Montana Dreaming

by Judy Duarte

  “About what?”

  “Keeping you from your research.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can place a few calls, if necessary, and can research the Internet. Maybe by the time I get back to my interviews, Caleb will have found the deed.” His explanation seemed to appease her, and he was glad, although not entirely sure why.

  She placed a finger to her lips and clamped down on a nail, puzzled by something. “If the Douglas family owned the gold mine property, what do you think happened to the deed?”

  Mark shrugged. “Who knows? It’s been over a hundred years. Maybe Amos or one of his descendents misplaced it. They probably thought the land wasn’t worth anything.”

  “Not even in sentimental value?”

  He reached up, stroked a silky strand of her raven-black hair and gave it a gentle tug. “Most people see land for what it is. Real estate. Money in the pocket.”

  “I’m not most people.”

  “So I’m learning.” For a moment, something passed between them. Something tender and intimate. Something that ought to scare the hell out of him. Something that did. He dropped his hand and studied his empty plate.

  “Well,” she began, “from what I’ve gathered from mealtime chitchat at The Hitching Post, Caleb seems more focused on finding that deed than in the groundbreaking of the ski resort he’s developing.”

  “He’s probably no different than the others. Each time another gold nugget is found, folks want to believe there’s an untapped vein out there. The idea of sudden riches stirs the blood of some people.”

  “But not yours?”

  “No.”

  “What stirs your blood?”

  He looked at her, caught the gold flecks in her eyes that glimmered in the lamplight when she teased him, spotted the cute nose that turned up slightly. Noticed the fullness of her bottom lip, the softness that begged to be kissed.

  His blood was moving along at a pretty good clip now, but he’d be damned if he’d let her know that.

  Damn. He definitely needed to get laid. How long had it been? Surely not long enough for his libido to contemplate putting the moves on an expectant mother, for cripes sake.

  “You really are a stick in the mud.” She patted his thigh in a gentle, we’re-good-friends way. But it didn’t seem to matter to the rush of his bloodstream. “You have no imagination, Mark. Can’t you tap into your heart?”

  His heart had fizzled out a long time ago. After his sister had died. And whatever had been left shriveled up when his wife filed for divorce and moved out of their apartment while he was away on an assignment.

  Juliet tugged on the sleeve of his shirt again, which seemed to be her habit. Her way of touching him without actually doing so.

  “Can’t you let go once in a while?” she asked.

  Let what go?

  His past? His guilt? His pessimism?

  “What do you mean? I know how to have fun.” At least, he used to. It had been a while—about as long as it had been since he’d had a wild passionate, no-strings-attached night.

  “Close your eyes,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  For some dumb reason, he did. “Okay, now what?”

  “Think about The Hitching Post. About a building that’s been around for ages. Can’t you almost hear the plunking sound of a piano? The voices of people who once lived and played here?”

  He squinted, opening one eye and then the other. “I’m not sure we ought to be listening to those voices. This floor was a brothel, remember?” He chuckled. “Did you still want me to imagine the tales these walls could tell?”

  Her face flushed, although the Pollyanna glimmer remained in those mahogany eyes. And she shrugged. “It might be interesting.”

  “Interesting?”

  “I thought most women in the olden days didn’t particularly like sex.”

  “I’m sure plenty of them did.” He grinned. “What makes you think they didn’t?”

  “Well, once when I was in the fourth grade, I overheard my abuelita and an older neighbor lady talking about sex.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “My grandmother said she wouldn’t walk across the room for it.”

  “That’s too bad. It sounds as though your grandfather didn’t know how to pleasure her.”

  Juliet didn’t respond. But then, what was there to say?

  Mark wondered whether Kramer had been good to her, whether he’d given her the kind of first-time experience she should have had. “Tell me, Juliet. Would you walk across the room for it?”

  “Probably. If there wasn’t anything good on television.” Her eyes glimmered, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or pulling his leg.

  “Then Kramer wasn’t any better at pleasing a lady than your grandfather was,” Mark said, taking a guess.

  Her eyes widened, as if he’d hit the G-spot and set off her first orgasm.

  Sexual awareness filled the room, settling over him. Over her, too, he suspected.

  Her lips parted in an enticing way, almost as if inviting him to close in on her, to give her the kind of kiss that made blood pound, race, demand.

  What was happening to him?

  He ought to pull away. Let it go. Laugh it off, like a guy with any sense would.

  But Mark had never been very heroic.

  And when Juliet ran the tip of her tongue along her lips, he was lost.

  Chapter Five

  The kiss started innocently, sweetly. A tender promise of sugar and spice.

  But before Mark could decide whether to pull back or press on, Juliet placed an angel-soft hand on his cheek and leaned forward—into the kiss.

  Her lips, parted, and he savored the taste of her, a unique, tantalizing flavor that went beyond a hint of lemon and meringue. He cupped her jaw with one hand, fingers delving toward the back of her neck, the strands of her hair brushing his knuckles in a silky cascade.

  As the kiss intensified, ever so slowly, his tongue explored the wet velvety softness of her mouth, tentatively seeking and savoring until he craved more of whatever captivated his senses.

