Reckless Promise

by Jenny Andersen

  She shivered. It looked like a mouse version of Madame Tussaud's torture chamber. On the bright side, there wasn't really a mouse. At least she didn't have to worry about hearing tiny death screams in the night.

  "He's probably long gone by now," Mac said. He smeared peanut butter on the trap and shoved it into the rear corner of the cabinet. "Watch your fingers if you reach under there." He backed out from under the sink and stood to wash his hands. Poppy handed him a towel. He took it and dried his hands, his enigmatic gray gaze never leaving her face.

  She went breathless with anticipation. Her temper sparked in a pathetic attempt to defuse the feeling. "You didn't need me for that."

  "Sure I did." He edged closer.

  The expression in his eyes made her toes curl inside her new moccasins. She swallowed hard.

  "Why don't we quit playing games?" he said. The melted chocolate murmur poured over her and any words she might have said died on her tongue. "You want this too, don't you?"

  She did. She didn't want to, but she did.

  If he'd grabbed at her, she might have run, but he dropped the second trap and reached for her so slowly that his hand seemed to float toward her shoulder. The slow approach held her mesmerized, and when his fingers slid warm and gentle across the thin cotton knit of her shirt to touch the bare skin of her neck, her knees went rubbery.

  With one finger, he traced the neckline of her shirt, dipping under the lacy edging. In her wildest dreams, she couldn't have imagined the intimacy of that simple touch. Her breasts throbbed and swelled, aching for his hand to go lower.

  His other hand came up to grip her shoulder. His hands shook. Startled, she looked up into his eyes and saw the raw need, the barely leashed violence. She should be afraid. Instead, a matching flame began to burn deep inside her, spreading until the world held only him.

  "Yes," she said over the roaring in her ears.

  His answering smile, wicked as sin, set her flesh pulsing. "I saw you today."

  "Saw—?" Oh, no. "Where—?"

  "Up at the stream. Pretty Poppy spread out on that rock like a virgin sacrifice."

  Embarrassment burned through her, sending heat to color her face. Embarrassment and a strange, hot desire, part shame but mostly an excitement that surprised her. "I thought no one could see me. Where were you?"

  "Up on the next hill. On a horse."

  "Oh, dear. I'm sorry. I was so hot and... I'm sorry."

  "I'm not." Mac's voice had gone dark and rich. "You were hot. I've never seen anything so hot in my life. Do you have any idea what you did to me?"

  Knowing he'd watched her, had been turned on by her, sent her brain spinning. "I know what it did to me," she said, and looked him straight in the eye. "I liked it." His pupils dilated, sending a rush of heat and power through her. My God, what was she doing? Suddenly frightened, she looked away.

  "Give me your hand," he said. "And look at me. I'll show you what you did to me. What you do to me." With one finger he lifted her chin. With his other hand he captured her hand and held it to his chest. His heart thudded, as fast and unsteady as her own. His eyes had turned to molten silver and his scorching gaze pinned her. He moved her hand slowly down over his chest, and lower across the startling chill of the big belt buckle that she'd seen earlier, until her hand came to rest on the hard bulge where his erection strained against the denim of his jeans.

  "That's what you did to me." He leaned down to murmur in her ear, his breath stirring her hair. "And I don't think it's going to go away unless you help me."

  "Me?" she squeaked. Oh, good. How sophisticated. She cleared her throat. She had to tell him 'No'. Soon. Now. Her fingers rubbed slowly up and down over that impressive bulge and she heard herself say, "I think we can work something out."

  "Poppy," he said in that intimate murmur, and slid his hands up to cover her breasts.

  Electricity zinged through her, sharp and piercing. Her breasts throbbed against his hands. Under her hand he swelled and jerked in response. She moved her hand, pressing lightly, to see if it would happen again. When it did, she flushed with power. She had made that happen.

  And imagine, oh just imagine, doing this without all those clothes in the way. She wanted to feel him in her hand, wanted to test the velvet smoothness of his skin over that hot throbbing, wanted to curl her fingers around him and feel him pulsing in the cage of her hand. Wanted...

  His arms went around her, his hands savage on her back. "You're playing with fire, lady," he said in a hoarse growl, and covered her mouth with his.

