Reckless Promise

by Jenny Andersen

  He turned his head, and his gaze pinned Poppy like a collected butterfly. His eyes were light gray, pale as polished silver, fierce and startling in his dark face. Again the shock of recognition jolted through her, and her heart began to pound.

  She couldn't catch her breath. The wide, glossy floorboards under her moccasins dissolved into nothing and left her suspended in space. The echoing dinner gong, the laughter and voices and footsteps, faded until the only thing in her world was that sharp gaze, stretching like a fine silver chain between them, an unseen but unbreakable link.

  Wrong, wrong, wrong. When she found the man she'd waited for all her life, somewhere, someday, he wouldn't be one who played with married women. But music played in her head, filling the air with words about never letting him go. He took a step toward her. She couldn't breathe.

  "Mac?" The voice barely penetrated Poppy's fog, but the woman who came with it did. "Mac, come on. Dinner is served." Alice put a hand on his arm.

  Poppy focused on that intimate, demanding hand. Alice's gaze followed hers. A faint smile curved her mouth and she nudged Mac toward Poppy. Poppy couldn't imagine why Alice would push her illicit lover at another woman. Judging by Poppy's all-too-physical reaction, it might be better not to stay and find out. This man couldn't be anything but trouble. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she turned and fled into the dining room with its welter of clattering silverware and conversation and plunked herself down between the two men she'd been talking with earlier.

  Jase had it right: she could act. Her performance at dinner deserved an Oscar. Her conversation sparkled, judging by the attention of the people around her. Inside her head, the dialogue didn't sound at all light, bright, or witty. She spent the whole meal silently berating herself for getting weak-kneed over an adulterer.

  Mac sat next to Alice, of course. Poppy cut a tiny, careful bite of steak and shot a glance down the table at them. He leaned close to say something in Alice's ear. Poppy pulverized the steak in one bite.

  She refused to listen to the violins that sounded faintly in the back of her mind. Nothing but chemistry. Pheromones. She knew all about pheromones, even if the scientific explanation didn't hold a candle to the real thing. The lightning bolt that had hit her when their gazes locked across the crowded room couldn't keep her from doing her job. Absolutely not.

  Mac leaned closer to Alice.

  Poppy gulped a too-large swallow of wine. She had a job—get Tom his wife back—and she'd do it, no matter what niggling doubts she had about the happiness of a marriage held together by jealousy. If her pulse jumped a little when she flirted with Mac, she would think of it as method acting.

  Another sliver of steak turned to mush between her teeth.

  * * *

  After dinner, Alice served coffee in the Great Room, and Mac put Operation Protect Tom into effect. Poppy followed along with the rest of the guests, and he followed Poppy. He watched her out of the corner of his eye while he filled two cups with coffee.

  Those two jerks she'd been playing ping pong with tried to get her back, but he moved in between them and maneuvered her off to a corner with only two chairs. The guy she'd turned her back on earlier watched them, but it didn't look like he'd get away from his wife's death grip any time this century.

  So far, so good.

  Alice must be blowing things all out of proportion. The redhead might be a man magnet, but she hadn't flirted with anyone all evening. Still, he couldn't think of a better way to keep her away from Tom than to have her nailed down before Tom got back. He considered it his duty to his sister.

  "You're too pretty to be vacationing alone." It might have been his imagination, but he thought she flinched. "We'll have to make sure you're not lonely."

  "Oh, I'm sure I won't be." She sipped the coffee he'd handed her and gazed up at him through her thick fringe of eyelashes. "There are lots of people here to do things with." The words were as innocuous as the gaze wasn't, and he felt a rush of heat.

  After a hesitant moment, she seemed willing to flirt with him. The evening spun out in the age-old dance of shy words and sly glances and tentative touches. He'd have sworn only moments had passed, but the room emptied as people drifted off the join the evening walk or to go to their cabins.

  "Any more coffee and we'll be totally wired. How about a glass of wine?" he suggested.

  "Sure." She looked around the room. "But where?"

  He led her through the door marked Private and into the family parlor.

