by Natasha Deen
Mason cleared his throat because mention of his mother always locked breath from his lungs and turned his voice rough and hoarse. “No. My...mother left when I was six.”
“Oh.” His dark eyes seemed to peer into Mason’s soul and find the boy hidden within. “Did you get to see her?”
“Not a lot.”
“You’re like me, then.”
The words sent a sharp, shooting bullet into Mason that exploded with a brilliant bang of light and decimated the walls he’d used to imprison his memory and his so-called impartial feelings about Spencer and Aya. A simple sentence, yet the ramifications spread out like tremors and made his ordered world shudder.
“We’re not alike,” he told the boy. “Your dad comes to see you. I never saw my mom after she left.”
Spencer’s eyes widened. The horror and disbelief in them reflected back Mason’s feelings, spotlighted the fears that had pursued him since he’d been a child.
“Ever?”
“Ever.”
It wasn’t true. She’d shown up, once, just after he’d made headlines as one of the wealthiest men in America. Her arms had been outstretched, not for forgiveness or reconciliation, but for money. Though ten years had passed since the reunion, the bitterness and disappointment remained. Even as an adult, her inability to love him as a person, as a son, still made him feel like he was six and watching her walk away without a second glance.
“Why didn’t she come see you?”
He forced an easy smile though his chest felt tight enough to crack his ribs. “I tell you what. Why don’t you become a great doctor and answer that one for me?”
He crossed the room to where the little boy stood, put his hands on Spencer’s thin shoulders and gave him a friendly shake—both to pull Spencer from the dark questions he knew sped through the child’s mind, and to shift his own focus, from history to present. And then, before logic could stop him, he did the unthinkable. He knelt in front of the child and dived into emotion, impetuous urges, and said, “Spencer, you’re an amazing kid. Wonderful. I don’t know why your dad isn’t spending time with you, but it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with him.”
“That’s what mom says.” The tremor in his voice betrayed his doubt.
Caught by the riptide of comforting a small child, he let the emotion pull him into unfamiliar waters and added, “If your dad doesn’t come, why don’t we hang out this weekend? I’m not doing anything other than chores.”
Big eyes looked up at him with a mixture of wonder and disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“I mean it,” he said. Impetuousness, in the form of Hyde, having caught hold of his motor and mental functions, exercised its power by taking control of his mouth. Before he could stop himself, he found the question forming on his lips. “Hey, have you ever caught frogs?”
Spencer frowned. “No. Why would I?”
“To gross out girls, why else?”
A boyish giggle crashed the remaining defenses around Mason’s heart. The large, heavy stones which had been his fortress crumbled, and all because of a small child’s laugh.
“We’ll go find a creek. What do you say?”
“Okay.”
“Finish your homework, and go to bed.”
“I don’t have any,” he said with a note of pride.
Mason grinned. “Then get to sleep before we both get in trouble with your mom for breaking your curfew.”
Spencer went into his room. And Hyde, having succeeded in further screwing up Mason’s plans, departed, leaving him to wonder what the hell he’d gotten himself into, and why he’d volunteered to get himself into it. He heard the sound of a bedroom doorknob rattling in its lock, then Aya stepped out.
Light framed her from behind, casting a warm, soft glow around her body. He moved toward her, a man hypnotized by the sight of grace and beauty, until only inches separated them. The scent of orange and grapefruit soap curled along the air currents, teasing him with the desire to sink his nose into the loose, chestnut strands that curled around her shoulders, to bury himself in the curve of her neck, and forget time, space, and obligation.
“Oh, Nate.” Her eyes went wide with surprise. “I thought you were in bed.”
“Just seeing Spencer to his room.”
Her lips pursed into the sweetest, most kissable pucker. “I’m so sorry if he was bothering you. I’ll tell him to leave you alone.”
“Don’t. I like him—we’ve made plans for the weekend, some exploring and wandering. Do you mind?”
She smiled, genuine and thankful, and if any stones remained around his heart, they exploded into dust.