  She hadn't imagined his kiss would be gentle. Hadn't guessed his lips could be so soft against her mouth. She put her arms around his neck and gave herself up to him. In a heartbeat, the moment of gentleness changed to dark, demanding passion. His tongue traced her lower lip and her mouth opened to him. He accepted the surrender instantly. His mouth took hers, merciless and insistent, and she rose to meet him.

  "Poppy," he said, a guttural sound of need.

  He smoothed his hands over her hair and down her back to cup her bottom, before sliding them back up and somehow taking her shirt along. He tossed it aside and bent to kiss the curve of her breast and she moaned. He fumbled briefly, and the clasp of her bra gave way. Cool air, and then those hard, knowing hands covered her breasts again and she cried out wordlessly.

  Her blood simmered white hot, scorching through her veins and setting every nerve ablaze. Her nipples pressed against his palms, and he slowly rotated his hands, sending another pulse of fire through her.

  She pressed her hips against him, against his alarmingly aroused body, the scent of him filling her nose and mouth. Torture. She had to feel his skin. Now. Her hands shook when she pulled apart the snaps on his shirt, and she splayed her fingers across his bare chest. Hard muscle flexed when she ran her hands up over the exciting roughness of hair and skin. Her fingers found the hard nubbins of his nipples and circled them. He groaned.

  Her knees wouldn't hold her up any longer, and there was only Mac and her need to have his naked skin against hers. Desire raged past need into a place she'd never been before, crazy to feel his weight pressing her down, to feel him between her legs, to feel the hard thickness of him pressing into her.

  "Bed," he murmured, and turned her toward the bedroom.

  Something scuffled behind the half closed door, something much bigger than a fictitious mouse. Poppy's heart leapt.

  He froze. "You've got company?" he asked, his lip curling. Desire had been wiped away with the suddenness of a lightning bolt, leaving his eyes hard with suspicion.

  Poppy shook her head.

  He hurled himself through the door, Poppy hard on his heels. Over his shoulder she saw a pale shape leap for the window. A man, she saw in the moment that he straddled the window sill, but she didn't recognize him. Mac lunged toward the window but he tripped over a wad of fabric on the floor. He held it up, and his expression turned grim.

  A pair of men's briefs.

  "Yours?" he asked.

  * * *

  Poppy stamped up the path to the lodge for breakfast. She'd used anger to hold fear at bay all night, and by now she'd worked up a pretty good head of steam. At least being mad had to be progress, given that she had spent the last two mornings fighting acute embarrassment.

  Mac had called her indiscriminate and promiscuous, and then left her alone to stew over the naked man who just might come back looking for his shorts.

  Indiscriminate and promiscuous, her left foot. Two men in thirty-two years didn't seem all that promiscuous to her, but would Mac listen? Of course not.

  He should talk, him with his smooth lines, the moves that showed tons of practice.

  She glared at the green pastures fading into hills smudged with the purple of lingering night and sugared with snow. She had to be fair here. She hated being fair, but she couldn't blame Mac for her starved response to his touch. Even if he'd planned to seduce her, she had contributed to the heat.

  Face it. He'd believed
her bimbo act and she couldn't blame him because she'd set herself up. Her ability as an actress must increase in direct proportion to her desire to stop acting.

  A dark car with a sheriff's department logo on the side nosed across the cattle guard like a prowling cat on the hunt. She flinched, but even her guilty conscience didn't buy calling the law over a little shouting and a slammed door. That didn't happen even in Boston, where apartments were crowded cheek-to-cheek.

  And she wasn't going to take back anything she'd said. She had nothing to apologize for. Mac deserved to be shouted at last night. He should apologize for his nasty, suspicious mind.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in a black deputy's uniform climbed out of the car. He straightened, and she saw the all-too-familiar predatory look flare in his eyes. At least he was gentleman enough to rein it in. "Mornin', Ma'am," he said in a drawl straight out of a movie. "Know where I can find Tom or Mac?"

  "I haven't seen either one this morning. Someone in the house will know, I'm sure."

  He strode up the steps and down the hall toward the office as though he knew the place well. "Morning, Gage" she heard Tom say. "Thanks for coming right away."

