Made For Each Other

by Parris Afton Bonds

  The knowledge that she could not stay in the cabin another night drummed in her mind, and at last she blurted out, “Can you take me into Roswell now—please? It’s almost stopped snowing.”

  She half expected him to deny her request, but he only shrugged, saying, “If that’s what you want. But we’ll have to wait an hour or so until the snowplows have cleared the roads.” To wait even an hour seemed too long to her. She fidgeted with the blanket, drinking her wine and anxiously watching the window for further signs of snow. She grew more nervous with each passing moment, so that when Nick brought the steak to her she could not eat but only gulped the wine like a thirsty man in the desert, unaware when Nick refilled her glass.

  She drained her glass a second time and looked up to find him standing over her. “I imagine you’d like a shower before you leave, wouldn’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes—no!” Why couldn’t she think straight? “I think I would,” she amended, her tongue feeling as thick as fuzz on a peach. After all, she might not get a chance to bathe until she got back to Santa Fe, which might not be until Tuesday night, if that soon.

  “I’ll only be a few minutes,” she mumbled and pushed herself to her feet—which was a mistake because it put her only a fraction of an inch away from Nick. She tried to move around him, but his hands were suddenly at her hips, holding her as immobile as the brace did her shoulders. When his tongue teased open her lips, her knees buckled and she sagged aginst him with a low moan that was partly out of passion, partly out of despair.

  Nick withdrew his lips. “You make me forget all my good intentions,” he growled.

  She clutched his arms to keep from swaying from the lightheadedness that assailed her. “If you ever had any,” she gasped.

  “Absolutely none – not where you’re concerned. His plunging kiss, the way it brutally took from her one moment and gently gave the next, was like nothing she had experienced.

  She was suddenly aware, as she never had been, of the sweet smell of the pinon Wood burning in the fireplace, of the soft, distant music that only her ears could hear, and of Nick himself—of his rough beard that abrad¬ed her delicate skin, of the black flecks that rimmed the pure blue irises of his eyes, and of the warm, salty taste of his skin that still clung to her lips.

  She wanted to know again that same exciting feeling that had tickled the pit of her stomach and lifted her to an intense plateau of exhilaration. Once more she raised on tiptoe, this time her hands sliding up behind his neck as she offered him her virginal kiss.

  Nick held her away for a moment, his keen eyes searching her face; then he pulled her roughly into his arms. His mouth bruised hers, and his teeth forced her lips open as his tongue ravished hers. His hand tangled in her disheveled curls, holding her firmly against him, and after a moment she lost all will. She surrendered to the kiss that drugged her senses deeper than the pain pills ever had.

  It was not until Nick slipped his hand in¬side his shirt she wore that she realized he had unfastened its buttons. “No, Nick,” she as his hand slid inside her bra and cupped one breast.

  But her pleas went unheeded as he swept her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom, laying her gently on the bed. “Tell me you don’t want me, Julie,” he whispered before his rapacious mouth claimed her lips.

  Chapter Four

  Nick’s mouth took possession of her, and little by little Julie’s small movements of protest abated. She hated herself for her weakness, for wanting him as she did; yet she could not deny him her lips, the shell like recesses of her ear, the hollow of her pulsating throat.

  The telephone’s shrill ring rent through the passion that pervaded the room. Nick crushed her mouth beneath his, but the telephone was insistent, as if it were her defender.

  With an oath Nick released her lips, though his body still held her pinioned, and reached for the telephone. “Yes?” he barked. A moment passed, and he said, “Julie Dever?”

  Someone was asking for her! she furiously shook her head in warning, but Nick, angered by the interruption, ignored her. “Why, yes, Julie’s here, Miss Morley.”

  He thrust the receiver at Julie. She lay beneath him, sick at heart. There was no use trying to pretend with Dee Morley. The Sun’s gossip columnist could easily put two and two together and come up with a scandalous affair. At last she said, “Yes, Dee?”

