Oh, God. Now her fingertips were all over his face, tingling and teasing his flesh lightly. "Do you feel better?" she asked.
Unable to speak, he nodded. Better wouldn't have been his word choice. Aroused was more like it. Her delicate hands glided over his features as though she were molding them, toning masculine muscles and carving angular bones. When her fingers skimmed his lips, she sculpted a pleasured smile.
Melanie smelled faintly of peaches, like fresh-baked pie topped with a frothy spoonful of whipped cream—sweet, succulent and mouthwatering. He realized it was probably lotion because he'd seen peach-scented body products in her bathroom but his imagination went crazy, anyway. He envisioned tasting her skin while she showered, licking every moist, flavorful drop.
As his fantasy engulfed him, she moved to stand behind him and placed her hands on his bare shoulders. "Just a little massage," she whispered.
She had strong, capable hands. Artist's hands. Creative and agile. Colt heard himself moan, a low sound of submission. He rolled his shoulders and arched his back, giving her free rein. She took it and slid her hands right down the front of his chest to his nipples.
"Damn!" Colt bucked. "Maybe you'd better stop." His urgently aroused tone contradicted his words. He couldn't help it. Every time she circled his nipples, an electrical current, white and hot, shot through his veins.
She removed her hands and he cursed his big mouth. He hadn't been struck by sexual lightning since he was a randy teenager. In his mind, sex with Melanie was forbidden. Just like the good girls from his past. And like the bad boy he still was, he wanted what he couldn't have.
She came forward to stand before him again, and their gazes met and held. "I'm not ready to stop," she said, surprising him. "It's important for me to be familiar with the contour of your body before I paint it."
How could he argue the point? He didn't know the first thing about art, and what harm was there in indulging in a little carnal fantasy once in a while? Melanie would never know. "Oh, sure. That makes sense."
His permission made her bolder. She pushed his legs open and stood between them, then decided his chair needed adjusting. He complied by twisting the knob and raising the chair to her specification.
"Perfect," she said.
Colt's legs were still wide open so she scooted in close. The height of his chair appeared to put him exactly where she wanted him, his naked chest easily accessible.
She started at the base of his throat then moved over his collarbone and down and around his pectoral muscles. Just as she had done with his face, she stroked his chest as though creating it. "You're so hard," she said, "and smooth."
Colt swallowed. She had no idea just how hard he was.
Melanie's deft touch continued. "So strong and virile…" She teased his rib cage and he flinched and broke out in goose bumps. "And ticklish."
When her exploring hands slipped lower, Colt shifted his hips, wondering just how far down she planned to go. The turgid bulge in his jeans would be damn hard to miss. What would Melanie think? This was just art to her.
Colt stole a quick glance at the woman feeding his desire. Art, hell. Melanie was enjoying this as much as he was. Her eyes looked dreamy and a soft smile touched her lips like a secret kiss.
Colt wanted to make love to Melanie. Desperately. But he couldn't. What logical reason would he have for suggesting it, aside from blatant desire? She was probably already pregnant. Sex with her now would prod them into an emotional relationship. Something he clearly wasn't ready for.
As she skimmed his stomach playfully, the muscles contracted and jumped. And when she traced the whorl of hair below his navel, his next breath lodged before rushing out like a strong gust of wind.
She bumped his erection and he nearly flew off the chair. "Ooops." She grinned at him, eyes wide and filled with phony innocence. "Guess it's time to paint."
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
"See?" Melanie held a round mirror in front of his face.
Colt stared at his reflection. The painted ebony mask made the white of his eyes brighter and the irises even darker, giving him a sinister appeal. And with his hair parted down the middle and falling to his shoulders, he mimicked a warrior prepared for battle.
"I don't look like me," he said, startled how something so slight could create such a strong physical transformation.
She took the mirror away. "We're not done yet."
"I know." He watched her mix colors on a pallet and test their consistency on her own hand. "The psychedelic part is coming, right?"
