by Leigh Riker
Drier still when he came back with a bottle of wine.
He didn’t say a word.
Claire studied him again as he came toward her seat, then lost him behind her, while her pulse picked up more speed. Peter leaned over her at the table, brandishing the bottle.
“How much poetry would be required to get you to come with me? Right now,” he said. “I remember ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ and a few stanzas from ‘The Shooting of Dan McGrew.’”
She couldn’t smile. “Samantha…”
“Is sleeping. All that fresh spring air makes her ready for bed at a decent hour these days. Nights,” he corrected. “So how about it? Here, or the bedroom. Living room sofa if you’d rather. Your choice.”
“Peter, what if I can’t…?”
But in that moment, she knew. Her obsession over Samantha, about her job, were Claire’s problems—concerns she hadn’t shared with Peter. She saw the flash of irritation—and loss—move over his features, and realized she couldn’t obsess forever. If she did, she would lose him. Above all, Claire loved Peter. And with her decision to open a dialogue between them, as if he also knew what she had risked, Peter helped.
He feathered kisses along the side of her throat, then nibbled her earlobe. Claire shivered and reached up behind her to slide her arms around his neck. Upside down, his face appeared as she tipped her head back, and they kissed. Gently at first, his lips barely touching hers, until Claire’s mouth went slack and her breath shortened and she felt the old zing of sex zip through her postpregnant system. She couldn’t remember when they’d last felt this close. She opened her mouth to him. And they really kissed.
Peter groaned.
“I’m breaking your neck,” she said.
“Feels good. Keep going.” The bottle clunked down on the table and he wrapped his arms around her. After a long look into her eyes, Peter slid to his knees in front of her chair. He was breathing fast now, too, and he had that look on his face she loved. Hard, focused. Sex. “I want you, Claire. Don’t say no this time.”
It was a first step, she thought, back to where they belonged—with each other. He buried his cheek in her lap, nuzzled at the juncture of her thighs.
Through her jeans his touch burned. Inflamed.
Oh, God, she hadn’t felt this good in such a long time.
“Peter…”
He kissed her through the denim. “Please get these off.”
“Do you think we should really…?”
“Yes. No question.”
“But I’m afraid…”
“We’ll be fine. We will, Claire.”
Talking softly, he encouraged her with a few lines from “Dan McGrew,” about Alaskan gold, but he didn’t need poetry. Neither did she. With one hand on his silky hair, she watched him take off her running shoes, her socks. He unfastened her jeans, glided down the zipper, tugged at her pants. Lifting her hips, she helped him. First the Ralph Laurens, then her bikini briefs. Thank God, she’d dug them out of her drawer today—and they actually fit again. Then she was naked. And in less than a minute, so was he.
With his gaze fixed on hers, Peter held out a hand. He drew her off the chair, onto the carpeted floor.
“Here,” he said. “Let’s don’t break the spell.”
Claire agreed. She would talk to him later about her need to be by herself now and then. Her grief over leaving Heritage. Her inadequacies he already knew about.
But in Peter’s arms, with his body poised above hers once more, Claire dismissed her shortcomings. Was this a big part of what she’d been lacking? Missing? Her husband. Her marriage. Her own sexuality, combined so meltingly with his.
“I’m not going to last long,” he warned her. “My sex life has been a desert.”
“Don’t wait for me.”
But then, he lowered his head to her breast and kissed her there, on her right nipple, the one that still felt sensitive to touch, and even when he sought her left one, the still-numbed one, Claire felt her whole body come to life again, too.
She could feel.
Slowly, he entered her, then halfway home, paused. Her body tightened. Her heart thumped. Peter smiled down at her.
“Okay? Or too much?”
“Lovely.”