  “Darling,” the pretentious voice cooed, “the Sun has been absolutely worried about you and Pam. Why, if Pam hadn’t called today, we would have never known about your accident.”

  Julie gritted her teeth. Why had she not remembered to call in to the office? “How did you find me?” she asked quietly.

  “The hospital, dear. They told me that—can you imagine?—why, yes, I suppose you can— that Senator Raffer brought you in. Well, I tell you, dear, it didn’t take long for me to conclude that the senator had ...” The voice paused then said, “. . . offered you the hospitality of his cabin. Tell me, darling, is the man as . . . much of a man as he seems to be?”

  Julie choked. For the first time tears spilled out over her thick lashes. “I’m busy, Dee. Good-bye.”

  “I can imagine,” purred the voice as Julie passed Nick the receiver.

  He replaced the telephone in its cradle, and Julie whispered, “You’ve had your revenge for my columns! Sweeter than even your twisted mind could imagine. Dee will make certain that every citizen who reads the Sun will know that I’m . . . that sort of girl.”

  Nick drew back. His penetrating eyes behind the lazy lids studied her shamed face. “Julie, I—”

  “Don’t say anything! Just get your raping over with. Because when you’ve finished with me I’ll just be beginning with you. And by the time I’m finished you’ll never see your name on a ballot again!”

  The blue eyes were suddenly masked, the face as hard as granite. Her gaze locked with his in a battle of wills. Whatever would have happened next was forestalled by the repeated ringing of the telephone again. Nick jerked the receiver to his ear. “Yes?” he demanded, his gaze never releasing hers.

  Once more he passed the telephone to her. It was Pam this time. “Kid, you’ve got to get out of there quick!” her friend said in a forced whisper.

  “What are you talking about, Pam? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine—but, Julie, you’re not! Some seamy tabloid newspaperman just called. It seems they’ve gotten wind of our accident. . . and, Julie, they know you’re alone with the senator in his cabin! I swearT didn’t say—”

  “No, I know you wouldn’t,” she said. “I’ll get back to you in a little bit.”

  She hung up the receiver, unable to keep the sigh of depression from escaping. “It seems we’re both about to achieve our revenge,” she told Nick, averting her eyes from his piercing gaze. “It seems some tabloid has heard about the accident and the fact that I’m alone in a cabin with you.” She looked at him now with despair. What would her parents say if they saw the headlines of the fiasco in one of those tabloids?

  Nick’s gaze searched her face, as if trying to discern whether she was telling the truth. He rolled away from her. The flare of a match briefly lit up his inscrutable expression. The tense silence of the room grated on her nerves like the dripping of a leaky faucet. She wanted to shout, to pound that impassive face, to rouse some emotion from him. Her whole world had collapsed around her, her reputation would be ruined and her career jeopardized—and Nick could lie there calmly smoking!

  Moments later he ground the cigarette out in the ashtray and rose from the bed. “No doubt we’ll be besieged by reporters as soon as this storm lets up,” he said grimly before turning away.

  Her gaze followed him into the living room, where the darkness swallowed him up. Her mind was a whirlwind of discordant, disconnected thoughts. Miserable, she pushed herself from the bed. Obviously the wisest thing would be for her to leave before they arrived. Perhaps Nick could take her into Ruidoso and let her out somewhere, though she doubted that her absence would
halt the scandalous headlines.

  She paused at the doorway, gathering her courage to ask him. He stood before the hearth, one hand resting on the mantel. The fire’s light silhouetted the powerful lines of his masculine body.

  As if he sensed her presence, he said quietly, never turning around, “I suppose the only answer to save your virtuous reputation and my career is to marry you.”

  She blinked, not quite certain she had understood. When nothing more followed, she crossed to stand at his side. Nick looked down at her; then his gaze dropped, and she realized that she had forgotten to button the shirt, that his gaze was plundering the treasures of her exposed breasts. Quickly she pulled the shirt closed. “Would you mind repeating what you just said?”