  Desire smoldered under the surface, warming his blood in a steady rush, urging him to give it free rein, to let it build and surge.

  But something ensnared him, held him in a mesmerizing spell that slowed their motions, while intensifying sensual awareness.

  Whatever it was seemed to have caught her, too, he realized, as she whimpered softly and her fingers threaded through his hair.

  So much for Mother Nature disconnecting sexual urges in women who were in her condition.

  Oh, for cripes sake.

  Her condition.

  She was pregnant. And he was supposed to be taking care of her, making sure she took it easy—not doing something reckless that could jeopardize her health.

  He broke the kiss, his hand dropping to his side, useless and empty. “I’m sorry, Juliet. That was crazy. Stupid. And so damn out of line.”

  “That’s okay. I lost my head, too.”

  That was obvious, as well as unexpected—just as his impulsive response had been. He wasn’t sure what had come over them, but his libido had been primed and ready to rock.

  A mischievous sparkle lit her eyes, as a slow smile curled her lips. “And just for the record, that kiss was definitely something I’d walk across the room for.”

  He didn’t know if he should feel flattered or guilt-ridden. In self-defense, he thought about changing the subject, but his male pride wouldn’t let him ignore what she’d said. “So you liked my kiss, huh?”

  The twinkle in her eyes intensified, highlighting the flush of her cheeks. “Yes, I did like it.”

  A goofy urge to pound on his chest Tarzan style swept over him. He tried to laugh it off with what sounded to him like a dorky chuckle. “That’s probably because the television is off and there aren’t any TV specials to distract you.”

  “Maybe,” she said, her eyes glazed with…

  With wh
at?

  Passion? Embarrassment? Annoyance at him for making light of the inappropriate but sensual kiss they’d just shared?

  He wasn’t sure. But if things were different, if she were someone else, someone not so young—so virginal in spite of her condition—he would have kissed her again, just to see where it led.

  But things weren’t different.

  She was expecting a child. And nesting in Thunder Canyon, while Mark couldn’t pack his bags and leave town fast enough. Getting involved with Juliet, romantically speaking, was senseless.

  So what kind of fool would be tempted to put the moves on her, even if it was one little kiss?

  A jerk of a fool who wasn’t much better than that married attorney who’d jumped her bones when she was just as vulnerable as she was now.

  He raked a hand through his hair. “Listen, I’ve got to go back to the Wander-On Inn.”

  “Why? I thought you were spending the night here.”

  Was she disappointed that he might leave?

  Or pleased?

  And why, pray tell, should he care either way?

  Hell, he really ought to sleep at the inn. Things were way too awkward here. Kissing Juliet had triggered a flight-or-fight response.

  She nodded toward the bathroom. “It’s just that you left your shaving kit in there.”

  Yeah. He had. Packed, zipped and ready for a fast getaway. He caught her gaze, saw the question in her eyes. The vulnerability.

  Oh, God. What if she went into labor? There wouldn’t be anyone with her. And Mark couldn’t take that risk.

  “I’ll be right back,” he told her. “I just need to get my laptop so I can do some research on the Internet this evening.”

  What a crock that was, but her nod told him she’d bought his explanation.

  “Take your time,” she said. “I’ll just leave the door open.”

  “I don’t plan to be gone that long.” He just needed a breath of fresh air, a little break. Something he could focus on, other than a casual kiss that didn’t mean anything.

  “All right. If I’m not on the sofa, I’ll be reading in my room.”

  “I’ll just let myself in.” He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets, then forced a smile before heading downstairs.

  But the “meaningless” kiss followed him, taunting him long after he shut the door and sucked in a deep breath of crisp night air.

  Several minutes after Mark left, Juliet continued to stare at the closed door, her fingers pressed softly to her lips.

  What had just happened?

  She wasn’t sure, but it was more than the kiss that had her heart and mind singing. It was her response to it. That and the overwhelming urge to kiss Mark again. To make sure she hadn’t imagined how sweet, how special, how arousing his mouth had been.

  Mark’s kiss had been so different from those Erik had given her.

  Erik’s mouth and tongue had been urgent, insistent. The kind of kisses that took her a while to warm up to. On the other hand, Mark, who seemed to know exactly what he was doing, had taken things slow and easy.

  She hadn’t been lying when she’d told Mark that she’d probably walk across the room for sex. It had been nice with Erik. Pleasant, once she caught up to his speed. But more than the act itself, she’d enjoyed the intimacy. The embrace, the touch of someone she’d cared about. But now Erik’s lovemaking skills paled.

  If the promise in Mark’s kiss was an indication of what had been lacking in Erik’s, Juliet suspected making love with Mark might prove to be very special indeed. A stimulating opportunity she’d not only walk across the room for, but, in anticipation, would turn off a perfectly good television show along the way.

  But how likely was that?

  Her hand slowly dropped to her swollen womb, reminding her to focus on motherhood and the new baby she’d soon hold in her arms.

  But if Juliet weren’t pregnant, she might be tempted to find out what Mark knew about pleasuring a lady that Erik hadn’t known.

  The next morning, Juliet woke to the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee.