Glancing at her son’s door and dropping her voice to a quiet murmur, she said, “He’s supposed to spend the weekend with his father, but Daniel can be...”
“Yeah, he told me.”
Pain and regret darkened her face. She scrubbed at her forehead with the back of her hand. “My poor kid. I never know what to tell him, how to soften the blow—”
“From what Spencer tells me, you’re doing just fine.”
She smiled again, and her entire body seemed to unfurl toward him. But just as quickly as it began, her frame clenched tight. A mask fell into place, and he could hear the boom of her emotional walls dropped to separate them.
“Thank you so much for lending a hand. I really appreciate it.”
“It was my pleasure,” he said and refused the urge to tell her what his other pleasure would be. But words seemed moot. She stood in front of him in light gray pajama bottoms and a pink cotton tank top with scalloped-lace edging, and if his drooling over the curves of her body didn’t give him away, surely his panting did.
Aya moved past him, the supple lines of her body and her close proximity teased his tightly restrained fingers as she stepped to Spencer’s room.
“Good night, Nate. Sweet dreams.”
He grinned and dipped his head. “Only if you’re in them, ma’am.”
Instant regret followed his foolish words. But when he saw the faint blush that crept up her cheeks, the smile of pleasure she couldn’t hide, bliss replaced regret. And deep inside him, Hyde whooped with delight and pounded his feet in a victory dance.
****
At five o’clock in the morning, after a night spent sharing the bed with Jekyll, Hyde, obligations of family, and the painful knowledge of Aya sleeping a mere two doors down, Mason gave up all pretense at sleep. He ripped the bedcovers away and fumbled in the dark to pull on his jeans.
The smell of coffee crept under his doorway. He stepped into the hallway and headed down the stairs; aromatic fingers beckoned him to the kitchen. Not bothering to turn on the light and shock his weary eyes into daylight, he maneuvered past the island, grabbed a cup, and poured the hot, black brew into it. He sucked it back, burning the roof of his mouth. His curses littered the countertops. The lights snapped on, and he spun around.
Aya stood by the switch on the wall, blinking at him as though he was a mirage. A pastel pink, chenille robe draped her shoulders, and bunny slippers stuck out from the bottom hem. She looked wonderfully, deliciously rumpled. Her eyes travelled the length of his naked chest, down to his bare feet and back, and lingered around his waistband. He glanced down. Huh. Probably would have been a good thing to button his jeans.
“Sorry.” He set down the cup, turned from her, and fixed himself. “I didn’t think anyone would be up so early.”
He turned back.
She kept staring.
“Look, it’s not as if I came down here totally in the nude,” he said, irritable that his half-naked form elicited nothing from her save a dazed expression when her fully-clothed figure had him salivating. “I am wearing underwear.”
Her gaze jerked to his eyes, and she blinked rapidly. “Of course. Sorry. I guess I’m not awake, yet.”
Aya dragged her hair away from her face; the movement further separated the lapels of her robe, pulling wide open to reveal her tank top. His gaze zeroed on two hard nipples. W
as she cold or aroused? With his luck, the answer would be “cold.” Being attracted to a woman he could never have didn’t just make him despondent, it left him dejected. The knowledge that he alone felt these yearnings gave him the same miserable feeling of being stuck in a cold rain with icy water trailing down his neck and soaking his clothes.
Forcing casualness into his voice, he asked, “Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
He poured the cup, and concentrated on re-directing his blood flow from its southerly location, back north. Mason kept a running image of his father in his mind, urging himself to remember the point of his presence in her house.
She shuffled to the island, pulled out a bar stool and sat down. Wisps of hair hung in tousled waves around her face. And her eyes...
“Didn’t sleep well, did you?” he asked, handing her the mug.
She watched him over the rim of the cup. “What makes you say that?”
“Your eyes are red, and there are bags under them.”
