CLINT'S WILD RIDE

by Linda Winstead Jones

  There was comfort in his kiss, as well as passion, and the way he held her made her feel as if she'd never be alone again. She wanted to hang on to him tight, tell him everything, open her heart as well as her body. She touched her fingers to his neck, caressed his warm skin, feathered her fingers over the stubble on his jaw.

  She took her mouth from his, slowly, reluctantly. "Make love to me," she whispered.

  He stood, arms around her, mouth returning to hers. With a gentle shove the robe fell off and pooled at her feet.

  "Are you sure?" he asked as he led her to the bed.

  "Yes." She reached out and began to unbutton his jeans. "You don't have any surprises for me tonight, do you?"

  Clint smiled down at her. "No. Not tonight." He pulled her nightgown over her head, leaving her standing before him in nothing but her panties. She wished she had something enticing and sexy, but she hadn't been prepared for this—she hadn't been prepared for Clint Sinclair.

  She pulled his T-shirt off, and it fell. Before it landed on the floor, she saw the scar on his side. Her fingers reached out to trace the old wound. Last night, in the dark, she hadn't seen the scar. "Oh, Clint," she whispered. "What happened?"

  "My last bull ride."

  Her heart turned over. "It gored you?"

  "Yeah," he said, as if the old wound meant nothing.

  "I should've been there," she said, tracing the scar with gentle fingers. "I would have taken care of you."

  "It was four years ago, long before I met you."

  At the moment, it was hard to believe that she hadn't known him forever.

  He kissed her and lowered her to the bed, and while she was lying there, almost naked, with her heart pounding so hard she could feel it thudding against her chest, he walked across the room to the overstuffed bag that was sitting open on the dresser, and began to remove his neatly folded clothes and toss them onto the floor.

  Mary rose up on her elbows and smiled. "What are you doing?"

  "Looking for something I really didn't think I'd need on this trip."

  "Oh." She drew back the covers and slipped between the sheets, laying her head against a pillow as she relaxed completely, while Clint removed almost everything from his bag. Finally, he came up with a condom.

  He tossed the foil-wrapped condom onto the bedside table and turned off the light. They weren't lost in darkness, though. The bathroom light shone, bathing the room in a soft, warm glow. Mary was glad they weren't fumbling in the dark. She wanted to see Clint finish undressing, wanted to watch him touch her, lay his lips on her skin, press his tanned, hard body against her pale, rounded flesh.

  He did finish undressing, there by the side of the bed. Heavens, he was gorgeous, scars and all. The one in his side was the worst, but there were others, smaller marks along the length of his tightly muscled body. The sight of the way he was aroused excited her.

  Clint didn't slip beneath the covers with her, but tossed them back so she was almost as exposed as he was, there atop the crisp sheets. He lay down beside her and hooked a finger beneath the waistband of her panties. Moving slowly, deliberately, he slid the panties down and off.

  Mary's heart pounded. Places deep inside her that had been untouched for so long flared to life. She was afraid, but the desire was stronger than the fear. Her need to be held, to be loved, to love in return, was suddenly more powerful than her fear of being hurt again.

  Clint kissed her, so tenderly her heart thudded impossibly harder. He touched her, gentle fingers tracing the swell of her breasts, teasing the taut nipples. She laid her hand on his chest Yes, his heart beat as fast and hard as hers did.

  And yet he didn't rush. He didn't fumble or move too fast or push too hard. He made love to her, with his mouth and his hands, as if they had forever.

  Maybe they did have forever, she thought dreamily as Clint laid his mouth on her throat. A lifetime of lying here with their bodies entwined, with that warmth she had forgotten growing inside her.

  Clint kissed her, he touched her, and that warmth grew, steady and strong, until there was nothing else. The need had once been tingly and intriguing, but now it pounded inside her, it screamed. Hands on her breasts and her thighs, lips everywhere, gnawing heat growing inside her.

