Return to Oak Valley

by Shirlee Busbee

  “Yeah. I'll do that,” he snapped, wrenching open the door to his pickup. He sent Shelly a hard look. “This isn't over. I'll be getting in touch in with you.” A sneer entered his voice. “When your boyfriend isn't around.”

  “Well, that was certainly entertaining,” Shelly said, as she and Sloan watched Scott's pickup disappear down the gravel road.

  “You could say that,” he agreed. “But before I leave I want to check things out and make certain that he didn't leave any surprises around.”

  Shelly turned and looked at him. “What sort of surprises?”

  He shrugged. “With Scott you never know.” No reason to frighten her unnecessarily. And it would frighten her, he thought grimly, if he mentioned the trashing of Cleo's place, the prized colt of his he'd found with a smashed foreleg, or the young bull that Nick had lost under suspicious circumstances. Just before her house was broken into and vandalized last summer, Cleo had caught Milo sneaking around on her property and had had him arrested for trespassing. The other two incidents had happened a couple of years ago—just after he had pithily refused to lease some remote land to Scott and Nick's cattle had accidentally wandered into a marijuana patch being cultivated in a far corner of the Mendocino National Forest. Coincidence? Neither he nor Nick thought so—and Cleo had always been certain—and vocal about Scott being pond scum. Having his own ideas of the extent of Scott's vi-ciousness, he'd feel better once he knew that Scott hadn't left an ugly scene for Shelly to find.

  Shelly stared at him. His expression might be bland, but she sensed that he was holding something back. “What aren't you telling me? I hate it when I'm treated like a child. If there's something I should know, tell me,” she demanded. “I'm a big girl now.”

  Sloan grinned, his eyes traveling appreciatively over her. “I'd sort of noticed that. Be hard not to with those butt-hugging jeans of yours and that slinky blouse you're wearing…but that was the whole point, wasn't it, honey? To make me notice?”

  Shelly's cheeks flamed, and she spun around. Damn him! Suddenly wishing that she'd worn a burlap sack this morning, she stalked to the house.

  Still grinning, Sloan ambled after her, his mouth watering at the view presented by those same butt-hugging jeans.

  Just as she reached the first step, he caught her arm, and said, “We'll save the house for last. He came from behind the house, so let's start there.”

  She threw off his hand and glared at him. “And what makes you think that I'm going to help you? Why should I?”

  “Because you're curious?”

  Muttering under her breath, she led the way to the back of the house. Hands on her hips, Shelly watched with growing irritation as Sloan walked around the new construction, glanced at the huge stack of hay under the bright blue tarp and examined the interior of the barn.

  Satisfied that Milo hadn't wreaked any obvious havoc in this area, as he walked out of the dim interior of the barn, Sloan said, “All those new corrals and pens and chutes, for the cattle operation?”

  “Not that it's any business of yours, but yes.” Pride and excitement had her blurting out, “I'm expecting a shipment of heifers sometime tomorrow that carry some of the old Granger bloodlines. We'll be using Granger's Ideal Beau on them—which gives us a head start on rebuilding. Beau's our linchpin.”

  Sloan glanced to the pen where the big black bull was drinking from the water trough. “He's a great-looking animal—he should do well for you. I always thought it was a shame that Josh had pretty much dispersed the herd. Granger's had some good Angus at one time.”

  “And will again.”

  Sloan smiled at her confident tone. Walking over to the new kennel where the dogs barked and wiggled when he stopped in front of them, he asked, “Acey's dogs?”

  “Yes. I told you Acey is living here. In the apartment up-stairs—the apartment you insisted upon seeing. Remember?”

  He shrugged. They went through the other outbuildings and, convinced that Milo hadn't done any damage here, Sloan turned his attention to the house.

  Entering through the back door, after passing through the spacious mudroom, they walked into the big kitchen. Shelly forced herself to be polite. After all, she told herself, Sloan was just making sure everything was OK—she'd figured that much out all by herself—and she should be grateful, not crabby and annoyed. Attempting to make amends, she crossed to the refrigerator, opened it, and asked, “Do you want something to drink? There's soft drinks and beer.”

