He willed strength to his leg and jerked it to the side. Another meow greeted his action. How dare that cat lament his overpowering need to get rid of him?
Lord Romeo stood up. He stretched out his front paws, his head bowed between them. His haunches and tail rose in the air as the cat extended his full length.
Greg, perceiving a threat, slapped finger-spread hands over his deflated pride and joy. The cat’s paws were so close to his bare thigh, he couldn’t have slid a new hundred-dollar National Bank note between them.
The creature’s purring did Greg in. It brought back his vivid dream where the lovely widow—due to his seductive skill—had made that same vibrating husky rumble.
“Get the hell away from me,” he growled at the cat. Somewhat revived, he sat up. “Go on,” he ordered. “Get lost, you savage beast.”
He swatted at the animal. Lord Romeo nimbly jumped aside. Filled with righteous fury, Greg scrambled across the bed. He made a grab for the cat, muttering revenge when the animal jumped to the floor.
Greg, suffering pangs of embarrassment, went after him.
“Stalk me, will you? Not while I breathe.”
Greg stubbed his toe. He went at a staggering gait toward the door. The cat sat in the hallway as if taunting him. Greg shouted. Lord Romeo hissed.
A frightened Catherine, awakened by the noise, limped into the hall with her lamp held high.
All noise ceased. All movement stopped.
Speech was beyond her for that instant. She blinked, unable to believe what she saw. The lamp’s glow picked up the sheen of moisture on Gregory Mayfield’s skin.
Everywhere.
Stark naked, he froze in a crouch with his arms extended to grab Lord Romeo.
He appeared oblivious to his state. Catherine wished she was. Had he taken her words to heart? Did he believe he was in a den of iniquity?
“Wh-what are you doing?”
Her shaken demand shredded what little control he had left. He stooped lower, shouting up at her. “While I lay sleeping in the privacy of my room, that thing, that monster of yours, attacked me.”
His growled explanation finished on the rising cries of the cat.
Catherine was too shocked for modesty. Her swift once-over found no marks on his body. There wasn’t a stitch to hide his sleek body. She saw a little of his chest covered with dark, curling brown hair. Surely such an attack would leave livid marks? Her gaze fell to his thighs, where well-developed muscles rippled as she watched.
And heat bloomed inside her.
She closed her eyes and muttered, “Don’t you—”
Greg lunged for the cat.
Catherine darted in front of him just as Lord Romeo darted beneath the hem of her nightgown.
They went down in a tangle of arms and legs.
Catherine cried out. Her sore ankle was twisted beneath Greg’s knee. His hands grabbed her hips and his fingers sunk into her resilient flesh, sending a wave of heat through his body.
The shocking feel of his hard body pressing against her sent the lamp teetering. “The lamp!”
Greg snatched it from her hand. Not that his were any too steady. He groaned and swore. Her hips were as soft and tempting as her mouth. He had never been the kind of man to grab at what a woman wouldn’t freely offer to him. But he hated letting her go.
“You broke it,” Catherine moaned.
“I’ve got it safe in hand.” His gaze was wild as he tried to find the culprit. He needed some distraction. The cat wasn’t in sight, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t around, waiting for another chance to pounce.
“Not…the lamp. You, oh, you…my ankle. You’ve broken my ankle. Get up!” She looked up at his face through the blur of tears. “This isn’t a bordello. You can’t run around in the…the…” She motioned with one hand toward his chest. She had to force herself not to reach up and touch him. “Get away. Oh, my ankle,” she wailed.
This last cry sliced through the fury that filled him. Swearing, too aroused, too frustrated to be embarrassed, Greg rose in a smooth, controlled rush and retreated into his room. He returned to her in moments wearing his robe. He set the lamp on the floor, safely away from Catherine. There was still no sign of the cat.
Catherine looked up at him. The robe should have been an improvement. A rich, dark wine color, the silken fabric gaped open across his chest and made a knee-jerking, stomach-fluttering, heart-thumping, sexy picture.
