Reckless Promise

by Jenny Andersen

  The distinctive whap of a closing mouse trap cut off his warning. She yelped and he heard her head hit the sink with a bang.

  Uh-oh. "Poppy? Are you all right?" He didn't even want to think about what might be caught in that trap.

  Very slowly she backed out from under the sink, straightened, and faced him. "Why did you do that?"

  If he knew anything about women, that too quiet, too controlled voice meant she'd be bouncing off the walls and screaming in about two seconds. If he couldn't distract her. "Because I can't keep my hands off you, and that's the truth. What did that trap catch?"

  She turned her head. "My hair." The trap dangled from the side of her head like an outrageous earring. Peanut butter matted the hair squashed in the trap, and oozed into the surrounding curls.

  The longer he stared at the mess, the more he wanted to laugh. He didn't dare. She'd brain him with the heavy glass vase she'd managed to hold on to. He swallowed hard and stared into her eyes.

  "Oh, God." She doubled over with great whoops of laughter. "If you could see the look on your face."

  His lucky stars were out tonight. He held out his arms and she collapsed into them. Gratefully he wrapped himself around her lush warmth. "Hold still. Let me get rid of this—" He set the vase on the counter. "—and the trap."

  She turned her head so that he could pry it loose. He flung it in the sink and pulled her back into his arms.

  There couldn't be a woman in the world more fun to be with. No wonder he lo—lo—liked her. Alarm bells clanged in the distant reaches of his brain when he heard what he'd almost said, but she gasped with laughter against him, each breath imprinting the soft weight of her breasts against him until he couldn't breathe and his brain wasn't open for business.

  "You're squashing my flowers," she said after a while.

  "Never. I worked too hard to get them."

  "You stole them from Alice's garden."

  "I came up a little short on the things you deserve, like the moon and stars on a silver platter. So—" He gestured at the pansies.

  "Very good." She filled the vase and bent her head to draw in the scent of the massed blooms before she took them into the living room.

  He went still, transfixed by the feast of color before him—soft lavender and deep purple flowers and glowing sapphire glass, brilliant against the backdrop of Poppy's creamy skin, fire-colored hair, and sunset gown. "Lord, woman," he said, feeling his breath go. "A man could heat a Montana winter just looking at you."

  Her hands jerked as she set the vase on the table in front of the sofa. "Very, very good. Did you take lessons?" she said, but he saw underneath the flip rejoinder a trembling softness in her golden eyes.

  "You think I took Seduction 101?"

  She went still. "That is what you're doing, isn't it?"

  The tentative look in her eyes pierced his heart and made him take refuge in humor. "Not until we get the peanut butter out of your hair." He didn't get it. She had to be the most gorgeous woman he'd ever had his hands on, yet that vulnerability aroused all his protective instincts. She always made him feel that he needed to protect her. From himself, and if that wasn't unfair, he didn't know what was.

  "Good idea. Make yourself comfortable while I go wash my hair."

  He shook his head. "Huh-unh. You don't think I'm going to pass up a free chance to get my hands on you, do you?"

  She looked at him uncertainly.

  "Why do you do that?" he asked

  "Do what?"

  "Look so unsure every time I say anything about how much I want you. By now you have to know I do."

  "Peanut butter and all?"

  "Yes, damn it. Peanut butter and all."

  "Well, you've had other chances and you haven't."

  "Honey, I'm no boy scout, but I don't do defenseless women, and that's what you've been every other chance I've had." He regretted the crudeness of that the minute the words left his mouth. Fortunately, she seemed swayed by the helpless grin that went with them.

  "What makes you so sure I'm not defenseless tonight?"

  "Maybe I don't care anymore. Maybe you've just pushed me over the edge." He regretted the words when she got that uncertain, unsure look again. "I'll swear, I can't decide if you're a fake or a tease."

  "Oh, a fake," she said promptly. "Definitely a fake. No teasing. I'd actually planned to seduce you tonight.

  Every drop of his blood drained south and he shot from anticipation to painful arousal in a single heartbeat. "Why wait?" he asked through lips stiff with shock.

  She gave him another one of those curiously vulnerable looks that caught at his heart. "Because I won't feel beautiful with peanut butter in my hair, and I'm betting that you can make me feel beautiful."

  She didn't feel beautiful? The most gorgeous woman he'd ever been privileged to have his hands on? "I don't get it. You shouldn't need help with that. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

  She went rigid in his arms.

  "One who also happens to have a beautiful mind and joyous soul."

  "Nice recovery." Her voice sounded breathless and she relaxed against him again.

  "So why do you get so nervous when I tell you how beautiful you are?"

  "That's outside. That's all anyone ever sees. I want to feel beautiful inside, too. As though someone cares what I think and feel and am. If any of the men I've ever known had had chances like you've had, none of them would have waited for me to be there, too."

  "Oh, honey." He put his arms around her. She did it again, tearing at his heart and making him want to make her world perfect. He rested his cheek against her hair, and recognized the pungent stickiness of peanut butter on his skin. "If we keep this up, we're going to have to start in the shower, and that usually comes later."

  She giggled, her golden eyes dancing.

  "Tell me," he said. "What color does the drivers' license bureau call your eyes?"

  "Brown," she answered with a puzzled frown.

  "Idiots." It should have been a line. He meant it, he realized, and the faintest sense of impending doom lingered at the back of his mind, as though he stood on the highest diving board, or the top of a ski jump. He swallowed hard. "Your eyes are gold, a king's ransom in gold, and a man could find all the secrets of the universe in them."

  "I don't think the DMV does gold."