  “A beer'll be fine,” he answered, his gaze traveling around the pleasant kitchen. He might have detested Josh, but he had to admit the man had good taste, liking the cheerful colors and layout. Sipping from the cold bottle of beer Shelly had handed him, he continued his inspection of the house, feeling more and more like a voyeur as time went by. It was obvious that whatever reasons Scott had had for being here, it hadn't been to deface or destroy. Maybe Scott really had been looking for Acey? Sloan frowned. Didn't seem likely. Acey had no use for a man who didn't put in an honest day's work and Scott had never done an honest day of anything in his life.

  Shelly found it unsettling to have Sloan roaming through the house. Watching him prowling through it like a tiger on the hunt made her feel vulnerable and resentful. Resentful because she hadn't flatly refused to let him do so and vulnerable simply because it was Sloan invading her privacy. He was low-key about it, so damned polite, for Sloan, that she wanted to smack him.

  “Next floor?” he asked after he'd finished a cursory glance at the main floor. His original reasons for conducting the search had vanished. There was no sign that Scott had ever been inside the house, or if he had, he hadn't left a trace of it, but Sloan was loath to leave. He was, to his irritated amusement, enjoying her presence—even if her body language told him she wished him in Hades. He grinned. If he'd been a decent sort, he'd have apologized and left. Problem was, when it came to Shelly, there wasn't one damned decent bone in his entire body. Everything's fair in love or war, he thought. So which was it? Love or war? He couldn't wait to find out.

  “Look,” Shelly said bluntly, “this has gone on long enough. Whatever you were searching for, it's apparent you're not finding it.”

  Having him in the house was bad enough, but just the thought of Sloan sauntering around her bedroom made her breath catch and her knees go weak. Feeling as she did, being in the same room alone with Sloan and a bed was just plain dangerous. And foolish. And dammit! Oh so tempting.

  “There's absolutely no reason for you to see any more of the house,” she said.

  “What's up there?” he asked, waving a hand toward the staircase.

  “There's nothing,” she said between gritted teeth. “Just bedrooms and bathrooms and on the third floor, my studio.”

  “Ah, the place where the famous artist creates, huh? Don't want it contaminated by the prying eyes of the philistines.”

  “Precisely!” Turning away, she added, “Now if you'll follow me, I'll show you out.”

  “Afraid to show me?” he taunted softly.

  She spun around, her hands fisted at her sides. He hadn't moved. He was still standing at the base of the stairs, challenge in his gaze. “Fear has nothing to do with it,” she snapped, aware that fear had everything to do with it. “There's just no reason for us to continue.”

  He shook his head, his expression marveling. “Never thought I'd see the day. A Granger running from a Ballinger.”

  She rose to the bait, just as he had known she would. “Fine! I'll show you the whole damned place.” Brushing past him, she started up the stairs. “You know, I really hate you sometimes,” she snarled. “And after this you're leaving. Do you hear me? You're gone. Outta here.”

  Grinning, Sloan followed, his fascinated gaze on those lovely pumping buttocks only inches in front of him.

  Reaching the top of the stairs, Shelly stopped in the wide hallway. She flung out a hand and, with an exaggerated bow, said, “Please, be my guest.”

  Sloan smothered a chuckle and e
ntered the first room he came to. It was huge, probably Josh's, he thought, glancing at the sable suede bedspread on the king-size bed and the comfortable, distinctly masculine furniture scattered about the room. Since he'd insisted upon seeing this floor, he made himself go through the motions, but he didn't expect to find anything. And he didn't.

  By the time they reached her bedroom, Shelly was all nerves and apprehension. If he just gave her room the same sort of swift look he'd given everything else, she'd be fine. She could keep her composure, politely escort him from the house, then faint with relief that he, and all the temptation he offered, were finally gone. But if he lingered…if he dared to kiss her as he had at his cabin…She swallowed. He hadn't even touched her, but she wanted him to—and would have died before admitting it.