To her amazement, it was. Inch by inch, he filled her, stopping to make sure she was comfortable, and as it had been between them since the first time, Claire’s body went liquid and soft and welcoming, and then—like a miracle she’d given up expecting—he was there. All the way. Moving easily at first, then as Claire moaned in his intimate embrace, faster and harder and deeper. Her body began to tighten, with his, in the good way. In the next instant, with a groan, Peter came—and with that, so did she. So did she.
During the quivering aftershocks, Claire clasped him tight, her head to his, their bodies pressed together, damp and hot. Home.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears in her eyes. “It’s been too long.”
“Don’t be sorry. We’re fine. I told you we would be.” He drew her even closer. “I love you, Claire.”
“Peter, I love you.”
Darcie lay in the dark, alone, hating herself with the usual vehemence she reserved for the one week each month when she suffered PMS.
On her side, she burrowed deeper into her pillow but kept one ear cocked for sounds from the living room. She’d eaten dinner in sullen silence while Annie and Dylan kept each other company. Their laughter had gone through her like a corkscrew, making her even more unhappy with each delicious bite of Dylan’s crispy fish ’n chips. The damper she left by her plate. What if they really hit it off—and Darcie was forced next spring to attend her sister’s wedding to Dylan Rafferty?
Darcie had reached for another succulent hunk of the batter-laden seafood.
Ridiculous.
He couldn’t make love to her the way (all the ways) he did then switch to Annie just because she liked his cooking.
Could he?
“I’ll just close my eyes and try to sleep,” she whispered.
Then Dylan’s murmur from the other room changed her mind. Alert with her next heartbeat, Darcie raised up on an elbow in bed. She could hear her pulse rushing in her ears. Was Annie out there, too? Darcie listened but heard only Dylan’s voice.
Still, what if he wasn’t alone, like her? Worse, what if he was seducing Annie on the sofa? And Annie was too awed by his deep voice and clever hands and talented mouth to answer him?
Darcie bounced out of bed—and fell flat on the wooden floor in a tangle of covers. “Great, now I’m doing pratfalls.”
Swearing, she struggled to her feet. Tearing the top sheet off the bed, she wrapped it around her and crept toward the living room.
If she found Dylan on top of Annie, she’d throw them both out in the street.
Where had this primitive urge come from to safeguard her territory?
Darcie didn’t stop to ponder the question.
Creeping closer, she peered around the door frame into the living room.
Dylan was on the phone. To Darcie’s relief Annie was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe she’d gone out.
“Charlie’s doin’ fine?” he said into the receiver. Darcie studied his long, lean form stretched out on the sofa and fought back a sigh of appreciation. Lord, he was good-looking. Too bad he’d grinned like that at Annie. “You’re no match for that new ram,” he said with a soft laugh. “No, I’m serious. Leave that to the men. That’s why I pay them. They can handle Charlie—they understand his needs.”
He listened for a moment and Darcie looked her fill. His shoulders were magnificent. Good trapezius development, too, she tried to think with objectivity. His biceps rounded out his T-shirt sleeves like ripe melons, and his flat belly, his slim hips, his long, well-muscled legs in those worn blue jeans made her pulse race faster. Too bad he could be such a Cro-Magnon man.
Despite her irritation, she was rapidly turning into a puddle of need.
Hormones? Or, some
thing more?
“You’re sure everything is all right?” Dylan said with a frown. “You’re not just telling me it is and when I get home—even in the slow season—I’ll find the whole place gone to hell?”
Even from across the room Darcie could hear feminine outrage at the other end of the line. It only made Dylan smile.
“Okay. All right. I understand. Yes, ma’am.”
More higher-pitched protest sounded through the receiver.
“I will remember my manners—from now on. Talk to you tomorrow. G’night, Mum. I love you.”
She heard the sputtered sign-off clearly. Darcie leaned against the door frame, wrapped in her sheet. When he hung up, still smiling, and met her gaze, she arched an eyebrow.
“Your mother?”
“She’s in charge of the station while I’m gone. It’s not our busy time but if I didn’t advise her—”
“She’d do just fine on her own.”