  “Do you have a better suggestion?” he asked, fully aware she had heard him correctly the first time.

  “Of all the arrogant, conceited, self- centered—” Her hand lashed out, and Nick caught it in midflight before it reached its target. “You’re hurting me,” she gasped.

  “Then listen to me—quietly. We can cross over the border at El Paso and be married at Judrez before the night is over. A few dollars given to the alcalde—the justice of the peace,” he translated for her—“and our marriage certificate will be dated the night of your accident.”

  “What makes you think I’d want to be married to—to you?” Her voice grew louder the angrier she got. “Marriage with you is the last thing I’d want! I’d rather be known as a call girl than married to you!”

  “Mark my words—you will be known as one if you don’t marry me.” Her hand went limp, and Nick continued. “You don’t have long to consider my offer. ”

  She stood there, trying to sort out her feelings. She hated Nicholas Raffer and all he stood for; not just some of his political views, but his arrogance, his wealth, his free- swinging life style that gave no consideration to the female sex.

  Yet she had to admit she was strongly attracted to him. “It’d never work,” she whis-pered. “The way we detest each other. My idea of a marriage is like my parents’—a marriage of trusting, of love,” she said slowly, trying to formulate her thoughts into words. “Our marriage would be a disaster. We’d both be miserable.”

  “I didn’t say we had to stay married the rest of our lives.”

  She tried to make out in the light of the fire what lay behind Nick’s dispassionate expres-sion. “For six months or so, you mean?”

  “Something like that—until this incident blows over.”

  “What do you get out of all this?” she asked suspiciously. “I can’t believe you’re generous enough to sacrifice yourself on the marriage altar with what Santa Fe society would call a nobody!”

  Nick’s hand crept out to run its fingers through her feathery curls. She tensed at his touch, waiting. After a moment he said casually, “Protection. If I hope to be reelected to my senate seat next year I can’t be worried about the next edition of some tabloid. And in turn you would have the protection of my good name in marriage. It would be a marriage of mutual benefits.”

  “Oh,” she murmured. And with that utterance went all the fantasies of her youth . . . the beautiful wedding in white, the adoring bridegroom, the happy-ever-after fairy tale.

  “Wow. I love all the romance and flowers you come bearing. All right,” she said wearily. But the old spark of high spirit reignited, and her head shot up defiantly. “But there’s one condition.”

  “Yes?”

  “That I am to remain as chaste in body as my good name which you profess to be protecting.”

  Nick’s soft laughter sent shivers along her spine. “And what’s to keep me from the marriage privileges to which I am entitled?”

  She smiled sweetly. “The same thing that will keep me from tearing you into shreds in the press after our divorce—or annulment. Our word of honor.”

  “Word of honor?” he drawled. “I doubt either of us possess that. “Now a prenuptial – ”

  “No way. It’s all about trust – or it’s nothing at all.”

  “I didn’t give you enough credit for being so scheming.”

  “We’re well matched,” she retorted.

  Nick tugged lightly on the handful of silken hair he still held in his grasp. “You can’t deny me your soft lips . . . after all, without a husbandly kiss now and then before our public, everyone will begin to suspect that we didn’t marry for love to begin with. And that’s something we don’t want to happen for at least several months, do we?”

  Her full lips pouted. “As you say, then, a kiss for the sake of appearances—but that’s all!”

  Nick released her hair abruptly. His lips curled sardonically. “You still have to suffer my odious touch—at least until your collarbone is well enough that you can easily dress yourself.”

  She steeled herself to withstand his imper-sonal touch as he deftly buttoned her shirt. The brush of his fingertips against her bare skin aroused her more than any kiss from any of the other men she had dated, including her editor, Jim Miller.

  As if he could read her thoughts, Nick said,

  “And this other man—the man who holds your heart—what about him?”

  She looked up to find Nick closely watching her, as though he might actually care that there was some other man in her life. “He hasn’t asked me to marry him—and you have,” she pointed out quietly.

  “I see,” he said.