  Mark was proving to be an intriguing man, in spite of his cynical nature. The kind of man who made a woman smile when he wasn’t around. The kind of man who provoked dreams of romance.

  But Juliet knew better than to let silly romantic notions do anything but drift by the wayside. She and Mark had nothing in common.

  So why had she spent so much time thinking about him last night? Dreaming about long, lingering kisses that stirred the blood and made her want to slip on a pair of track shoes so she could sprint across the room for another taste of his lips?

  She blew out a sigh and climbed from bed. What was wrong with her? She didn’t have any business thinking about Mark, his kiss or romance.

  For goodness’ sake, she was going to be a mother. And if she ever became involved with any one else, it would be with a man who’d make a good husband and father. A man who would take pride in his wife and child while barbecuing in the backyard on Sundays. Someone who held the same family values that she did.

  And Mark Anderson, a pessimist who disliked Thunder Canyon and wasn’t concerned over the falling out he’d had with his parents, wouldn’t fit the bill.

  Sure, he’d been good to her, a true friend. He’d also been a great listener, although he hadn’t told her very much about himself.

  Maybe she ought to quiz him a bit. Find out about the rift he’d had with his parents. Then maybe she could help facilitate a reconciliation.

  Families were special.

  More than anyone, Juliet knew that. And, if she could get Mark to see the value of a nurturing, loving support system, it would be one way to pay him back for being so good to her.

  She slipped on her blue robe and strode into the living area, where he sat at the dinette table, his laptop open, a coffee cup at his side.

  “Hey,” he said, offering her a smile. “Sleep okay?”

  Not really. She’d stewed for way too long about the kiss they’d shared—so long that she couldn’t get into that book on pregnancy and childbirth she’d picked up at the library last Saturday. But there was no way she’d make a confession like that. “I slept all right. How about you?”

  He glanced at the sofa, where the folded blanket rested on his pillow. “Not bad.”

  She noticed that he’d taken a shower and shaved. His hair, a bit long and unruly, was still damp. He’d put on a fresh white T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans, but his feet were bare.

  He’d made himself at home, which was interesting. Comforting, she supposed.

  In the six months she’d dated Erik, he’d never spent the night. Never made a pot of coffee. Never left a shaving kit in her bathroom. She hadn’t thought anything about it at the time. Nor had she realized he’d been holding back on their relationship.

  So, in a way, it pleased her to know that Mark had settled in, that he’d slept on the sofa. That he’d felt comfortable enough to take a shower in her bathroom. That he’d carefully put away his things, zipping the small leather bag closed. How neat and thoughtful was that?

  With the morning sun at his back, blessing him in a glowing aura, he looked as though he belonged here—in her living room with his work spread out in front of him.

  He scooted his chair back, the metal legs snagging on the matted green carpet. “I can fix cereal again. And after you’ve eaten, I’ll head to the market and do some shopping.”

  “Okay.” She made her way into the room, taking a seat at the table, and nodded at his laptop computer. “How’s the research going?”

  “I guess it’s going all right. I’m learning some things about the early days of Thunder Canyon, things I remember my history teacher telling us in school. Things I didn’t care about back then.”

  “What kind of things did you care about?” she asked, wanting to know more about Mark, his youth, his life.

  “Football. Parties. Girls.” He slid her a wry smile. “The stuff that an adolescent surge of testosterone
produces.”

  She returned his smile, as if she understood the typical teenage lifestyle. But she hadn’t gotten caught up in any high school activities. Not when she was working after class let out so she could help Manny pay the bills.

  “Were you a good student?” she asked.

  “Not as good as my dad thought I should be.”

  Ah, an opening she could zero in on. “I’m sure he was proud of you, too.”

  “Not that I can remember.” The sixties-style dinette chair squeaked, as Mark leaned back in his seat and stretched out his feet. “My mom said that from the time I chucked my first bottle out of the playpen, my dad and I were constantly butting heads.”

  “What kind of things did you argue about?”

  “Everything. About my grades. The way I swung the bat during a Little League game. The hairstyle I chose. The music I listened to. The friends I had. My lazy-ass attitude around the house.”

  Was the relationship between Mark and his dad just a normal part of adolescent rebellion? A result of that surge of testosterone he’d mentioned earlier?

  If that were the case, would their relationship be better now—if given a chance to start fresh?

  She placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward, as far as her belly would allow. “Now that you’re grown, do you think that maybe your father had a point about any of those things?”

  He paused for a while, pondering her question, she supposed. Or maybe reevaluating his memories.

  “He was right about my attitude. But it was tough to live with constant criticism, and eventually I got sick and tired of it.”

  “So you rebelled.”

  “That’s about the size of it. But things got worse after he uprooted the family. My sister and I wanted to stay in Texas with my grandmother.”

  “Why did he decide to move here?”

  “Because some great-uncle we’d never met died and left my dad a motel at the edge of town and a cabin-style home about ten miles up Turner Grade.” Mark shook his head. “And to make matters worse, my dad insisted upon living in the mountains. It was hard not having neighbors, especially when my parents were in town all the time.”

  “I can see how it would have been more convenient for everyone involved if they’d lived closer to the motel.”