  She reached out to touch Clint, to run her hands over his skin. He felt like a man should, hot and hard. She laid her lips on his neck, tasted his sweat, flicked her tongue there while she feathered her fingertips through his hair. She lifted her leg over his hip, his arm went around her and he lifted her mouth to his, and they were entwined. Close, but not close enough. Throbbing with a need so deep it made them shake.

  He touched her intimately, those fingers remaining as gentle as ever, and she almost fell apart then and there. He was so near. A shift of her hips or his and he would be inside her.

  "Touch me," he whispered.

  She didn't hesitate, but wrapped her fingers around his erection and stroked up and down the length. There was trust in this bed, love and trust and passion. She trembled, knowing what would come to them soon, knowing that this night was meant to be in a way she had not expected.

  Clint reached behind him, snagged the condom from the table and put it on. And then he was above her, and then he was inside her, long and hard and deep.

  She closed her eyes and moaned at the sheer pleasure, as Clint held himself deep and still for a moment. He was a part of her, finally.

  Her hips moved, and so did his. Eyes closed, there was nothing but the sensation of intimate touch, the smell of their bodies, the sound of their breathing.

  Clint made love to her, and she opened her eyes to watch the man above her. His gaze met hers, in the half light, and something in her heart twisted. Her breath wouldn't come to her, her lips parted. Words she could not say teased her tongue.

  She laid her hand on his chest, there above his heart, while he pushed deep inside her and held himself there. Her body reacted so strongly, so intensely, that she quivered and gasped.

  Mary closed her eyes and simply let herself feel. Her body, left cold for so long, spiraled toward completion. Too soon. She wanted more. She wanted Clint to love her all night. But the needs of her body would not be denied. He surged, and she shattered. She cried out, and he came on the ebbing waves of her completion.

  And then he drifted down, kissing her gently all over again.

  She opened her eyes and did something she'd been longing to do for two weeks; she brushed the lock of hair at his forehead back, the way a lover might.

  What could she say at a moment like this, when I love you was a confession she didn't dare make?

  * * *

  Chapter 10

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  "I think you should quit," Mary whispered.

  Clint rolled up on one elbow and stared down at her. "Quit what?"

  She scooted over and into him. He never would have suspected that Mary was a snuggler, but here they were, still naked, and she had nuzzled against him all night. "The rodeo," she said softly.

  "Why?"

  "It's too dangerous," she said, her voice muffled against his chest.

  He placed his finger beneath Mary's chin and made her look up at him. "You're searching for a man who's already killed eight women, seriously considering using yourself as a decoy, and you think what I do is dangerous?"

  "I told you, I'm not setting myself up as a decoy." Did she really look guilty? Just a little, perhaps. "You play with angry bulls," she said accusingly.

  "You play with serial killers."

  Her expression changed subtly. "I'm not playing," she whispered.

  If he thought he could talk some sense into her, he would try, here and now. The thought of Mary in harm's way made him antsy as hell. "When's your backup going to get here?"

  "I told you, I'm working solo for now."

  "Tell me they didn't send you after this guy on your own." They wouldn't, he knew that. "Training on the ranch was one thing, but this … if you're right and he's out there…"
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  "All I have to do is make one phone call, and the rodeo will be crawling with agents."

  "Mary…"

  She fought dirty. This was an argument she couldn't win, fair and square, so she fought with her hands, and with her mouth on his neck, and with a subtle shift of her body. Her skin was so soft and warm, her fingers arousing. When she touched him this way, when she came to him so easily, he forgot everything else.

  "You're changing the subject," she whispered while her fingers trailed across his belly.

  "I'm changing the subject?"

  For a brief moment, the tip of her tongue danced across his neck, beneath his ear. "We started out talking about you giving up chasing bulls for a living."

  "It's more of a hobby these days," he argued, already impossibly distracted.

  "Still, you're not a young whippersnapper like Sam," she teased. "You can't be a bullfighter forever."