  "But this isn't for guests," she protested. "We shouldn't be in here."

  "It's okay."

  She frowned but followed him, and he congratulated himself on separating her from the other guests as neatly as a champion cutting horse easing a stubborn cow out of a herd. "Sit down. I'll get some wine."

  A fire crackled on the hearth, and the room radiated warm welcome. She perched on the fat, ruby velvet sofa, and leaned forward to smooth a hand over the bearskin rug at her feet. He watched as he crossed the room, and his thoughts narrowed to three: Poppy; rug; him.

  He could tell himself he did this just for Alice, but he knew he lied. "I'll be right back."

  She sat gazing into the fire, her face remote and lovely and somehow innocent, when he returned with a bottle of his favorite pale gold Pinot Grigio and two of Alice's crystal goblets. He detoured to turn on some music before joining her on the sofa and pouring a glass of wine. When he handed it to her, she sat bolt upright, looking nervous as a virgin on her first date. He smiled, brushed her fingers with his thumb, saw her tremble.

  So she felt the attraction too. He'd thought so, from the stunned look in her eyes when they'd locked gazes before dinner. He set his glass on the table and took her hand, slid an arm smoothly around her shoulders. She inched away.

  "Sorry." He needed to back off. "I don't usually rush things like this."

  "Lucky me. Look, I'm not interested in men who play with married women."

  "That's very good of you. Now let's try some more conversation. We did okay over coffee." It had been a long time since he'd used the killer smile that had been separating women from their clothes since high school, but it came without effort. Unfortunately, also without effect.

  "What do you want to talk about now?" She looked wary, not separated.

  "You?"

  "Not a good subject these days." She lowered her gaze and drank some wine. He topped up her glass. "Why don't you tell me about yourself?"

  "I think you're the most beautiful woman I've ever met."

  She scowled at him. "My appearance is an even worse subject at the moment." She turned the glass in her fingers. "Why don't we talk about you?"

  "I work in Denver. What do you do when you're not vacationing?"

  She flushed. "Stuff I don't want to talk about." Her gaze went blank and she emptied her glass. "What do you do in Denver?"

  "Try to sell the family company. You have a job?"

  "No."

  "Honey, I'm trying to get a conversation going here. You keep up those unhelpful answers, and pretty soon the only thing left is gonna be physical." He refilled her glass.

  Her expression stiffened to pure school marm. "Physical?"

  He really did try to look innocent, but what he wanted must have shown all too clearly.

  She glared at him. "Didn't anyone ever teach you that a few polite words are not necessarily the prelude to jumping into the nearest bed for a night of...night...of...hot...sweaty..." Her eyes glazed.

  "Sex?" He inched closer to her.

  "Oh, God," she blurted, and chugged her wine.

  "Take it easy with that."

  "It's only wine."

  "Yeah, but you had some at dinner, too. Alcohol hits pretty hard at high altitudes." He took her glass and set it on the table. "Where are you from?"

  "Boston."

  "Sea level. You don't get any more."

  She pouted.

  He laughed. Temper surrounded her in an almost visible aura. He'd swear that
her hair was about to shoot off sparks. "Let's start over, honey."

  "That's Dr. Honey to you." The words ended in a hiccup. She looked shocked. "I never say things like that."

  "I didn't hear a thing. What kind of doctor?"

  "Just a Ph.D. Don't count on me if you get sick."

  "I'll make a note of that. You enjoying the ranch, Dr. Honey?"

  "No."

  "No?"

  "I didn't mean that." She flushed and stuck her nose in her wine glass again. "Of course I'm enjoying it here." She reached out to set the empty glass on the table but kept missing. She gave up and rested it on her knee.

  "Sometimes I hate myself," he said under his breath. "And I wasn't even a Boy Scout." He removed the glass from her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Come on, Dr. Gorgeous. You've had enough. Actually, you've had too much. Can you walk?"

  "Of course I can walk." She took an indignant stride and tripped over a chair.

  "Of course you can." He looped an arm around her and tried not to think about all the round softness under his hand. He took a firm grip on the narrow strip of leather that belted her waist to keep his hand from wandering, and led her out the door.