The man was going to kill her. Slowly. Heatedly. Why had she remained chaste? She wouldn’t be a frustrated, trembling bundle who couldn’t decide if she wanted to hit him for worsening her injury or haul him off to her bed.
Then he touched her ankle and thoughts of desire went flying.
“Take your hands off me, you…you lecher!” The word best described her own thoughts, but he couldn’t know that.
Just as Catherine was unaware that her accusation came too soon after the lusty, vivid dream-turned-nightmare for him to deny the guilt that swiftly rose.
“Calm yourself. I have no designs on your body.” Liar! He continued in a voice of innate arrogance. “Put your arms around my neck. I’ll carry you into your room to assess the damage.”
So much for desire. His bald statement made her cringe inwardly. She took exception to his tone, and batted his hands away. “Don’t give me orders. Don’t touch me. You’ve done enough. And I can walk on my own if you’d back up and give me breathing room.”
“Stop being so damn female.” As if she could. As if he wanted her to. “You’re muttering contrary nonsense. You were screaming minutes ago that I broke your ankle. Now,” he demanded with one brow arched in disbelief, “you can walk on your own?”
“Breathing room,” she moaned.
He ignored her plea and hunkered down beside her. A mistake. This close he had the faint, sweet scent of her hair. This close and the temptation to know the taste of her mouth proved too much for even his strong will. Before she knew what he was about, before she could refuse, his head bent down and his mouth claimed hers. There was a last fleeting thought that he was taking advantage of her bemused state. Another first for him.
But it was a very fleeting thought. Her soft and most generous lips parted beneath the soft pressure of his. His tongue slipped inside warmth to delve behind her teeth to fully explore the sweet, heated taste of her.
Champagne. French. Aged. Silky and heady.
She sat there in dazed delight as he slowly, gently, thoroughly kissed her. When he finally pulled back, it was only a fraction of an inch.
“This is definitely all your fault,” he murmured, his eyes warm as he smiled down at her. “Further payment is required,” he added softly, thinking again of his dream. And his mouth descended again.
There wasn’t anything passive about Catherine’s response this time. Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue tasting and exploring his mouth as thoroughly as he had hers. She twined her arms around his shoulders. She made a little moaning sound in the back of her throat and curled her hands tighter around him. Her fingers kneaded his tightly muscled flesh as she slowly, languorously tipped her head back against the wall. The erotic play of his searching mouth sent shivers down her spine, where they dissolved into a hot pool of need.
She felt the glide of his hand against her throat as he shifted his weight to deepen the kiss. Spicy taste, silken cloth and masculine scents plunged her into white-hot longing. Reality had no place here, but it intruded. He was kissing her as if she belonged to him, and doubts rushed forth. Her heart was pounding. Her breasts were tight and hot and she couldn’t breathe. But she didn’t want an end to the raw pleasure of his mouth on hers, his tongue touching hers. The faint, hungry noise she made shocked her. What was she doing?
His hand cupped her shoulder, gently drawing her against his chest. The thin cloth of her nightgown offered no protection to her sensitive nipples rubbing against his curling chest hair. His masculine groan of pleasure brought the awareness of how far she had allowed passion t
o take her. Catherine tried to break the kiss. She discovered Greg had a stubborn streak wider than her own.
He was devious, too. Clever fingers rubbed her nipple, his other hand slid beneath her hair. The gentle press of his thumb and forefinger on her earlobe sent a shimmering heat through her. And his mouth was never still on hers. Hard one moment, soft and coaxing the next. She felt as if she had a fever. It had been far too long since Louis had made love to her. She had never been a passive partner in their lovemaking. Her hand rose and encountered his bare thigh.
Greg jerked back as if she had burned him.
Lost in desire, Catherine could only stare at him with a dazed expression.
On Greg’s part, he knew that his dream was a pale imitation of kissing Catherine. But he couldn’t tell her that. Nor would he apologize. But she had surprised him.