  Sloan sensed the moment he entered the room that it was Shelly's. Looking back over his shoulder at her where she stood in the doorway, he asked, “Yours?”

  She nodded, her mouth dry, her body tense. It might seem silly to hover uneasily in the doorway to her own bedroom, but she wasn't, she told herself, stepping one foot inside it until Sloan was safely out of the damned house.

  He took his time wandering around the room, peeking into the closet and bathroom before he sat down on the side of her bed. “Nice room.”

  The sight of him on her bed was thoroughly unnerving; images of the two of them making love popped instantly into her head. Hastily pushing the image aside, she said tightly, “If you've satisfied yourself, I suggest you leave. Now.”

  “Honey, I haven't even begun to be satisfied,” he muttered. “And if you'll just bring that sexy little body of yours over here, we can see about changing that.”

  Across the width of the room they stared at each other, the sudden, stark hunger in Sloan's eyes making her nipples swell and damp heat flood her lower body. “Don't!” she cried out in a tortured voice. “Don't start, Sloan. Get out.”

  He hesitated, then, with a shrug, stood up and began to walk toward her. A lopsided grin on his face, he said, “You don't know what you're missing.”

  The strident ringing of the telephone by her bed interrupted the rude comment that sprang to her lips.

  Sloan stopped his progress midway across the room and glanced from her to the ringing phone. “Want me to answer it?”

  “No. No. I'll get it. Just go. Show yourself out.”

  “In a hurry to get rid of me?” he mocked.

  “Yes, dammit! Now get out of here so I can answer the damn phone.”

  He grinned, not budging. “Nothing's stopping you. Answer it.”

  Unable to ignore the insistent peal of the phone, Shelly scuttled into the room, keeping well away from him. Snatching up the phone, she barked, “Yes! Who is it?”

  A voice like warm brandy flowed through the phone lines. “Now, sugar, is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?”

  A delighted smile curved Shelly's lips. “Roman! It's so good to hear from you.” Waving a dismissal to Sloan, she sank down onto the side of the bed and prepared to let Roman's Southern charm soothe her shattered nerves. “How is everything in New Orleans?”

  “Dull as dust without your charming company. Tell me, please, that you have changed your mind about living in that little jerkwater community and that you're coming back soon to bring joy and light into my life once more.”

  Shelly laughed. “Surely, you exaggerate, kind sir. If I remember correctly, there are any number of nubile young ladies eager to bring joy into your life. You don't need me to add to your harem.”

  “Ah, ma belle, you wound me. As if one of them could take your place.”

  She laughed again and absently began to unlace her ropers. “Well, one of them is going to have to—I'm staying right where I am.”

  “Then I am afraid that you leave me no choice—I must join you in your wretched exile from all that is worth living.”

  “What? You're coming out here?”

  “Hmm, yes. Will it be all right?”

  The thought of the ever-elegant and urbane Roman strolling arrogantly down the streets of St. Galen's was mind-boggling. Leaving off struggling with her bootlaces, she demanded, “Are you serious about this?”

  Sloan decided he had been ignored long enough, and he walked over to where Shelly sat. Dropping down to one knee, he took her foot in his hands and deftly began ridding her of the boots.

  Shelly yelped at the first touch of his hands on her foot. Lips parted, eyes wide she stared down into Sloan's features, Roman forgotten.

  “Something wrong?” Roman asked.

  “N-n-no,” Shelly stammered breathlessly, as Sloan slid off first one boot and then the other, his hands lingering warmly against her skin as he completed his task. She snatched her foot away from him and, covering the phone with one hand, hissed, “Go away.”

  Sloan smiled, a slow intimate smile that made her heart turn right over in her breast. He stood up and to her outrage and horror, settled himself comfortably on the bed behind her.

  Twisting around, she glared at him. “Did you hear me?” she hissed again. “Go away.”

  “Is someone there with you, ma belle?” Roman laughed huskily. “Never tell me that I have called at an inopportune moment? Can it be that some tough, swaggering cowboy has stolen your heart?”