  "Moonlight. How romantic," she murmured, and sagged against him.

  His brain went white hot. He visualized an ice cold shower. It didn't help. He recited a few fast multiplication tables. Better, but then she murmured in his ear and he almost lost it. But if she wasn't drunk, she was certainly tipsy enough to be defenseless. Therefore he would keep his hands off her. He would. Lord, he was going to hate himself in the morning.

  A coyote's mournful, wailing yip split the night. She froze. When a second and then a third voice joined the chorus, she plastered herself against him, wrapping her arms around him and burrowing against his shoulder.

  "It's only coyotes," he tried to say, but her breasts nudged against him and he stopped breathing. He closed his arms around her and rested his cheek against her hair. The tumbling curls feathered against his skin, soft and silky, and drowned him in a sweet, peppery scent as fiery as their color, a scent that had to be Poppy, not perfume. He tried not to think how long it had been since he'd had a woman in his bed.

  She wriggled closer. A dark, primitive need to be buried in her streaked through him and involuntarily he thrust against her. Even through all the layers of clothing, the hint of heaven sent his head whirling.

  He had to stop. The thought sizzled away to nothing in his overheated brain, like a drop of water on a hot skillet. He'd stop in a minute. He had to have just another minute.

  She made a whimpering little moaning sound and nuzzled his neck. He ran his hands down her back and gripped her bottom, filling his hands with firm roundness, lifting her against him, damning the heavy denim that separated them.

  Her fingers sank into his shoulders, and she locked her legs around him, matching him thrust for thrust. She turned her head to find his mouth with hers, a deep, devouring kiss that sent his brain spinning. He staggered, caught himself, leaned against a convenient boulder.

  He was so hard it hurt, blind with her body pressed against his bursting erection, and it had been too long, he was too close, going over the edge, good, so good, too good. Much. Too. Good. She twisted against him and he lost it. Oh, God, this hadn't happened to him for twenty years. Helplessly he buried his face in her hair and let the spasms take him.

  His legs were shaking with strain when she lifted her head from his shoulder. "Mac?"

  "That would be me," he said, wondering how he could apologize. And exactly what he should apologize for first.

  She unwound her legs and he lowered her to the ground. "I think I'm going to be sick."

  Chapter 3

  Poppy slipped out of her cabin into the crisp morning. Even though the sun hadn't yet cleared the mountains, the air sparkled around her like champagne. She winced. Bad analogy. If it hadn't been for wine, she wouldn't have been such an idiot last night. She'd spent the whole night reliving every humiliating moment.

  One of the corrals loomed ahead, sturdy poles smooth in the early morning light. She leaned against it, the wood of the top bar cool against her throbbing head, and wished the birds would shut up. Mac had been right about alcohol and altitude. There couldn't be any other explanation for the way she'd behaved after one glass of wine. Or two. Whatever.

  Wine or no, she'd be a long time forgetting the embarrassing way she'd attacked him. Nervousness, that's what it had been. Her plans hadn't gotten any farther than getting Mac out of Alice's clutches. Once she'd found herself alone with him, she'd been as tense and tongue-tied as a girl on her first date, and she'd over-reacted.

  Although...she'd never been daring enough to act out a fantasy like that before, and it had been...exciting.

  But that was last night. This morning all that was left was embarrassment. Flirting with Mac, luring him just enough to disenchant Alice, was one thing. Actually seducing him—she ignored the tingle that swept through her—was something else.

  She'd come here to do a job for Tom, not indulge in carnal delight, and she'd better not forget it. From here on, she'd be all business.

  Forget about vacation.

  Forget the Some Enchanted Evening nonsense.

  Forget the cowboy.

  Deep thunder rumbled through the still air and shook the ground. She looked up and saw a herd of horses galloping full tilt toward the corral with a cowboy close behind. A cowboy! The horses came closer and she shot up onto the fence in panic. She clung there, fear dissolving in admiration for the way the cowboy rode, as if he were part of the horse, free and strong in the dawn light.