  "I'm not ready to give it up, not yet." He didn't want to think about the day when he couldn't do anything and everything he wanted to do. Maybe he and Mary had more in common than he'd first thought. "It's too big a part of who I am," he confessed.

  Mary's hand settled over his scar. The bad one. "Tell me," she whispered.

  "Not much to tell."

  "Why do I think that's not so?" Mary very gently rolled Clint onto his back and leaned over him. "You have this expression on your face. I can't describe it exactly, but it's a little bit sad." She kissed his chest. "This is no time to be sad."

  It wasn't sadness that made him shy away from any discussion about the scar. What was it? Denial, maybe. He didn't want to admit that he still hurt, a little. Not the scar, not the tough old wound. Memories. It was the memories that hurt.

  "The accident happened a long time ago, and I'm sure it's nothing you want to know about."

  "Tonight I want to know everything." She rested her cheek on his chest. Her hands fluttered at his sides. Oh, those fingers. Strong and soft, fearless and relentless. "Tomorrow things will change. Everything will change. People can't know about us. They can't know that I … that we're involved." Her head snapped up and she looked into his eyes. "Are we?" she asked, her voice soft and breathless.

  "Involved?"

  She nodded.

  "Most definitely."

  She returned her head to his chest and relaxed, letting out a long breath. "Tonight I want to know everything. For God's sake, Clint, why didn't you give up the rodeo after you were hurt?" She shuddered.

  "I did quit for a while," he said. Why not tell her everything? She was here and she wanted to know. Like it or not, he had a difficult time denying Mary anything he could give her. "I gave up competing, but when I was properly healed and Oliver called and asked me to take a job as a bullfighter, I figured … why not? I didn't want to be afraid. I didn't want to walk away and never look back."

  "Knowing Shea the way I do, I can't imagine why she didn't lock you up until you came to your senses."

  "My family doesn't know much about the accident."

  Her head popped up again. "What?"

  "They know I was hurt, but they never knew how bad it was."

  "Why not?" Mary shook her head. "Shea would be furious if she knew one of her brothers was seriously injured and he kept the news from her. She loves you all so much."

  He stroked her cheek. "I called, to make sure everybody knew I was okay, and I told them not to come. I lied and told them I'd probably be out of the hospital the next day."

  "You shouldn't have been alone."

  "I wasn't alone. Wes was there." He took a deep breath. "And I was engaged to be married."

  Mary wrinkled her nose. "I have found another flaw."

  Clint smiled at the woman who continued to make herself a part of him. With every touch, with the way her body shifted and aligned against his … that's exactly what she was doing. How could she make this terrible old memory feel not quite so bad? With a smile and a stirring of her body against his, what had seemed so devastating at one time was now unimportant. "Definitely a very serious flaw. Her name was Tonya, and—"

  "You can spare me the details," Mary interrupted. "At the moment I'd prefer to come up with my own description. Let's see … big hair, buck teeth, horsey laugh. Am I close?"

  "Scary how accurate you are. Do you know her?"

  Mary laughed at his joke, but the laughter died quickly. It faded away, like a whisper, as Mary placed her hand on his chest. "What did she do to you?"

  She wasn't going to leave this alone. Mary Paris didn't ever leave things alone, he imagined. "She left," he said curtly. "I got hurt, and it was bad. I decided that was it for me as far as the rodeo goes. I didn't want to ever get on a bull's back again." And he hadn't, not in four years. "Tonya walked out."

  Mary looked genuinely surprised. "I don't get it."

  "She wanted the cowboy, not the man, and the idea of a quiet life on a little horse ranch in Alabama didn't appeal to her at all."

  Mary snorted. "What a moron. Did she think you were going to ride bulls until you were an old man? I saw what those guys did tonight. I'm surprised any one of them ever gets on a bull's back for the second time! They're all insane."

  "You think more than a day ahead. Tonya didn't."

  Mary snuggled, laid her head on his shoulder and ran her hands down his arms. "That's why you have such a soft spot for Wes and Katie," she said softly.

