But he didn’t trust himself to accept, didn’t trust that he would stop with a kiss. “I need the room key.”
“I need to be kissed again.”
Everything tightened to control the needs that churned inside him. He moved his hands up the sides of her rib cage, intending to unlink the fingers clasped around his neck, but they stopped when his thumbs encountered the underswell of her breas
ts. He went still for an instant, his teeth gritted against the groan rising in his throat.
But the tempting softness of her lips pulled at him. Dipping his head, he drove his mouth against them. His intention was twofold—to satisfy the rawness of his hungers and to frighten her with the brutality of them. She stiffened under the roughness of his assault, then came back at him with equal fierceness.
A breath away from losing the last vestige of control, he ripped his mouth from hers and pushed her at arm’s length. Slower to recover, she stared at him with wide, wondering eyes.
“That’s the way it can be, isn’t it?” She breathed in amazement.
His fingers itched to grab her—whether to shake some sense into her or drag her back to him, he didn’t know. The uncertainty stopped him.
“Give me the damned key.” Seizing her wrist, he took the key from her unresisting fingers, conscious of the trembling in his hands.
He shoved the key in the lock, gave it a savage turn, heard the snick of the bolt’s release and pushed the door inward, then stepped back. Without a word, she walked past him into the darkened room, leaving the door open and the key in the lock. A light from the street filtered through the edges of the closed drapes, giving him glimpses of her silhouette. He stood in the hallway, watching as she walked to the bed and curled her hand around an iron post.
In his mind, he saw her lying beside him in that bed, the light from the windows playing dimly over her naked body, the blackness of her hair fanned over the pillow in an ebony tangle. He imagined her writhing against the building pressure caused by the caressing stroke of his hands.
To dispel the image and the inherent intimacy of a darkened bedroom, he stepped forward and flipped the wall switch by the door. Light pooled beneath the fringed Victorian lamp on the nightstand. Its diffuse glow spilled through the shade and spread onto the bed in mute invitation.
Cursing under his breath, he pivoted from the sight and jerked the key from the lock. “You left the key in the door.”