Aya pursed her lips, blew on the coffee, and his knees buckled because he’d never seen anything so sexy. That mouth. So ripe, kissable, suckable. His Jekyll side, sensing a mutiny, leaped into action. The sudden memory of his father, emaciated and frail, crashed through his brain. It froze Mason’s libido and stuck him back into the cold, freezing rain, once more.
“And that, right there, is why women like the strong, silent type of man,” her tone crackled with low tones of sarcasm and wry acknowledgment.
The back of his neck burned with embarrassment. “I’m not trying to pick you up, I’m being honest. You look like hell.”
“Thank you for the diagnosis, Dr. Love,” she muttered. “And what’s the prescription?”
He felt like saying, Take me twice a day, and call me in the morning. Instead, he shrugged. “I guess it depends on what kept you awake last night.”
Her gaze shot to his chest. She took another gulp of coffee, choked on it, and ducked her head—but not before he noticed the flush of pink dusting her cheeks. So, his warrior princess truly had a woman’s heart after all. Or at least, a woman’s libido. A perverse sense of victory enfolded him. In the momentary lapse, while he reveled in success, Hyde reared his head, punted Jekyll from control, and wedged his monstrous form into the operator’s seat of Mason’s brain.
“I need to get dressed, and get Spencer out the door. Pops will show you around the ranch this morning, and I’ll check in with you this afternoon.”
He circled the island, and came to stand behind her chair. Putting his mouth close to her ear, he quietly asked, “Won’t you have another cup of coffee with me? Spencer doesn’t have to get up right away, does he?”
And he felt it, the small shiver caress her body, the tiny tremor of electricity transmitted between them. It prickled his skin, and heightened his senses. Her quiet gasp knocked the air from his lungs; the slight turn of her head put her small, delicate ear closer to his mouth.
He took her silent invitation, leaning closer until all that separated them was the faint whisper of restraint. His lips brushed against the fragile cartilage of her ear. The energy of their two bodies this close together zapped him. Her skin was soft, smooth, and warm under his mouth. Mason reached out to hold both her cup and her fingers, stroking the back of her hand with his thumb.
“Aya?” The husky tenor of his voice was legitimate. Too legitimate. So consumed with stoking her fire, he’d managed to burn himself. “Have another drink with me. You’ll need the caffeine after such a long night.”
Another shuddering breath from her pink mouth. Her fingers tensed and relaxed against the cup, and under his hand.
“How—” She drew the word out, as though it took every effort to remember how to speak. “Did you sleep well?”
“I...” He trailed his mouth a whisper away from her ear, letting his breath caress her in a way his lips could not. “I was up all night.”
“Oh.” It escaped in a tortured hiss. “If I’d known, I would have...”
“You would have what?”
“Game room—television—DVDs.” The words came out jerky, forced, like gunfire laid down to protect her true thoughts.
And oh God, did he know her thoughts. They exploded in his mind’s eye, shared bombs of their mutual destruction.
“Would you have played a game with me?”
Her fingers stilled their pulsing rhythm against the cup. She gave a small, sorrowful hiccup of laughter and whispered, “I’m afraid I’ve never been good at playing games.”
She lifted her eyes, met his gaze.
And he was lost.
Shadows of her past cast dark forms, turning her brown pupils dark as molasses. Hurt, pain, wariness pressed against the shop windows of her eyes. Stronger, and more dominant, they almost hid the tiny runt of hope jumping behind them.
And in one blink, he went from predator to protector, from Hyde to Mason.
He pulled the cup from under her fingers.
“I like games,” he said, his tone forced in its levity. “The adrenaline, the strategy. It would have been fun to go a few rounds with you. I’m deadly at Monopoly.”
“I don’t like them. Someone always has to lose, and some people don’t play fair.”
He swallowed the taste of guilt in his mouth. After pouring them both another cup of coffee, he sat on the stool beside her.
“I guess it depends on who you play with,” he conceded.
Aya ran her index thumb along the rim of her mug and then raised her gaze to meet his. “How do you play, Nate?”
He sighed. The one question among the millions he didn’t want to answer.
“I like to win,” he told her. “And I play to win.”
