by Cindy Gerard
He had to back away from her. Now. But then she leaned forward and turned enough in profile to show a teasing glimpse of one sweetly rounded breast. He was already semihard when the sight of that velvety pink nipple turned him to stone.
And he wasn’t going anywhere.
There was nothing about her that wasn’t a bewitching paradox of eroticism and innocence. And when she reached across the tub, tested the water with a slow swish of her hand, then poured a thick, creamy liquid from a clear glass bottle, he nearly groaned. Had to tell himself to breathe when she stepped over the rim and eased into the water.
She leaned back as the tub filled slowly, scenting the air with the fragrance of vanilla. Clouds of bubbles built until they reached her waist, flirted with the undersides of her pretty breasts.
As he watched, her nipples tightened.
He damn near went to her then, knelt beside her, touched her where the water didn’t, and where it did.
It would embarrass her, he told himself. Just as his watching would embarrass her. He knew he should look away. He was her husband, yes, yet he felt like a voyeur, invading her privacy, breaching her trust. At least he thought he was until, with a languorous yet deliberate sigh, she turned her head and looked him straight in the eye.
His heart thumped like the recoil of a shotgun. Before he could recover, it rocked him again, slamming against his sternum, pumping blood to his head in a dizzying rush.
She blinked once, held his gaze for a long, searching moment, then slowly turned her head, draped her arms over the rim of the tub and let her eyes drift shut.
Shock held him there, right where he stood, for several long, mind-numbing seconds.
She’d known.
She’d known he was watching her.
A jolt of something closer to pleasure than surprise shot through his blood—until it occurred to him that he might have underestimated her.
Maybe he’d been a fool to think she’d come to him a virgin. She was very beautiful. And he seriously doubted that the young men of Sundown were blind or stupid. He remembered how he’d been at nineteen. He remembered what he’d wanted from a woman then.
He knew what he wanted right now.
He took a long, lingering look at all that creamy wet skin until looking was no longer enough.
Lust teamed in a dicey alliance with a hard, tight clutch of jealousy and took over, told him what he wanted to hear. The hell with being careful with her. The hell with what she needed from him. She’d invited this. She’d stripped for him, posed for him. Woman sure, seductive, inviting.
“You don’t have a clue what you just invited, princess,” he uttered under his breath.
Good intentions or no, he’d be damned if he’d feel guilty for reacting to her like a man. She wasn’t Lolita, and he wasn’t a lecherous old coot. He was thirty-three years old—and he wanted his wife.
He shoved the door all the way open, let it slam against the wall with a satisfying smack.
Her eyes were open now, growing wide and round as he crossed the room and loomed over her. He didn’t even attempt to hide the hunger when he swept his gaze over the part of her that the bubbles covered and the part they didn’t.
Mine was all he could think again, when he leaned over her and braced his hands on the tub’s edge at either side of her head. Satisfaction coiled in his gut, as fierce and sharp as a whip, when she crossed her arms over her naked breasts and sank a little lower in the water.
She wasn’t feeling so sure of herself now.
You play with fire, little girl, you’re gonna to get burned.
Only he was the one burning. He was the one who could barely breathe, could only think of the silk of her, the heat of her, the need of her.
He followed her down as she sank deeper, caging her in. Biceps bunching, he lowered himself until his mouth hovered a breath away from hers.
“Open,” he demanded, not checking the growl, not denying the need as he roughly captured her mouth. Once, a quick, primitive nip of lips and teeth. And again, to make it clear that she’d roused the beast in him—and that she’d better be prepared to deal with it.
Then he wasn’t acting on his needs, but reacting to the force of them. And just like his reason, his resolve got lost somewhere in the pool of pink cloth that lay, along with her innocence, on the floor by the tub.
Desire rocked through his blood at the taste of her, shot to oblivion any concern. The silky heat of her mouth, the giving resilience and the shimmering threads of her startled breath, fed his need to an inferno.
Her strangled little gasp spoke of her inexperience as he found her tongue, stroked it then drew it into his mouth. The restlessness of her trembling sigh told of her awakening desire…and a burgeoning awareness of a woman’s control over a man.
Control.
A flash of cool blue broke through the fiery-red haze clouding his eyes and his judgment. He didn’t lose control. Not like this. Never like this. And he’d never given it over to a woman.
He pulled away far enough to break the contact of flesh on flesh. The warm, hurried pulse of her breath beat in short, quivering bursts against his lips.
He meant to leave her then but couldn’t stop himself from looking his fill. She was drenched in color and fragrance. A dew of steamy bathwater and a dawning sensuality painted her skin, from her cheeks to her breasts, a rosy pink glow.
When her eyelids fluttered, he willed his hammering heart to settle. But she wasn’t done with him yet. Her eyes opened with a slow, languid sensuality, and her tiny pink tongue slipped between kiss-swollen lips to lick and taste, savor and soothe.
Even as his heart slammed into race speed, an intense wave of tenderness swamped him and finally accomplished what that damn control he so valued hadn’t been able to. It cleared his head.
He had to get out of here.