  She stopped on the porch for three deep breaths so she wouldn't stomp into the dining room like Godzilla bound for Tokyo. She deliberately relaxed her shoulders, smoothed out the frown. When she stepped into the hall, the gossip level almost knocked her over.

  "There was a terrible commotion in the cabin next to mine about one o'clock this morning."

  Oops. Were they talking about her? But her commotion had been well before midnight.

  The group turned on the woman who had spoken with a flurry of questions, so that the room sounded like a press conference.

  "Some woman was yelling and screaming and—"

  Heat swept up Poppy's face. They were talking about her.

  "—and this man jumped out the window and ran up the hill into the trees, and then someone yelled the most unrepeatable things."

  Mrs. Harbottle broke in. "Our cabin is on the other side. Ernie went running out on our porch to see what was happening. He wouldn't let me go outside, but I saw Mac come charging up from the house like his pants were on fire, and he told Ernie to go back inside, that he and Tom could handle it."

  They weren't talking about her. The scene in her cabin hadn't gone like that. And if Mac had run uphill from the house, these people must be in the cabins clear on the other side of the lodge from hers.

  Mac apparently had had a busy night. Clearly he hadn't spent the night pacing the floor reliving every second of their—interaction—as she had.

  Maybe he regretted the things he'd said and had returned to the wrong cabin. Even as a jolt of pleasure punched through her, she lectured herself: no more Mac fantasies. None.

  Mac and Tom came in together, through the door marked Private. Mac's gaze zeroed in on her and her heart stuttered. Tom started toward her, but the other guests clustered around him like pigeons sighting a bag of peanuts.

  Footsteps scuffled in the hall. She glanced up in time to see the deputy shoving a vaguely familiar looking man in handcuffs toward the door. Something about the way he moved...she'd swear that he'd been the intruder in her cabin.

  "Gage has a few questions for you," Mac said and led her out of the room.

  The deputy waited for her on the front porch.

  "Where's—is that Brad?" Poppy began as soon as introductions were out of the way.

  "Yep. Got him handcuffed in my car," Gage said. "Mac's been telling me about the incident in your cabin last night. Can you identify him as the intruder?"

  "He's about the same size." Even in her...well, abstracted state last night, she'd automatically observed, looked for something that might identify the man. As though he were a field specimen. She closed her eyes and called up the details. "About five foot eleven. Shorter than Mac, slightly built. Dark hair, no clothes." Tell-tale heat in her cheeks gave evidence of her blush. "And something on his right thigh, right up at the top, a dark smudge that might have been a tattoo," she finished.

  Gage and Mac smiled with satisfaction. "Good job," Gage said. "Alice said he'd threatened her when she fired him. Likely he was looking for a little revenge. You can rest easy now. I'll take care of him." He smiled at Poppy, touched two fingers to his hat, and sprang down the steps to his car.

  She shot a nervous glance at Mac. His gaze focused on her like a laser, his mouth a grim slash, the farthest thing she could imagine from the soft, coaxing mouth that had covered hers. After the things he had said last night, he surely didn't think he could intimidate her further. Anger burned away her nervousness and she returned his volcanic glare. "What?"

  He sighed. For a long minute, she thought he wouldn't answer. Then he leaned forward and lifted her chin so she couldn't look away. "It seems like I'm always apologizing to you," he said. "I don't expect you to forgive me, but I'm sorry for all the things I said last night."

  She shook his hand away. "Really," she said in her best haughty Boston matriarch tone.

  "If anything had happened to you, I'd never forgive myself."

  "Fine. I wouldn't either. So what?"

  "So Brad was—"

  "In my bed last night. Without my knowledge or consent."

  He didn't meet her gaze, just took her hand. "Yeah. And he visited a couple of other cabins later."

  "I see." She snatched her hand away. "Since he visited other cabins without an invitation, you decided you could believe me when I said I didn't have a date with him? How nice of you."

  "He took money and jewelry from a couple of other cabins." His eyes went bleak and he reached for her hand again. "I don't think he wanted jewelry from you."

  "Just because he was naked in my bed? Good deduction, Sherlock."

