If she was going to get embroiled in a flaming affair, why didn’t she have the sense to keep a little distance? Share his bed, perhaps, but no more. The more she let herself become entangled in his life, the harder it would be when it ended.
“David’s your older brother?” she asked, knowing it was already too late. “Tell me about your family, your childhood.”
“Not exciting,” he said, but she asked questions as they walked, and Patrick told her about his childhood on the farm, about his fights with his older brother, who he obviously admired. “There was only room for one boss on the farm,” he said wryly. “But neither David nor I was willing to shut up and go the other’s way. Luckily, I was more interested in technology than cows. So I took computer science and business instead of agriculture at university, and we’ve managed to stay friends as well as brothers.”
“He lives at the farm?”
“Yes, and my parents, although nowadays they spend a lot of time away. They have a motor home and they winter down in Arizona. They won’t be back until the beginning of June. Often there’s just David and Stanley on the farm. Stanley’s David’s son, eighteen and living for his guitar. He’s a good kid—away at university right now.”
“David’s wife?”
“Died three years ago. Cancer.” She squeezed his hand, because there were no words for grief. Patrick said, “They had the kind of love that warmed everybody around them. It tore Dave up when Sandy got sick. Stanley, too.” He sighed. “It was hard on all of us, but my brother’s a hell of a guy. After the funeral, he told he was lucky. He said fifteen years of happiness was a lot more than most people get, and he’d had the woman he loved for fifteen years.”
They walked in silence, and slowly Molly started to hear small sounds from the trees. “Coons,” said Patrick.
“Not bears?”
“No, don’t worry about bears. Or cougars, for that matter. There aren’t any on Gabriola. Just deer and raccoon and birds.”
And moonlight. It was a magical forest. They had left the path to turn onto a narrow, unused road that Patrick told her had once been a logging road. They followed it through the trees until Patrick suddenly stopped and drew her against him with an arm around her shoulders.
She looked where he pointed and found herself watching a silhouette in the clearing. It moved, turning, and a flash of white tail showed at its rump. A deer. Molly breathed shallowly thorough her mouth, trying to be silent, motionless, not to frighten the animal. She saw motion to its right and realized that there were two of them, grazing in the small meadow just ahead of her and Patrick. Patrick moved and took her with him, two steps further, and she could see now that there were three of them. A family.
For long, quiet moments, Molly and Patrick watched. Then the largest of the deer moved away towards the trees and the other two followed.
“They’re beautiful,” she whispered.
Patrick took her chin in his hand and covered her lips with his.
Sweet, the taste of the outdoors mixed with his own heady, masculine scent. She leaned against him, her lips soft under his, her tongue stirring to his touch.
Her fingers moved restlessly at the back of Patrick’s neck and his arms tightened in response, drawing her close until she could feel her breasts crushed against his chest, even through the bulky jacket. He deepened the kiss and her breath turned ragged. His hands, so firm, exploring the shape of her hips below the jacket, and then pulling her close.
He slid his hands along her hips, made her mouth tremble under his lips and moved to taste her cheek and the curve of her jaw. “I’ve got to be crazy, trying to fight this!” he growled softly against the tender flesh of her throat. “I want you,” he told her raggedly. “I need you Molly. Now.”
She trembled closer, unable to suppress a soft groan as his need pressed against her. My lady, he had said to Gary earlier, as if he had known he could claim her. Her arms tightened around his neck as he slid the jacket’s zipper down. She gasped softly as his lips caressed through the silk. Pulses going wild in her throat for him, then flames bursting high as his hands slid over the silky curves, seducing her woman’s fullness with his touch.
His breath went short as a formless sound escaped her lips and the hard button of her arousal peaked against his palm.
“Molly... “
The softness flared to urgency. He found the scarf at her neck and became lost in its complicated knot. He closed his eyes tightly, drowning in her scent, her feel, groaning, “I shouldn’t be making love to you out here in the cold.”
“Patrick...” He made her lose track of her words with his hands on her breasts.
“Molly,” he whispered. “I want you here, under the stars, naked in the moonlight. I want to see you.” He buried his face in the silk-clad softness of her breasts. “I need to know what will happen to your eyes when I kiss you here, whether you’ll make that breathless sound again.”
She shivered and breathed his name.
“Not here,” he said painfully. “Not here.” He drew in a harsh breath and abruptly let her go. “Molly—”
He tried to get his breathing, his heartbeat, under control, concentrated on doing up the zipper to the jacket she wore. What was she thinking? A moment ago she had whispered his name in that shaken, passion-loaded voice, but now she was so quiet, so still.
“Molly, will you stay with me tonight?”
She shivered. He had touched her until she was trembling and aching, whispering his name, almost begging him to love her. Then he had stepped back, when she wanted only to drown in his arms. The harshness in his moonlit face frightened her now. It would end with pain. She knew that, but she whispered, “Yes. I’ll stay with you tonight.”
The air went out of his lungs. He held out his hand. “Let’s go back then,” he suggested softly. “I’ll show you my place.”
She wished it could be more than this, that she could be enough for him forever. But she must not shadow the loving with the pain to come. She put her hand in his and suggested softly, “Come into my parlor?”