He had to do it now before he said the hell with taking care. He’d never wanted so badly. He’d never needed this much. Hell, he was still only a deep breath away from stripping off his clothes and crawling into that old claw-foot tub full of bubbles and Ellie.
Ellie. She’d made him forget who he was dealing with. She’d made him forget that he had to take care. She couldn’t handle what he had in mind. He wasn’t even sure that he could.
He made himself push away. Made himself stand, walk out of the room and away from the house and the knowledge that he’d almost taken her in that moment—without regard to her innocence or her health.
And he didn’t hate himself nearly enough.
It was a long time before Ellie gathered the nerve to walk downstairs. Her headache was completely gone. The sluggish aftereffects of the pain medication had pretty much worn off. As much as she hated knuckling under, she was glad now that she’d let Doc talk her into the shot. She wasn’t as sure how she felt about her behavior when she’d discovered Lee watching her prepare for her bath.
Or how she felt about that kiss.
One thing she was sure of. After she’d gotten past the fierce look on his face and the crushing surprise of his mouth on hers, she’d liked it. A lot.
Places inside her—well, she still got all warm and achy and weak just thinking about the places in her body his kiss had affected.
She felt her skin flush beneath her faded jeans and her soft white T-shirt as she gathered her hair at her nape with a wide gold clip and made her way to the kitchen that she knew was empty.
She knew it was empty because she’d heard the back door creak open, then shut right after Lee had left her a little more than an hour ago. Since then she’d caught glimpses of him outside. His face had been set in a hard, grim line as he’d gone to work on the woodpile by the garage.
Why he’d thought he needed to split wood in April when Don Ferguson, the next-door neighbor, had made sure she’d had enough to get her though any cool spring evenings was beyond her.
She couldn’t say that she was sorry Lee had chosen to work himself into a glistening sweat, though. Especially
after he’d taken off his shirt, then mopped his brow and his flat belly with it.
She’d watched him from her bedroom window. All that woman heat he’d set aflame when he’d kissed her in the tub had warmed up all over again. His shoulders were so broad. His chest was beautifully covered in an interesting pelt of soft brown curls. And lower, where his belt buckle met his abdomen just below his navel, his belly was taut and hard—like the corrugated roof on the machine shed. All firm and fine and…well. She hadn’t been around many men in her life. Not young men, at any rate. Not any naked men.
Not that Lee was naked—although she sure had been wondering about him that way. And not that he was a young man. Not like John Tyler was young. Young and stupid and mean.
Frowning, she located her prescription bottles in the cupboard by the sink, uncapped them and tipped the appropriate doses into her palm. As she filled a glass with water and swallowed the medication, she tried not to let long-remembered hurts bother her. But they were always there. The memories. The taunting. The malicious smiles of a boy she’d wanted for a friend way back when. It had turned out that he’d only had one thought about her.
“What’s the matter, Ellie?” John had asked, all sweetness and smiles when she’d finally gotten brave enough to stay put when he’d approached her one morning after church. “Cat got your tongue? Or did you bite it off throwin’ one of your fits?”
Okay. So he’d only been twelve at the time. And he’d been a boy, not a man—so had his buddies who had stood by laughing like loons at her expense. It hadn’t helped when his mother had made him apologize, then dragged him to the car by his ear. It hadn’t helped when her own mother had held her to her breast when she’d cried.
“Ignorance, Ellie. The boy’s only excuse is ignorance. Everybody’s got something about themselves that they don’t like. Sometimes the way they go about making themselves feel better is to make other people feel bad.”
It hadn’t been the first time someone had succeeded in making her feel bad about herself and mortified about how she was perceived by others. But it had been one of the few times she had made a real effort to be accepted by her peers, so it hurt all the more because she’d been foolish enough to open herself up to the attack.
She’d quit begging her mom and dad to let her go to regular school that day. And she’d quit making eye contact with anyone but the people she completely trusted.
Five years later, when John Tyler had asked her to go for a ride with him after church to get an ice cream cone and then to watch the fireworks at the Fourth of July celebration, it had been easy to turn her back and walk away.
John and everyone like him had had all the shots at Ellie Shiloh they were going to get. She no longer cared what they said about her. Besides, she had always known who she trusted. And who she loved. She loved Lee. It had always been Lee, from her first memory of him holding her on his knee and she’d smelled horses and leather and sensed the strength that had made him a man, she had loved him.
And now she was his wife.
At least in name.
She walked to the fridge, opened the door and thought about that kiss again. Of how she’d started out feeling a little fearful, a lot exposed and ended up feeling…she wasn’t sure what she’d been feeling. Wanting. Restless. Yearning for something she couldn’t explain but knew would be wonderful. She hadn’t wanted that kiss to end. She hadn’t wanted him to leave her like that. All hot and wet and alone.
Cool refrigerated air washed against her heated checks as she thought of what she’d done to entice him.
She still couldn’t believe how bold she’d been. She’d heard his footsteps on the stairs; she’d known he’d come looking for her. Her first thought had been to quickly shut the door. Her second—her second thought brought heat to her cheeks again.
Leave it open. Let him find you. Let him see you.
She’d suddenly realized that she had wanted him to come to her. And when he had, and he’d just stood there, thinking she hadn’t heard him, some instinct had told her what to do. How to act to make him want her.