  "Dammit, Poppy, cut me a little slack here. I wasn't thinking too clearly right then. I'm apologizing. Brad's in jail, but we'll have someone patrolling at night anyway. What more can I do?"

  Touch me. Put your hands on me again. "Nothing. Apology accepted. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like breakfast." She turned away from him. He took her arm in a no-nonsense grip that said she wouldn't get away unless she lopped off the arm. She shrugged and let him lead her to the dining room.

  He almost shoved her into a chair. "Sit. I'll get your breakfast."

  She sat, mainly because her knees had started to quiver. Darn it, men didn't order her around. She was a kick-butt kind of woman.

  Professionally. She sighed. Personally...well, on the bright side, she wasn't exactly a wimpy marshmallow. On the not-so-bright side, she didn't really have a personal life, so it was hard to say. Which left her sitting here like a well-trained dog.

  Tom came in and took the chair next to hers, leaning toward her as though he were magnetized. "Poppy," he said, and made it sound as delighted as if he hadn't seen her in years.

  Mac scowled.

  She frowned.

  "Dammit, play up," Tom muttered. "Please."

  He sounded so desperate that she fluttered her eyelashes at him. Mac dumped a spoonful of scrambled eggs too close to the edge of her plate. They hit the floor with a gentle squish.

  Alice joined Mac at the buffet table. She said something Poppy couldn't hear, and they both glared at her. Poppy leaned closer to Tom. "Smile. You're on Candid Camera."

  "You were going to tell me about the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and the three bears," Tom said in an intimate near-whisper.

  "Very good," Poppy said with approval. "That got your wife's attention." Unfortunately, Mac had noticed also. His glare almost fried her where she sat.

  "The Duke and Duchess," Tom prompted.

  Poppy gave him her most enchanting smile, the one she'd practiced for her Other Woman role. "The Duchess complained that the press followed them constantly, and if they looked anything but blissful, there would be rumors of a split. So when they ran out of things to talk about in public, she would lean close and whisper fairy tales in his ear, and he'd look and sound
fascinated. "'Once upon a time there were three bears who lived in a cottage in the woods,' she'd say. And he'd answer, 'Really? By George!' 'And one day a little girl came to the front door.' 'Darling, that's fabulous!' and so on. Kept the paparazzi fooled for years."

  Tom threw back his head and laughed.

  "Don't overdo it."

  "Don't overdo what?" Mac materialized at Poppy's side.

  "Telling tall tales," Poppy answered without missing a beat. "I just asked Tom how you happened to name this place the Montana Blue." She put one hand on Tom's arm and looked up at him through her lashes.

  Mac set a plate in front of her. She smiled and said, "Coffee?" He turned back to the buffet. She watched the muscle in his jaw clench, but he went. She swallowed a smile and gazed up at Tom. "So tell me about the name," she said in a soft voice, pursing her lips like a kiss on the 'so.'

  Tom smiled. "You are good," he said with real admiration, and gazed into her eyes. "You look like you're whispering indecent suggestions."

  "What can I say? Of course I'm good," she told him with an X-rated little smile. "Now lean down a little bit and speak very softly right in my ear."

  "Mac and Alice's great grandfather homesteaded the place. Their grandfather worked it all his life, and then their dad gambled it away."

  "Remember not to look so serious. Wiggle an eyebrow or wink or something."

  Tom produced a credible leer. "Luckily, the three of us were able to buy it back before developers got hold of it. Pure blind luck and Mac's business smarts."

  Mac came back with her coffee and sat next to Alice, who watched Tom with a thundercloud expression that mirrored Mac's.

  "How fascinating," Poppy cooed to Tom. "A family legend."

  "Yeah, but it's my family," Mac said. "Once upon a time—"

  "By George," Tom said, and winked at Poppy.

  She giggled, a burst of real enjoyment. Mac glared at her. She swallowed the laughter and forced herself to look serious. "Sorry." She didn't dare glance at Tom.

  "Once upon a time," Mac said, "my great grandfather was about to lose the ranch after most of his stock didn't make it through a bad winter. When he wanted to give up, my great grandmother hitched a team to the buckboard and told him not to be such a wimp. He could get himself in the wagon and help, or he could stay there and feel sorry for himself, but she was going to do something about their problem."