“How do you know?” Dylan stretched out a hand to her, and Darcie peeled herself away from the door to join him on the sofa.
“I’m a woman, too.”
He grinned. “No argument there.”
She kept a small distance between them, still annoyed over the scene in the kitchen with Annie. “We’re not just helpless females who can’t make a decision without a man to guide us.”
Dylan shrugged. “My dad died five years ago. Until then, Mum had raised us kids and kept the house. Oh, she nursed the sick lambs like Darcie II and the orphans—with a woman’s touch—but my father made the decisions. Since he’s been gone, those decisions have been mine. I make them. I pay the consequences.”
“Then why leave her responsible now?”
Begrudgingly, he admitted, “Because gradually, over the last five years, she’s involved herself more and more with the daily operations of the farm. Because there’s no one else,” he added.
“What about your hired help?”
His smile faded. “Sure, but if one of them makes the wrong choice, it’s not his station that goes under. It’s mine. And my mother’s.”
“Ah-ha,” Darcie said, sitting closer beside him.
“What?”
“Then you agree, it’s her station, too.”
Dylan looked away. “Well, hers in the sense that she lives there. The Stud’s been her home for the last forty years. I hope it will be her home until she dies. It’s my job to preserve that. For my own wife and kids, too,” he said. “Someday.”
“And you call her every night to make sure she didn’t mess up?”
“I have to.”
She groaned. “I’m sure she appreciates that. Not.”
“Meaning?”
“Your mother raised a wonderful son. I’m very partial to him sometimes. But how do you think she feels when you check up on her? And imply she’s a breath away from bankrupting the place she obviously loves?”
Dylan remained silent for a long moment.
“You think that’s why she was screaming at me?”
Darcie rolled her eyes. “It’s a strong possibility.”
He sighed, then draped an arm along the back of the sofa. His hand inched closer until he touched the nape of Darcie’s neck and she shivered at the contact.
“Dylan, how can you be so dense about this? You and Deidre, for instance. She’s obviously an intelligent person, independent and strong. She runs her own station right next to yours—”
He looked stubborn again. “It’s her dad’s station.”
“You can’t believe that. Red gingham curtains, and babies, as opposed to barns and sheep dip and tractors?” She snorted. “Guy stuff, women’s business? Come on.”
Dylan tried a smile but his eyes stayed serious. “Do we have to talk about this? Because I’d much rather take you to bed and make up for whatever was going on tonight at dinner.”
She rubbed her cheek against his hand but wouldn’t let the subject go. “I love a man who speaks his mind—even if it’s to express his outdated attitudes. Is this the way you think about Deidre?”
“That’s different.”
“How, Dylan?”
He set his jaw. “Deidre’s an only child. She’ll inherit that station only because there’s no one else.”
Good grief, it’s still the nineteenth century there. “So she runs it—successfully, I assume—by default.”
“She and her father run it. For now.”
“And he gets the deciding vote.”
Dylan’s fingers stopped moving on her skin.
“I wonder if it’s a good idea for a woman to go to college.”
“Oh!” Darcie leaped up from the sofa.
“Every guy I know thinks the same way.”
“You see? This is why we should have ended whatever this…this is when I left Sydney. The sex was good, but—”
“The sex is great. In fact, we should do it again. Right now.”
“Does that usually work for you? Manipulation?” She planted her hands on her hips and stared him down. “You’re really cocky tonight.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You better believe it.”
His husky tone wouldn’t sway her. Her own hormones, either, or—a quick glance at his jeans—Dylan’s arousal.
“I am not crawling into bed with you after an argument.”
“Why not?” His gaze darkening, Dylan caught her hand and drew it to the hard ridge of his fly. Darcie’s fingers twitched on the denim. She felt her bones melt.
“I’m not in the mood,” she lied.
“Yes you are. With me, you’re always in the mood.”
He was right. Darn him. The past days had been the best of her life.