Still engrossed in mixing paint, she barely glanced up and nodded. Colt spied the sketches on her worktable and assumed they were renderings of the projected design. It looked complicated and time consuming. Of course, Tiffany was paying for his time. But since he didn't need the money, he planned on adding it to Melanie's charity fund. Through Colt's accountant, she had arranged her surrogate mother's income be distributed among several worthy charities. The first one she had decided on was an organization that aided missing and exploited children. "To bring them home and keep them safe," she had told Colt. "So fathers like you won't lose their daughters."
Her second choice had been to support children from poverty-stricken families in the United States and abroad. Now Melanie had her own brood of foster children. Photographs of innocent, hungry little faces arrived daily, along with handwritten letters, adolescent artwork and grateful parental thank-yous. Melanie Richards was an incredible woman. She answered every correspondence, posted the photos and drawings on her refrigerator and spoke proudly of each child's endeavor.
Colt had moments of weakness when he mourned her participation in his unborn baby's life. Occasionally he found himself imagining the little one suckling her breast or sleeping in her arms. He even wondered if he would have urges to call her when his child took its first step or spoke its first word. Somehow Melanie had become his dearest friend, someone with whom he enjoyed sharing life's joys.
Colt had never been friends with a woman before, which left him often confused and frustrated by his desire to be near Melanie. After all he'd been through, he didn't trust the female gender and kept wondering if she wouldn't end up deceiving him in some way. Sometimes she seemed too good to be true.
"Ready?"
Her voice jarred him back to the task at hand. Modeling. "Yeah, sure."
Neither seemed to have anything more to say after that, so they remained silent for a long while. Colt did his best to sit still as a swirling pattern appeared down the front of his body. Fascinated by Melanie's unusual talent, he watched until a colorful daisy popped up in a disturbing place.
The muscles in his legs jerked. "You're painting a flower around my nipple!"
She barely glanced up. "Uh-huh. Now quit fidgeting."
"Good God, woman, how am I ever going to live this down?"
She brought her face next to his. "No one's going to find out, remember?"
He strove to bore his masked eyes into hers, hoping to intimidate her. "They sure as hell better not." His ranch hands would laugh their butts off, not to mention his team penning partners and the other horse breeders in the county. "I'll look like a sissy."
Melanie burst into laughter. "Colt Raintree, it would take a lot more than painted flowers to make you look like a sissy. You have the body of a god."
A god? Like Adonis? Or maybe the son of a god, like Hercules? He glanced down at the sprouting daisy. Yeah, right. "You're just saying that to shut me up. You name one god who wore flowers on his nipples."
Melanie looked far too amused by the destruction of his masculinity. Her cute little smile annoyed the hell out of him.
"I'm not changing the design," she said, biting back another fit of laughter. "Tiffany's already approved it. In fact, she loved it."
That nut-case would, Colt thought. He raised a black brow wickedly, hoping it made his masked eyes that much more sinister. "Then I ought to be able to paint flowers
on yours."
Her smart-aleck smile faded. "What?"
He jutted his chin toward the stimulated bumps under her T-shirt. The woman could have at least had the good sense to wear a bra on the day she defaced a man's naked chest. "You know, yours."
Her entire face flamed. "Colt!"
Laughter vibrated his chest, quirking the daisy. "Humiliating thought, isn't it?"
She crossed her arms over her T-shirt in a self-conscious gesture, and Colt grinned. For a free-spirited California artist, Melanie embarrassed easily.
"I suppose I can alter the pattern a little," she said. "Lose a few flowers here and there."
"A few?"
She narrowed her eyes. "All right. All of them. But that means I'll have to work out another design. And then I'll have to fax Tiffany with some preliminary sketches."
"Fine. I'll just go jump in the shower while—"
Her hand flew to his chest. "Oh, no, you don't. You sit right there and be quiet."
For reasons unknown, Colt did as he was told and she turned away, paced the room, circled him a few times then stood and stared at his naked chest for what seemed like hours. All he could think about was rinsing the stupid daisy off.