“Hmm.” She couldn’t see his face now that they were turned away from the moon, but the smile was in his voice. “Do you feel like a fly, Molly? You don’t look like one.” He stopped and kissed her on the lips, a hot, hard kiss that told her more than words could.
She felt alive, her nerves zinging with sensation, her heart racing with joy. For the first time in her life, she did not give a damn about tomorrow. I want you. She hadn’t the courage to say the words.
She said, “I feel like a woman.”
“Oh, God, Molly!” His hands tightened on hers. “Do you know what you do to me?”
Her lips parted and he covered them again with his, murmuring, “Are you a sorceress, lady?
Maybe. Just for one night. For him.
The walk back was magical, moonlit. Patrick told her about his house. He had built it himself over a period of four years, had enjoyed doing it and felt no desire to live anywhere else.
“Mind you, I enjoy travelling.” He smiled down at her and she saw the white of his teeth in the moonlight, his dark eyes a mystery the moon would not penetrate. “Coming home is always good for me. There’s nowhere quite like Gabriola.”
She understood, looking in from outside. “It’s your home, part of your identity. Roots. It must be a good feeling.”
He squeezed her hand. “Your home now, too. Saul gave you the cabin.”
“He did, but—” Knowing Saul, he could easily come asking for it back. And it would be foolish to believe that she could become the woman Patrick McNaughton came home to.
“But what? A gift is a gift.”
Patrick might have been her father’s neighbor, but she doubted if he realized how erratic Saul could be. After years of shrugging off the people who criticized her for her father’s wild nature, she painfully needed Patrick to think well of her.
“Roots take time,” she said lightly. “Maybe you have to be born with them.”
/> “And you weren’t?” His voice told her that he was frowning now.
“My father and roots are mutually exclusive.” She shrugged, because it should have ceased to matter years ago.
“What about your mother?”
“I don’t remember her. I was three when she died.” He squeezed her hand. Molly curled her fingers around his and felt the warmth, the strength.
“Tell me what you know about her,” Patrick invited.
There wasn’t much. She had been young, just out of high school when Saul married her. He’d been a penniless artist then, but his career had taken off around the time of Molly’s first birthday. “She died of influenza. It was sudden, I guess. Saul never talks about her. I think he loved her very much.” She wanted to believe that.
Patrick’s house was looming ahead, a darkening shadow as the moon slipped behind a cloud. Molly felt her heart shift to a slow and heavy beat as they moved closer. She had not been inside his house yet, but she had promised herself to Patrick tonight.
She gulped. “Trouble. The cat. I should check on her, shouldn’t I?”
“Did you leave her inside?”
She bit her lip. “No. She went outside just before you picked me up. She—”
Patrick’s veranda. She stopped abruptly. Somewhere, a brush rustled. A deer? Trouble?
Patrick’s voice, low and neutral. “Molly?”
He turned and she waited for him to take those two steps down to her. He didn’t.
He was good at waiting. Good at getting what he wanted, and he wanted her.
She licked her lips. “Patrick, I’ve never done this before.”
“I know.” He caught her hand.
She shouldn’t have told him. What a stupid thing to say. If she’d just kept her mouth shut. He would have found out in the end, she supposed, but she could feel the awkwardness between them now, and it was her fault.
There was a light on in the living room, throwing a glow into the entrance vestibule. Molly stood in the vestibule watching Patrick take his overcoat off. “Your turn,” he said with faint amusement.
She flushed and fumbled with the zipper. He took the jacket from her and led her into the living room. It was paneled inside with cedar, the echo of flames from the fireplace licking warmly along the walls.
She watched as he opened the glass-paned door to the fireplace. His face was flooded with reflections of the red and yellow flames. Would he make love to her on that thick, soft rug in front of the fire?
He might. Then, afterwards, they would lie tangled together, close and exhausted with loving. What would it feel like to know she belonged to him in the oldest way of a man and a woman? He would rise to tend the fire and she would watch the warm lights playing over his naked back, heat over the dark heated flesh. She flushed and looked away from him. She’d read too many books, knew nothing of the reality. She should have gotten some actual practice, because she was such an ignorant fool that the reality was going to be awkward.
“Are you going to sit down?”
She stood frozen in the middle of his living room. Make yourself comfortable, he’d said as he went to the fire, but she was stuck here like a log. She nodded abruptly now and felt the stiffness of her movements as she walked towards the sofa.
She gulped and jerked towards the big easy chair that faced the fire. She sat on its edge. He closed the glass door in front of the fire. When he stood up, she felt the tension snap through her like a spring going taut.
He moved to the sofa and sat down at one end. Three or four feet between them. She felt silly now, sitting in the chair, a body-language message of hands-off. He asked, “Do you want me to take you home, Molly?”
“No,” she whispered miserably. She wanted his arms around her. She wanted to be confident, experienced.
“Then come here,” he commanded gently. “I want you in my arms.”
It was the longest three feet she had ever moved across, but he reached out his hand and she put hers in it, then he drew her down beside him and opened his arms and she shivered as she felt the strong warmth of his shoulder against her cheek.