  No, she thought, you don’t see. But she said nothing as he turned away. “I’ll get ready,” he said over his shoulder, “and we’ll leave.” He paused at the bedroom door. His gaze raked down the length of her bare legs. “Shall I help you with your jeans also?”

  “No! I can manage myself, thank you,” she replied stiltedly. And it was true: she could manage almost anything, but not without some awkwardness and pain.

  Nick grinned. “Modesty is no way to start a marriage.” But he tossed her the jeans and disappeared into the bathroom.

  Twice She almost tripped trying to pull the snug jeans over her hips. Her shoulder was already beginning to throb again, and she knew she ought to take a pain pill, but half drugged was the last thing she wanted to be on her bridal night. When she had finished tying her tennis shoes, she looked down at her ridiculous garb—the rumpled jeans and too- large shirt—and recalled her mother’s white satin wedding dress that had been stored away for her own wedding. She wanted to cry.

  But that was something she would never do again—at least, she would never let Nick see her do it.

  With the thought of Nick, she looked toward the bathroom. “Nick?” she called softly. Had he already regretted his offer?

  He stepped out of the bathroom, toweling off his face. One brown hand rubbed his jaws with a self-derisive smile. “Every groom should be clean-shaven on his wedding night.”

  There was no chance that Julie could mistake Nick’s identity now. The only hint of the rogue who had rescued her that she could see was the still too longish hair – and the wicked glitter of his eyes that gave the latent impression of something dangerous lurking patiently. Without the beard, the carved jawline and faint cleft in his chin were more pronounced, along with the mocking grooves that flanked his long lips.

  Gone, too, were the worn jeans and flannel shirt. There was nothing rough or disheveled about the cream-colored silk shirt that molded his wide shoulders and chest and the finely tailored slacks of pale blue that clung to the narrow hips.

  Nick tossed the towel onto the bed and began rolling up the long shirt sleeves to reveal his tanned, muscled forearms. “Sorry that I’ve nothing dressier for you to wear,” he said, nodding at her crude clothing. “But that should be easily remedied tomorrow when the stores open. After all, isn’t that what every woman enjoys doing—shopping?”

  “Not every woman,” she snapped, thinking of her closets, filled with more jeans and tennis shorts than skirts and gowns. And with that thought came the realization that for the next six months she would have to dress the part of a senator’s
wife—worse, act the part. Could she sustain that sort of vapid veneer she had witnessed at the political cocktail parties she had attended?

  The more she thought about her approac¬ing marriage on the silent nocturnal trip to Ju&rez, Mexico, the more she felt she had to be out of her mind. She barely knew Nicholas Raffer—only his public image. And that she had often quarreled with.

  But the private Nick Raffer, the man she had intimately shared two days and two nights with—this man had the power to disturb her as no one else had, and she did not like this unexpected trait of feminine weakness she had discovered in herself. If Nick had accomplished that much in two days— her near physical and moral subjugation— what could he not do in six months?

  Her gaze slid across the darkened car to surreptitiously assess the man behind the wheel. He handled the large four-wheel vehicle with a consummate skill that matched his skill on the senate floor—the determined focus of mind and relaxed, catlike movements that belied the watchful eyes. No wasted motion. Even that dark face wore the same expression—betraying little, while absorbing the most minute detail.

  No wonder he was a skilled hunter—and a powerful politician.

  She shivered at the enormity of the step she was taking in marrying this man, and Nick asked, “Cold?” But something in the tone of his voice told her he was well aware of her apprehensive thoughts.

  “A little,” she replied, unwilling to openly admit her fear.

  Nick turned up the heat, and after a moment she actually did feel less gloomy. Outside the car the world was a winter wonderland of white against a black-velvet sky sequined with glittering diamonds. Because of the late hour of the night and the bad weather conditions, the Blazer did not pass another car. It was as if the elements conspired to isolate the supposed lovers in their own private world.

  It would have—should have—been a romantic journey . . . had Nick loved her. But she had never felt so alone in her life.