She nodded. “Remind me never to go on the team opposing you.”
Too late, he thought as he swallowed his coffee. Too late for both of them.
****
Aya locked her gaze on Patch’s reins, but her traitorous eyes slipped free and strayed to Nate. With his cowboy hat pulled low to offset the afternoon sun, and riding a Gypsy Cob named Painter, damned if he didn’t look like a breathing, manly cure for a slow libido. Hell, hers had not only done a Lazarus, but seemed content to flex, breathe, and exercise its new life every time he came to mind. And Nate came to mind. A lot.
The image of his taut, hard body set her adrenaline galloping through her system. Thick, dark curls on a brown chest, the outline of his abs against his stomach, all of it trailing into those red boxers she’d glimpsed earlier.
A wave of desire escaped in a low groan.
“Are you all right?” The concern in his voice voided her urge to answer with sarcasm.
“Just fine,” she growled.
Surrounded by old cowboys, and married men, Aya had all but forgotten what physical attraction felt like, how it could erupt like a prairie fire, blaze away the underbrush of time, and set inhibitions to flame. The longer he stayed, the deeper her burns.
“The coffee didn’t help, huh?” he asked, sympathy in his eyes.
A wry smile curled the edges of her mouth. No, the coffee hadn’t helped the insomnia, but the half-naked cowboy standing in her kitchen had certainly awakened her senses.
She nodded toward the line of fence running along the perimeter. “Pops said he explained the running of the farm—milking the cows, cleaning the barn. One of the things we also have to do is keep up with the boundaries. This herd loves to wander. If there are any routes of escape, trust me, they’ll find them.”
They crested a hill and Nate pulled his horse to a stop. Silence enfolded them with quiet arms as the sun’s light turned the early spring grass into strips of wheat and lime. Under a blue and white sky, the earth stretched out, pure and crisp.
She inhaled the wildflower-scented air. The days when she wandered the land with the heart and mind of an explorer and child were long gone. Now, her eyes saw only the fences, with their constant need of repair, the plot of hay for the cows—due
for weeding, watering, and tilling. Most of all, she saw her ancestors’ hard work, her parents’ dreams, and Spencer’s future, all of which kept her chained to a losing cause with the yoke of obligation and guilt.
“I can see why you’re fighting to save your land,” he said.
His words stiffened the muscles in her back. “How do you know about my fight?”
He smiled, that damn slow, easy, make-a-girl’s-toes-curl-and-her-inhibitions-melt grin. “He may be called Little Bear, but he’s got a big mouth.”
Aya’s lips twisted. “You’d think he’d have better things to do than gossip about my farm.”
“Oh he does.”
Nate’s chuckle did more than curl her toes, it coiled and wound every molecule in her body until she felt like purring, languidly stretching, and finding a warm patch of sun to sleep in.
“His big news was Dudley walking into Lisa May’s store after shop hours and catching her in a passionate embrace with a mysterious—and much younger—man.”
“Lisa—” She turned incredulous eyes to him. “I didn’t know she was seeing anyone.” She considered the implications. “I don’t know if I’m shocked that she was cheating on Dudley or that at ninety years old, she has the energy to juggle two men.”
He tapped the tip of his nose. “That’s why it was Little Bear’s top story.”
“Who’s she—” The question, the curiosity to know about Lisa May, the desire to engage with Nate sent the words rushing to her mouth. Logic was the dam that made Aya realize the repercussions of getting too friendly with him. She slammed the gates of that query closed, and freed a better, if not more reserved, response. “It doesn’t matter. Little Bear shouldn’t gossip about things he doesn’t know.”
“Why do you do that?”
In the silence of the afternoon, his words rang in the air with the crisp trills of songbirds.
She shrugged, feigning confusion over the question.
“Every time you look like you’re going to have the least bit of fun, you withdraw; pull back as if stoic emotionlessness will win you some kind of award.”
She bristled. “Just because we’ve shared a roof and a meal, don’t presume you know me.”