  When he came close, she saw his expression of pure joy. And recognized Mac. Her heart plummeted.

  The last horse cantered into the corral and he pulled his mount to a stop, kneeing it into position so he could close the gate. She dropped to the ground, sure he could see her pulse skyrocket with his approach. He touched his hat, nudging it so that the broad brim shaded his eyes, and looked down at her. No smile.

  If she could only get her tongue unglued, she'd apologize.

  "I owe you an apology." He tilted the hat back and she saw that he looked as embarrassed as she was.

  She blinked. "You?" Heat burned up her neck and she knew her face turned scarlet.

  "Yes. Me. There's no excuse for the way I—"

  "Please." She held up a hand. "All my fault. I'd give anything if you'd just forget the way I—"

  The crooked grin lifted the corner of his mouth and struck an answering glint in his eyes. "Not in this lifetime, honey. That memory will keep me warm when I'm an old, old man."

  Her face went from hot to incandescent. "I—" She stopped, too mortified to speak.

  "Call it a draw?" His grin notched toward wicked and her knees went wobbly.

  What had happened to the staid workaholic professor who hadn't had a date in four years? He only wanted her because of the way she looked. She hated that. And then there was Alice. And Tom. But when Mac looked at her, her logical, sensible self disappeared.

  And she'd thought yesterday spelled trouble.

  Trouble be damned. She had a job to do and she'd do it. Forget the rest.

  He leaned down and extended a hand.

  She hesitated, then reached up to shake it.

  His hand closed around her arm, big and warm and strong. "Put your foot on mine." Puzzled, she did, and he hauled her up to sit sidesaddle in front of him. The horse danced under the double weight and she clutched at Mac. His arms came around her, hard as steel, to brace her against the muscled wall of his chest.

  The horse skittered and reared, a half-hearted lifting of its front feet. Mac's gaze never left hers.

  Everything stopped at what she saw in those incredible silver eyes. Her heart began the slow pounding that shook the foundations of her world, and she went soft inside, as helpless as if her bones had melted.

  Talk about bad timing. As soon as she'd vowed to stick to business, she'd found her cowbo
y. And he was the bad guy. Not fair.

  It had to be the shock of finding herself so far off the ground that had her breathless. As if he sensed her distress, he pulled her even closer and it felt so good, so safe, that she couldn't keep from relaxing against him. She turned her head, and he was so close that if she leaned just a fraction, her lips would touch his jaw. He hadn't shaved. Deep in her heart she'd always been a sucker for the more-than-five-o'clock-shadow look, however politically incorrect that might be. She swallowed a sigh and leaned into him.

  "That's better," he said, and nudged the horse into a walk.

  "Where are you taking me?" She scarcely recognized the breathless, brainless voice. "Put me down." Now she sounded like Helpless Heroine Barbie.

  He didn't answer with words. His wicked grin said it all.

  "In your dreams." She answered the unspoken words and tried to ignore the arousing, earthy scents of warm male and horse and mountain morning.

  "You better believe it."

  It didn't sound like he was kidding. He clearly intended to take up where they'd left off the night before. She closed her eyes against the ripple of pleasure and tried to remember why she had to resist. "Put me down."

  "I'm taking you up to the lodge. It's breakfast time."

  "You're not going to—"

  "Up the front steps and into the dining room."

  "No!" She tried to wriggle free. He tightened his arm and held her closer. Too late she realized that her squirming had settled her firmly and intimately against his impressive erection. She froze.

  "What'll you give me?"

  Anything you want. She looked up at him. "For what?"

  "To let you down."

  Not a darned thing. She was still trying to shape a coherent sentence when the horse stopped. She tore her gaze from Mac and looked around. He had ridden right up to the back porch, guiding the horse close to the stairs.

  "Enjoy your breakfast, Poppy," he said, his voice like sinful velvet, and swung her down so that she dropped neatly onto the step. "See you later."

  She stood right where he'd put her, arms wrapped around herself as if she were freezing, and watched him jog the horse back down to the barn. When he'd gone out of sight, she turned slowly and went up the steps, cold everywhere that Mac's warmth had touched.