  "I do not have a soft spot…" he began.

  "Don't deny it," she interrupted. "I saw it from my first day at your place."

  It was true, he supposed. In spite of everything, Wes and Katie had made it. They gave him hope. He looked at them and realized that there was good in the world. He ran his hands down Mary's back. Had anything ever felt so good as holding her? He didn't think so.

  "It's okay, you know," she said. "You should be angry, and you shouldn't forgive that horrible skank for what she did to you."

  "Skank?" He couldn't help but smile.

  "That's what she sounds like to me."

  He didn't want to talk about Tonya. Not tonight. Not ever again. At the moment she seemed like such a trivial part of his past. She was nothing. Tonight … tonight was everything.

  "What about you?" he said, running his hands down her sides to her hips, tracing her curves and loving every minute of it. "Where are your scars, Special Agent Paris?"

  Her smile faded away. "They're all on the inside." It was a telling statement, as was the shift of her eyes.

  "Your husband," he whispered.

  She nodded gently.

  He didn't want to talk about any man Mary had loved. And she had loved her husband; he could see it in her eyes, when she spoke of him. Mary Paris, who tried so hard to be tough and unfeeling, had a big heart. She loved well and deeply.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  She shook her head, much too quickly.

  "Okay." He tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear. "Another night, maybe over a glass or two of muscadine wine." Somehow he knew there would be other nights. Lots of them, if he had his way.

  Mary was having trouble shaking it off. She was calm and in control when it came to talking about his past. A mention of her own past and she closed off. Everyone had a past. Mary was right; she was a woman, not a girl. He knew he wasn't the first man in her life. Right now, he just had an unexpected urge to be the last.

  "We don't have to talk about anything you don't want to," he said. "Tonight we'll forget the past, and we'll pretend that tomorrow will never come. This bed is safe, Mary. Nothing will hurt you here."

  He spun Mary onto her back and parted her lips with his, for a proper kiss. He didn't want to talk about Mary's past, Wes and Katie, Tonya, the rodeo or serial killers. Not tonight. He wanted to be inside her again. He wanted to watch her come again. He wanted to feel every tremble, hear every sigh.

  And he would.

  * * *

  She ached a little, but it was a good ache. Mary stood beneath the hot shower and closed her eyes.
She even allowed herself to smile, but only for a moment. She'd been afraid of what getting involved with Clint might mean, and she couldn't deny that the timing was bad. No, not simply bad. It was terrible. The worst.

  But what was she supposed to do? Waiting until this investigation was over should have been her course of action, but last night when she'd walked into Clint's room to look at him, it had ceased to be an option.

  Until she'd met Rick, her luck with men had been dismal. A couple of charmers had broken her young heart, but it always healed. And then Rick came along and swept her off her feet, and proved to her that he wasn't like every other man. He wasn't like any other man.

  His death had broken her heart all over again, and this time the healing had been much harder.

  But she was healing, finally. If not, she wouldn't be falling for Clint Sinclair.

  And she was definitely falling for Clint. To be honest, she'd been fighting it since that night at Shea's house. There was just something about him that got to her.

  But the timing was bad. Very bad. Until she found the man who'd killed Elaine, her own life and love didn't matter. Once that was done, then maybe she could think about whether or not there was a place in her life for Clint, and whether or not there was a place in his life for her.

  The shower curtain whipped back, and Mary spun around to find Clint standing there, obviously annoyed and wearing nothing but a towel.

  "I woke up and you were gone," he said.

  "I'm not gone, I'm right here." Mary smiled as Clint dropped his towel and stepped into the shower.

  "So I see."

  He kissed her while the warm water from the shower rained down on his back. She was heated from the shower, and still his mouth was warm. Warm and passionate, his body and his mouth fitting against hers as if he had been made for her. Maybe that was true. Clint was hers, in more ways than she could explain. He wrapped his arms around her and raked his hands down her wet back.