"That's it!" she squealed suddenly.
He startled. "What?"
"The art work on The Bandit was supposed to look like a tattoo."
He wasn't following her. "So?"
"So think about it. A rugged body like yours is crying out for something primitive."
All he heard was the faint rumbling of hunger. He hadn't eaten dinner yet. "Huh?"
She splayed her hands across his chest. "A tribal tattoo. You know, bold lines and geometric patterns, native symbols. Something a seventies warrior might wear. A renegade bandit."
Where did this girl come up with this stuff? "No flowers?"
She laughed. "Not a one."
"Good. Can I use your shower now?" He wasn't about to go strolling across the ranch to his house. Not until he scrubbed off every last bit of paint. Covering it with a shirt was too risky. Regardless of the sunshine, with his luck lightning would strike and he'd get knocked unconscious. Of course, then the paramedics would arrive, tear open his shirt to administer CPR and there he'd be—six one, a hundred and ninety pounds with a daisy on his chest.
"Colt." Melanie smirked as though she'd just read his mind. "You're welcome to use my shower but the only soap I have—"
"Smells like peaches, right?"
She nodded and he tossed his hands in the air. This woman would be the death of his masculinity yet.
* * *
The following week Melanie stood outside Colt's home. He had given her his house key but she couldn't bring herself to use it. Not tonight. Willing herself not to cry, she raised a shaky hand to the heavy door knocker and thumped it against the wood.
A few agonizing moments later, he opened the door. "Hey, what are doing out there in the dark? Come on in."
As soon as she entered the woodsy pine warmth of his home, her throat constricted. Colt looked content. Chest and feet bare, a pair of dark blue sweats fastened low on his hips, he smiled easily. Lately, his moods were light and the time they spent together enjoyable. But not for long. She was about to shatter it all.
"Want some?" He held out a bowl of ice cream.
Unable to find her voice, she shook her head.
"Rocky road," he persisted, lifting the spoon from the chocolate mound. "Guaranteed to cure that long face of yours."
The tears she struggled to conceal surfaced. "Ice cream won't help, Colt."
He discarded the bowl by sliding it onto a nearby end table. "Hey, darlin'…" He swept her hair away from her forehead and collected her tears with the pad of his thumb. "What's wrong?"
Melanie drew a deep breath, cursing the torment that would come with her words. "I'm not pregnant," she said brokenly. "It didn't happen."
The hand against her cheek twitched, then dropped. "Are you sure?"
Her nod was tight. "My … um … you know … time of month came …"
Suddenly Colt looked as ill as she felt. No longer an expectant father, the luster in his eyes turned to a vacant stare. "I guess that's indisputable. No need to take a test or anything."
"No … no need." The home pregnancy kit remained unopened beneath her bathroom cabinet. Two days ago, she and Colt had nibbled from each other's breakfast platters at Mable's before ducking into the local pharmacy like doe-eyed teenagers. One would have thought they were buying their first package of condoms rather than a pregnancy test. Shy, nervous smiles and contained excitement had been exchanged as they read the back of each box carefully.
That same afternoon Colt had pestered her to take the test but she thought it best to wait three or four more days, thinking it might be too early for an accurate result. Her monthly hadn't arrived, but it wasn't actually late yet, either.
Melanie walked over to the sofa and sat down, concerned her legs wouldn't hold her much longer. A sharp pain stabbed her chest as she watched Colt slump onto a leather recliner. Their baby didn't exist. Her womb was empty.
"What if I'm barren?" The question came out before she could stop it. If she couldn't have a child, she'd lose Colt. And if she lost Colt, she'd cease to exist. Her soul would leave her body and she'd float through a colorless world. The tall man with the slow, dangerous smile would be a heart-breaking memory. Sunshine and wildflowers would be no more.
He looked up from his own anguish. "Melanie, don't say things like that."
"You know it's my fault," she said, hugging herself through shuddering breaths. "You've already had a child. The problem has to be with me."