But where could this lead? He was like some throwback to the 1950s. Still… “Things are changing, Dylan. Even in your country, they are. I saw that for myself in Sydney. Are you telling me your wife’s income wouldn’t help Rafferty Stud?”
“I don’t want my wife to work. I earn my crust—enough for both of us.”
“Oh, brother.”
And she’d thought he understood about Henry Goolong, about her job. Darcie let out a breath of defeat. Like Dylan, her father pretended not to hear what he didn’t want to deal with. No way could she get deeply involved—more deeply involved—with a man just like Hank Baxter. For a terrible moment, her mother’s image flashed across the screen of her closed eyelids.
Then she opened them and Dylan was staring at her, serious and determined and very, very sexy. He drew her close.
“You’re right. I’m a caveman.” His eyes darkened another shade.
“I didn’t say—”
“I’m also horny.” His mouth covered hers before she wiped away her grin. Their teeth clicked together, then Dylan reangled his head and took her mouth again. And this time he got it right. Oh, boy, was it right, even if he wasn’t right for her.
Before she realized his intention, Dylan had swung her up into his arms.
“You’ll break your back,” she warned him, enjoying his strength anyway.
“You’re light as a Lamington.”
“Is that good?”
“And just as sweet. Lamington is sponge cake,” he told her. “My favorite, squares with raspberry jam, chocolate frosting, coconut…”
Her mouth watered again. For cake, for him. Dylan carried her through the apartment, down the hall, into her room. Laying Darcie on the tangled sheets, he followed her down onto the bed and began to kiss her.
“Let’s get basic here. Why do you think I tucked up close to Annie in the kitchen? Teased her through dinner? I wanted to prove to you—I guess just as my mother wants to prove to me how capable she is—that it’s fine to feel jealous. About Annie. Or Deidre. Or any other woman.”
“That’s your point?” But of course she knew.
“And this.” Dylan dipped down to her mouth for another soul-destroying kiss. His hands roamed over her body, and her skin—that most sensitive of all organs—leaped to instant life. “Matilda, you’re as primiti
ve as I am.” She tingled everywhere. Without planning to, she raised her mouth to his again, seeking his tongue with hers. And moaned.
“Point taken.”
Dylan spooned them together in her warm, cozy bed, and outside, a siren shrieked past. The garbage truck rolled down the street, stopping every few feet to grind trash loud enough to wake the dead. The smell of the river drifted through the cracked-open window, and the complex scent that was the subway’s alone, an aroma that would always remind Darcie of New York—and this night. Still, she tried once more.
“Dylan, we’re totally wrong for each other.”
“You think so.”
He half covered her with one strong leg, and that touch of crisp hair and clean male skin reinvigorated her already sensitized flesh. Dylan moved down her body, inch by area, from shoulders, collarbone, breasts, to Darcie’s never-small-enough-to-suit-her waist, her bloated-at-the-moment belly, her hips.
Dylan laid his cheek against her tender abdomen. “When your stomach hurts and your breasts ache and your temper’s on the rise at every little thing, don’t you know, Matilda? I can help.”
His hand played through the curls between her thighs until he found her very center and Darcie gasped with pleasure.
“Dylan!”
“See? We’re absolutely…right.”
In the next instant he shifted—and entered her on one long, smooth, elegant stroke. And Darcie lost all thought of wrong or right. Then or now. Man or woman. Time, place—the rattle of the garbage truck fading into the distance around the corner onto Madison…even their differences ceased to exist.
Australia. New York.
City Girl. Country Boy.
Tradition. Feminism.
For now, Darcie pressed up into his embrace, into his body, and let the joining take her. No points. Just being. Together. Oh, so tightly together that they might have been one.
He annoyed her, she irritated him, but until tomorrow their differences could wait.
Perhaps, she thought, just maybe…
Dylan Rafferty might be trainable.
Chapter
Eighteen