No feminine outrage. Just a bemused expression that he had stopped. She had no idea how close he’d been to taking her here. She was Suzanne’s friend.
Catherine wanted to draw herself into a tight ball and disappear. She shouldn’t have tried to touch him. Obviously he was disgusted with her. She moved and cried out.
Greg glanced at her ankle. She was injured and he’d taken advantage of her. Tears sparkled in her eyes.
“Don’t,” he whispered, leaning closer to brush the tears from her cheeks with his fingertips.
“Catherine, you’re not crying because I kissed you?”
She shook her head. She couldn’t even look at him.
Guilt swamped him. But he couldn’t utter that he was sorry. He wasn’t sorry at all. But he was disturbed by the way her eyes closed, and in a weary gesture, she tilted her head against the wall. Her bottom lip trembled and she bit it.
Catherine wouldn’t admit it, but having him near was agony and comfort at once. It made no sense. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be in the hall in the middle of the night, praying her ankle wasn’t broken and trying to will her body into forgetting a few minutes of passion.
Her body wasn’t listening. She ached with need. And it was all his fault.
Greg couldn’t seem to stop touching her. He brushed aside the tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid. It was forcibly brought to his attention by a guilty conscience that this was not the time or the place for sexual thoughts.
But his fingertips—the part of him touching her—sent a message to his mind and body that undreamed-of passion waited within Catherine’s arms. His response was almost painful and he had to shift away from her.
It was an effort to keep his eyes on her face and not let them stray below the round neckline of her nightgown. The white garment wasn’t one to entice a man’s erotic thoughts. The tiny pin tucks and plain buttons without a ribbon or bit of lace shouldn’t have been the least bit tempting.
But they were. He should have left when he said he was going to. Catherine Hill was a complication he didn’t want in his life. Only in his bed.
“Catherine,” he whispered, “you’re hurt. Let me help you. Your injury’s my fault.”
An impulsive imp almost made her blurt out agreement. But she had promised herself to curb her impulsive nature.
“No, this isn’t your fault. I twisted my ankle earlier.”
“And you never said a word. Why?” Her shrug could have meant anything. “But you don’t deny I made it worse?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. He rose, bent and lifted her up into his arms.
Catherine looked directly into his eyes. She shivered to see the banked passion within them. Stop this! How? she wanted to know. Every nerve end was alive with need. Distract yourself. The impulsive imp rescued her.
“You’re stronger than you look,” she murmured as he stepped through her doorway.
“Kind of you to notice. And I won’t drop you. There has been enough of that for one night.”
The distraction didn’t last long enough. She was all too aware that each wore a single garment. Thin, much too thin cloth. He must be running a fever. One of them was. It was far too hot. And she had to fight the desire to rest her head on his shoulder, or touch his hair, or lift her face so her lips could graze his chin.
“Somehow I had the impression from Suzanne’s letters that you worked behind a desk all day.”
Greg maneuvered her to the bed beneath the window. The lamp’s light didn’t reach this far corner of her room. But it was none too soon. Having the lovely widow in his arms was a temptation he could do without.
“I do a great deal of business at various clubs. I do try to ride most mornings,” he went on in a distracted voice as she pulled the quilt over her. “I still enjoy fencing.”
“Fencing?” What was he talking about?
“One of the best things I learned in military school. The others I wouldn’t mention to a lady.”
Catherine’s hand fell from his shoulder as he stood up. He was strong. There was a muscled hardness belied by his lithe build. She bit her lip hard as she wiggled to sit up.
Greg went to retrieve the lamp from the hall.
“Is there a doctor in town?”
“He’s not dependable. At this hour, he’s likely to be passed out in the storeroom of the Red Horse saloon. I’ll think of something. If Mary was here, she’d know what to do.”
“Well, you’ve got me.” He regretted the words the moment he spoke them. What the devil did he know about injuries and ills?
Catherine looked away for a moment. She gritted her teeth to stop from asking him to contain his humor.