It had become important suddenly that he want her. It had been a necessary risk of her pride. And she’d been shameless. She’d been brazen and breathless as she’d slipped out of her robe. Knowing he was watching. Hoping he’d been wanting.
Except for Doc, no man had ever seen her naked. Even her mother hadn’t seen her that way after she’d started developing. She’d felt too self-conscious.
She hadn’t felt self-conscious today. She’d felt…like a woman. His kisses had told her he’d thought of her as one, too.
Until he’d walked away.
She looked at the wall clock, saw it was close to noon and gathered the cold fried chicken she’d made the day before yesterday.
He’d looked hard and angry and distant when he’d walked out of the room. That’s the part that worried her most. What had he been thinking?
It didn’t take much imagination to come up with some possibilities. Had he suddenly seen what everyone else saw when they looked at her? Had he thought, What am I doing? Worse, What have I done? I married Ellie Shiloh. Epileptic Ellie Shiloh. What have I tied myself to for the rest of my life?
Maybe Momma had been right, she thought, as an anger that lived deep in a forgiving soul had her hands trembling and her heart thumping at her breast like a raging fist. Like John Tyler, maybe Lee was just another frog disguised as a prince and she’d been a fool to expect he’d be any different.
Tears threatened to spill over into her fried chicken. Tears of outrage, injustice and a disappointment that sliced deep to the marrow.
“We need to talk.”
She jumped at the sound of Lee’s voice, startled that he’d climbed the back porch steps and was standing just the other side of the kitchen screen door. It was a measure of how lost in thought she’d been that she hadn’t heard him.
But he was here. Big and beautiful, the hair at his nape and forehead spiked with sweat, the shirt he’d thrown on still hanging loose and unbuttoned. He looked hostile and dangerous. His blue eyes were as dark as a storm cloud and sent her already galloping heart into a flat-out run.
Her biggest surprise was realizing that it was anger, not fear that sent her heart racing. She had a little thunder to deal with too, thank you very much, and he was going to be on the receiving end.
“You’re right, we do,” she agreed, pleased with the startled look on his face and the fact that she’d put it there.
The phone rang before she had a chance to rattle him even more.
And Lee was rattled. He’d spent the better part of an hour trying to work off about a semi load of sexual frustration with an ax and an ugly attitude.
All he’d gotten was tired. And all he’d been able to think about was her.
Very wet.
Very willing.
She still didn’t have a clue what she’d invited, or she’d be running like hell instead of standing there ready to face off with him in a game that she couldn’t possibly win because she didn’t know the rules.
And that, he’d decided as he’d whacked away, was the problem. He didn’t know the rules anymore, either. She’d changed them. With her sweet little body, her vulnerability and her ability to make him feel…feel what, Savage?
He didn’t know. He just knew he didn’t like it. Was absolutely clueless about how to deal with her, what he felt for her, what he wanted from her.
In one day—twenty-four hours—she’d turned him inside out, flipped him upside down and spun him sideways.
He had to have some answers—about the epilepsy, about her expectations, her limitations, so he could get a handle on all this…this stuff that was rattling around in his head. Stuff he didn’t understand. Stuff that made his chest hurt, made his head hurt. Stuff he’d never had to deal with before and didn’t much like dealing with now.
Stuff that had made him lose it earlier. Yeah. He’d flat-out, combat-ready, lost it. His hands still shook when h
e thought about how he’d practically attacked her. Hell, he had attacked her, there was no practically about it. And outside, just now, he’d damn near lopped off a foot because he’d been thinking about her…about her mouth, about her breasts—
He was doing it again.
He drew a deep breath, unclenched his fists and made himself level. They would talk. He would get his answers—and then he would decide how this was going to play out.
“Shiloh Ranch,” he heard her say as she snatched the receiver up on the second ring.
“Oh, hello, Pastor Good.”
Lee watched her smile, then respond to whatever the good reverend was asking on the other end of the line.
He curbed his impatience and waited out the call.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I’m feeling much better today. Thank you.”
She listened, smiled again, then blushed. “He’s fine. Yes. He’s right here. I was just putting out lunch…. Oh, no, of course you aren’t interrupting…. Okay. Yes. And thanks for calling.”
She hung up the phone, stared at it for a moment, then wiped her palms nervously on her jeans. “Pastor Good,” she explained unnecessarily as she turned, making a vague gesture toward the black wall phone. “He wanted to know…”
She trailed off, and Lee felt compelled to prompt, “Let me guess. He wanted to know the same thing that Doc Lundstrum wanted to know when he called this morning while you were still sleeping. Then there was the call from old Mrs. Porter who had heard from Mrs. Stiller down at the library and Mrs. Waldrop over at the Christian Women’s Club and, let’s see, who else—Hap Callihan down at the hardware store. Lord, I thought he died a couple of years ago.”
He was frowning and didn’t know why. He should be grateful that people checked in on her. Instead he felt excluded. They knew things about her that he didn’t. They knew how to take care of her better than he did. He didn’t know a damn thing. But he was going to find out. Starting right now.
“Look, Ellie—”
Before he could finish, the phone rang again.