"Problem?" He slid out of the chair and sat down beside her. "The only problem is you're not seventeen and we didn't fog up the back seat of a Chevy."
Another hard breath racked her shoulders. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He managed a smile. "People who want babies don't conceive as easily as those who shouldn't have them do. One time only makes a girl pregnant when she's a teenager. Believe me, I know."
His attempt to cheer her up failed. It only reminded her of the pain she'd felt thirteen years ago when he had married another girl. A pregnant one. "So what do we do now?"
He grinned sheepishly. "Fog up the back seat of a Chevy?" He was getting closer to easing her pain. She almost smiled through another small flood of tears.
"Does that work for people our age?"
"I don't know." His grin faded and his shoulders fell. "I wish you wouldn't cry."
Granting that wish wasn't possible. Her tears had a mind of their own. She wasn't sobbing or making hysterical female noises but she was crying, softly, painfully, each silent tear spilling from her heart.
Melanie reached for the tissues she had stuffed into her shirt pocket. "I'm sorry. I can't help it." How could she tell him her empty womb made her feel inadequate, less of a woman?
Colt stared up at the ceiling. Melanie sensed his discomfort but didn't have the emotional strength to restore it. Clearly her tears disturbed him, yet he seemed reluctant to do what she knew his valiant nature deemed. Hold her, rock her tears away, protect and gentle her, allow her to draw from his strength.
Why wouldn't he comfort her? Had she become less of a woman in his eyes, too? Would he prefer another surrogate? One who had conceived children before?
Melanie looked away and her blurry vision focused on the bowl he had placed on a nearby table. "Your ice cream is melting," she said, unable to bear the morose hush. If he wanted to sever their contract, then why didn't he just say so? Why allow her to sit here in tears while he studied the wood beams as though words of wisdom were etched on their surface?
He lowered his gaze and turned to look at the ice cream bowl. "I'll rinse it out later."
Scintillating conversation, she thought, pain and anger tightening her chest. Damn him for not caring, for not holding her, or kissing her tear-stained cheeks. She wiped her eyes. "I'm going home."
H
is jaw turned hard, and the taut skin across his cheekbones stretched even tighter. "Back to California?"
Pride kept her from breaking down into racking sobs. Home. She had meant the cabin. "If that's what you want."
A sad softness crept into his voice. "I thought maybe that's what you wanted, that going through another month with me might not appeal to you. I know how much the insemination bothered you. And if we try again, it would mean more inseminations per cycle. Two or three, possibly more. And even then, it may not take. Nature is hard to figure."
Melanie's heart somersaulted. He had been worrying that she had changed her mind. "I said I'd stick by you, Colt, and I meant it."
What sounded like a sigh of relief rushed out his lungs. "I'm sorry that you have to go through it all over again. Creating life shouldn't be an uncomfortable experience."
Melanie blinked. Her swollen eyes had ceased their watery torrent. "I'll survive my humiliation." There wasn't a woman alive who didn't dread a gynecological exam, and artificial insemination was just more of the same. Conceiving Colt's child was all that mattered.
A comical, lopsided grin appeared on his lips. "Just so you know, I was thoroughly humiliated that day, too. I realize I'm a grown man but when I had to turn my sample over to the nurse, I felt like a naughty fourteen-year-old. Hell, I think I even blushed."
Laughter erupted in both their chests. "I guess we'll just have to survive our mortification together," she said, not at all shocked by his personal admission. Colt's candid personality made him special. The man was open and honest—traits, unfortunately, she couldn't quite claim.
When the laughter faded and the rustic interior of the room absorbed their silence once again, they studied each other. Intently.
As his slow, methodical gaze moved over her hair, down to her shoulders and beyond, Melanie wondered what he saw. Tear-stained cheeks? Red-rimmed eyes? Auburn hair mussed by the night air? And what of her blouse? Why had he fixed his gaze upon it? she wondered, wishing she had worn something prettier.
WARRIOR'S BABY Page 10