  “Absolutely not! And no, no one is with me,” she said, throwing daggers at Sloan before turning her back on him.

  “Now that's downright rude, honey,” Sloan murmured, and, pleasing himself, he ran a finger along that stiff spine of hers. Shelly tried to wiggle away from him, but he thwarted that action by the simple expedient of sitting up, putting his hands around her waist to hold her still, and dropping a soft kiss just under her ear.

  Her breath left in a whoosh the instant he touched her. Worse, his hands showed a distressing tendency to wander, and his teeth were nibbling at the side of her throat. “Roman,” she said hastily, “I have to go now. I'll call you back. I promise.”

  She slammed down the phone. Heart hammering, she tried to calm herself. She had to be cool. She had to be firm. Common sense had to overcome her treacherous body. That treacherous body that wanted nothing more than to offer itself to the one man that could break her heart. Had broken her heart, she admitted bleakly.

  Having accomplished his purpose, Sloan had lain back down on the bed, ready to outwait her. The next few minutes, he mused, should be…interesting.

  She took a deep breath and half swung around to face him. Oh, God, she thought helplessly as she stared at him, I'm in big trouble. He looked so right lounging against the pillows of her bed, his hands behind his head and that mocking smile on his lips, the half-shuttered eyes full of sensual promise.

  “We have to talk,” she said levelly, holding on to her churning emotions by a thread.

  “No, we don't,” Sloan said. Before she realized it, she was caught and dragged across the bed. “Talking,” he muttered against her mouth, “always seems to get us into trouble. But never this. Never this.”

  His lips took hers in a kiss that sent her senses spinning. Too well did she remember the power of his kiss; too well did she remember the hungry thrust of his tongue, the demand of his lips, the sting of his teeth. He used them all, teeth, tongue, and lips, to arouse, and her body responded as it always had, the world around her exploding in a fireball, leaving behind only the fierce ache of wildly spiraling desire.

  Hands on either side of her head, he held her still and kissed her a long time, the drag of his lips against hers, the stroke of his tongue deep within her mouth coaxing and demanding at the same time. Denial was impossible. She gave him everything he asked for, her lips parting fully for his exploration, her tongue mating with his and her arms closing hungrily around his shoulders.

  He was half-lying on her, the warm weight of that muscled length familiar and yet not. It had been a long time since she'd made love, and it had been an eon ago, a lifetime ago since she had lain in Sloan's arms, a very long time since she had felt passi
on this overwhelming, this primitive.

  When his hand swept down and fondled her breast, she arched up, the brush of his thumb against her nipple sending spears of pleasure through her. His lips followed his hand, and the sensation of that insistent, tugging mouth made her breath catch and her heart pound. But it was the touch of his hand between her legs, the subtle slide of his finger against her damp aching center that startled a cry of need from her. Even with the barrier of clothing between them, the caress was potent, turning her brain to cinders.

  The sexual tension had been building between them all day, and that soft cry destroyed Sloan's restraint. With a low, frustrated growl he began to strip her, his fingers fighting with buttons and zippers as he sought to expose all the naked beauty that had haunted him for years. Shelly was no better. She had fought to avoid precisely this situation, but it had been a futile battle. She wanted him. She ached for him, wanted desperately to feel the power of that big body moving over hers. Every cell in her body was clamoring for the sweet completion she would find in his lovemaking; her body was screaming for the blunt invasion of his, and having lost the fight with herself, she wasn't going to be denied satisfaction.

  In a frantic fumble of hands and seeking mouths they dispensed with clothing. Sloan sat on the side of the bed, cursing as he fought free of his boots and his jeans and briefs, holding on to just enough sanity to grab the foil packet from his wallet. It took him an agonizing second to prepare himself, then he came back to her.

  On their knees they met in the middle of the bed and the sudden sweet shock of naked flesh against naked flesh was almost more than he could bear. Her arms twined around his neck, and they kissed deeply, hungrily. His hands were everywhere, exploring, caressing, his fingers leaving trails of fire wherever they touched.