As if Greg divined her thought, he said, “I don’t know how much help I’ll be, but I can run up and down for you. You’ll need me to fetch whatever it is you do for a sprained—”
“Possibly broken—”
“Ankle,” he finished. Then added, “If it was broken, you’d be screaming with pain.”
“Now you’re the doctor?”
“I’ve seen a few broken bones from riding accidents. Believe me, you wouldn’t be talking so calmly if it was broken.” You certainly wouldn’t have been kissing me with all that pent-up hunger, either. Just the thought of her mouth beneath his own was enough to send his gaze downward. Thank the heavens his tailor believed in a generous cut for loungewear or he’d embarrass himself.
Greg leaned over. He shoved aside the quilt and pushed up the hem of her nightgown. He couldn’t help the way his palm grazed the soft skin of her leg. Truly, he couldn’t.
“What are you doing?”
“Don’t do a modesty bit on me now,” he ordered, and removed her hand trying to push the nightgown back down. “I need to look at your ankle.”
“I don’t invite men into my bedroom in the wee hours. I certainly don’t let strange men touch—”
“Am I strange, Catherine?”
He asked in all seriousness, but there was a hint of humor in his gaze. She was tempted to say yes. Something was strange or she wouldn’t be reacting to him this way.
“I haven’t made up my mind about you.”
“There’s hope then. Such a dainty foot and very puffed-up ankle.”
“Ouch!”
“Sorry. From what I see, I don’t think you’ll be dancing anytime soon. The thing is,” he said, absently caressing the smooth curve of her calf, “what are we to do about this?”
“Eggs. We need eggs.”
“Charming thought. I’m hungry, too, now that you mention food. But frankly, I’ve no desire to look at another egg for some time.”
Catherine pulled the quilt partly over her. It was the only way to get him to stop touching her. But the quilt offered little protection from his heated gaze as he straightened and stared at her.
“Do you really want eggs? I should warn you before you answer, I don’t know how to cook them.”
She lifted her hand. “Not to cook. If you will go into the pantry, there’s a bowl with eggs in it. Bring up two. And a small bowl. You’ll find that in the corner cupboard. Oh, and I’ll need a fork. And if you’ll stop on the way back at the line
n closet, there’s a pile of clean rags on the bottom shelf. I’ll need two, no, three rags.”
Greg leaned close to put his hand on her forehead. “No fever.”
“I could have told you that.”
“I’m a man who likes to have everything confirmed. Preferably by me.” He’d really have to watch this touching business. It was getting out of hand. Terrible pun. But true, so true.
“You’re very sure about this? Shouldn’t you soak it or something?”
He sounded so doubtful that Catherine couldn’t resist teasing him.
“I’m positive about the things I require. Fear not, I won’t ask you to…to indulge with me.”
“I should hope not. You only asked for one fork.”
She stifled a giggle under his black look. He left the room muttering about eggs and nightmares and wicked thoughts that demanded sacrificial payment.
He was gone so long that Catherine grew alarmed. She glanced around her room wishing she had picked up her clothes instead of dropping them on the floor when she had undressed. There was a pile of clean laundry that she had not gotten around to putting in the drawers. She squirmed and wiggled her way to the foot of the bed and snatched a shawl from the storage chest.
She had avoided looking at her ankle, but the pain increased to such a degree that she had to look. The skin was puffy just as Greg had said. She gingerly poked the area and decided he was right about it not being broken.
But where was he? Surely it wasn’t difficult to find the pantry? Or the bowl of eggs? Whatever could he be doing? She felt helpless, more so when she heard a muffled crash below.
It was a simple errand. What could he have broken?
And what was she going to do about him? It was one thing for him to help her now, but what about tomorrow?
No jumping that fence until you need to.
Good advice. All she had to do was follow it.
Catherine’s patience reached its limit. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, when she heard Greg coming up the stairs.
Lord Romeo chose that moment to saunter in from the hall to Catherine’s bed. He jumped up on the quilt, turned around four times, lay down and closed his eyes.
Catherine Page 8