“Relax, darling,” he whispered as he kissed her lips softly, without urgency.
“I’m not sure I can,” she murmured. She could see his smile in the light from the fire. His eyes were dark, gentle on her face. His free hand moved to caress the curling hair away from her face. “It must be a mess,” she worried. “My hair.”
“Wild. Seductive. Tempting. You try to make it look tame and orderly, but it keeps escaping.” He bent his head and she felt his breath on her ear, his lips exploring the tumble of curls to touch her ear lobe with shuddering intimacy.
He trapped her chin with his fingers and turned her face so that he could stare down into her eyes. She felt helpless, vulnerable. “Molly, nothing is going to happen here that you don’t want to happen.”
She swallowed. His eyes traced the movement along her throat.
“You said you didn’t want to go home,” he reminded her. What was in his voice? Patience. But what was underneath?
He twisted the curl around his finger again. “You weren’t terrified half an hour ago, out under the moon. Do you think I’m going to force you? It’s your choice, Molly. All the way.”
“I might not be very good.”
She looked away, but he filled her visage. His head, his broad shoulders, his arms, surrounding her. She felt completely safe and yet terrified at one and the same time. An impossible mixture of emotions, but real. He carried her hand to the side of his face and she felt her fingers curving against his warm flesh.
“I’ve known all along, Molly. From the first time I kissed you, I knew there had never been another man. You couldn’t disappoint me.” He turned his face into her hand, pressed his lips against her palm. “I won’t hurt you, Molly, and I’ll look after you. You know that, don’t you?”
Her fingers brushed along the edges of his moustache, the tingling softness along her fingertips. She was in love. It was impossible, too soon, but her heart was filled with this man.
“Kiss me,” she whispered.
His lips were soft at first, exploring hers, not demanding, but giving. She tried to hold her eyes open, to see the dark heat growing in his gaze, but his lips travelled to her cheek, her eyelids, her temple.
His voice was husky with lazy passion. “I’ve been dreaming of having you in my arms like this. Kissing you. Your skin soft and heating under my lips.” His arm shifted and she felt herself falling back, deeper into his embrace. She could not seem to hold her head up, then his fingers threaded through her hair, sliding along the curls, exploring the shape of her ear, her scalp. His lips sought her throat and she gasped softly as he traced a line of fire from the point of her jaw to the tender hollow at the base of her throat.
He captured her hand and pressed it against his chest. She found the hard thud of his heartbeat, the bulge of his male breast through the soft shirt he wore. She smoothed her palm along the curve of his muscle and felt the sudden hard peak of his small nipple. Then their lips fused again and she threaded her fingers through his hair, feeling the heat rising, explosive as his fingers lightly traced the contours of her breast.
She whimpered when his thumb brushed across the aching tip of her breast through her clothing. When he freed her lips, she turned her face to his throat, her lips seeking blindly against him. She felt his body respond to her caress, heard the ghost of a groan from his lips. Then her lips were seeking through the light dusting of dark hairs where his collar parted and she felt his breathing turning short and ragged.
“Are you trying to drive me mad, Molly?”
“Yes,” she whispered, pushing herself away with her hands on his chest, joy and passion welling together. She fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, not quite believing she had the nerve, but driven on by the ragged breathing that told her how her unpracticed caress affected him.
Then his fingers pushed her blouse away and she felt her heart stop be
ating at his soft groan of wonder. His eyes followed the path of her blouse until it gathered in a silky pool at her elbows, framing the womanly curves that were presented by her lacy bra.
“Molly... so beautiful... darling.” His lips sought the warmth of her curves. She found her own arms trapped by her blouse, then somehow it was gone and she felt Patrick’s hands fumbling with the clasp of her bra, her own breasts swelling with the aching need to feel his caress.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, his hands cupping the swollen curves. She could not breathe. She felt air trying to get inside her lungs, then he lifted her breasts for his kiss and her breath escaped in a harsh groan.
“Molly?” His lips closed over the turgid peak of one swollen breast and her body went limp. She whimpered and threaded her fingers through his hair, holding his mouth close to her aching need. He murmured something. She could not see, could not open her eyes, felt her body arching wildly as his kiss moved from one breast to the other.
She pressed up against him, a whimper in her throat as her sensitive nipples found the roughness of his chest. Then his arms tightened and he lifted her. She felt dizziness, heat, half-opened her eyes and could see only fire and the glow of desire in black eyes that seemed to devour her hungrily.
Soft roughness against her naked back. She was flat on her back, spread out for his eyes. Above her, his head blocking out the world, the sloping warmth of cedar rising towards the peak of the ceiling above.
The quiet heat before the storm. She stared up and saw all she would ever need in his eyes. She whispered, “When you were tending the fire, I had a fantasy of you making love to me here on this sheepskin rug.”
She saw the fire in his eyes, felt her own heartbeat answer. The waiting was heated, full, and she knew that his control would break soon.
“Was it a good fantasy?” he asked in a husky voice filled with loving.
“Yes,” she whispered, reaching her fingers to touch the dark shadow of hair that thickened between his male breasts.
With Strings Attached (Gabriola Island) Page 8