  "Aren't we lucky I do? Now get your shampoo. I think we'd better do this in the kitchen."

  She came back with shampoo and a couple of towels. "You're really going to wash my hair?"

  "Yep." And she'd be damned lucky if he didn't half drown her while he couldn't stop thinking of all the other things he'd like to do to her. "I guess you'd better bend over the sink." He adjusted the water to warm and moved in to stand close behind her. She bent obediently, and he edged closer, until her lush rear brushed him. Oh, man, he was in trouble already. And she had to know it. "Okay, here we go."

  He worked shampoo into her hair, adding more until thick billows of lather filled his hands. The scents of cinnamon and lemon rose around him, combining with that special peppery scent that said 'Poppy,' making him light-headed. "I think it's coming out."

  "You have no idea how happy that makes me."

  He rinsed and soaped, leaned closer, his strong fingers massaging her scalp.

  "Mmmm. That feels so good." The world-class butt pressed against his erection wriggled and his fingers stilled.

  "Yes, it certainly does." He couldn't recognize the strangled voice as his.

  "Don't stop," she begged.

  "We're all done here unless you're planning to grow gills." With major effort, he controlled himself enough to give her hair a final rinse and step back. "Come on. Upsy daisy," he said, and wrapped a towel around her hair as she straightened.

  "No more peanut butter?"

  "No more peanut butter. What do we do with your hair now?" He'd probably have to wait for an hour while she fussed and fiddled with it. He could stand it. Maybe.

  "Oh." She un
wrapped the towel and began rubbing her hair. "Comb it. It'll dry by itself."

  A drop of water trickled down the side of her neck. Mac watched it scoot across her collarbone, over the upper slope of her breast, and disappear into the dark shadow between her breasts. A helpless sound grated in his throat.

  "What?" She stopped rubbing and looked at him.

  He couldn't seem to form words, and his hand drifted of its own volition up to cover the path the drop had taken.

  "Uh-uh." She was laughing at him, damn it. "If I don't comb this out, I'll look like Little Orphan Annie with her finger in a light socket."

  "Let me do it." His voice sounded strange. He had to get his hands on some part of her or he'd die.

  She handed him the towel and a comb and stood in front of him while he toweled the rest of the moisture away.

  He dabbed the comb gently at the exploding curls. Raging carnal desire rioted through him, diluted by something tender, something about taking care of her like this. "Here, you finish," he blurted. "I'm ready for a glass of wine."

  She quirked an eyebrow at him but didn't comment. With one last swipe with of the comb, she shook her hair into place and leaned on the counter next to him. "Me too," she said, and lifted her glass in a wordless toast.

  You're Something Special To Me began to play on the radio. 'Special' defined Poppy, and when he could think clearly, that scared the socks off of him. Right now he didn't care. Tomorrow would have to take care of itself. He set down his glass and held out his hand. "Dance with me," he said, and pulled her against him and into the rhythm of the song.

  She came into his arms, light as Chickie's angel food cake and just as sweet, a wickedly scented temptation that he had no intention of resisting. He held her close, until the electric touch of her from breast to thigh sent his head spinning, and he took her hands to link them behind his neck. Sharp pleasure shot through him as her body shifted against his. He put his hands on her hips, cupping the delightful sway against him. She trembled and let her head droop against his shoulder. Her hands slid lightly up his neck and his whole body jerked at the seductive suggestion of her touch. He pulled her hard against him, knowing she could feel his arousal.

  He gave up any pretense of dancing and stood, swaying gently, enjoying the softness of Poppy in his arms and the building anticipation. "So who's going to seduce whom?"

  She made a sound that might have been his name or just a low wordless moan, and lifted her face to him in blind seeking. He lowered his head slowly, savoring the lush temptation of her unpainted mouth, wondering if it could be as wickedly devastating to his senses as he remembered, knowing it would be, tormenting himself for a few throbbing moments with the promise of heaven.

  Her eyes went wide and unfocused. Golden eyes. A gold lust he understood. A man could spend his life, be willing to die, to find this gold. He had come here intending to sample, to draw out his pleasure—and hers—tonight. He wanted to torment her with the lightest of teasing kisses before feathering his tongue over that maddeningly full lower lip, before tasting her, feasting on her.

  She had her own ideas, he realized, when her mouth nipped across his in tantalizing little nibbles designed to drive a man beyond control. He might have held himself in check, but she licked the corner of his mouth and the world spun dizzyingly.

  Maybe he could have stopped if she'd protested. Maybe he would have stopped kissing her if she had said 'no.' But she rose to meet him like flame to dry tinder and his brain went foggy with the need to be buried in her. He lifted her against him, took half a dozen swift steps that took him through the door and brought him up against the bed, and followed her down on to the yielding bed.

  * * *

  Poppy sank into the mattress, lost in the weight of Mac covering her. 'It's about time' sounded too much like criticism, so she contented herself with a grateful murmuring of his name. His body radiated heat that burned through the layers of clothing that separated them.

  She tugged at his shirt, frantic to tear away the last barriers that separated skin from skin. The snaps opened in a single yank.

  "Good thing that shirt didn't button," he said, his voice thick.

  Knowing she'd done that to him made her soar. She ran her hands up his sides and across his back, the smooth skin hot to her touch. "You're so hot," she said. "Like you're running a fever."

  "Yeah. It's a condition known as Poppy," he breathed into her ear. "Stay with me, honey. I know the cure."

  He lifted away from her to pull the shirt all the way off. Her eager hands were at the fastening of his jeans, playing over the hard bulge and toying with the snaps.

  "You're going to kill me," he muttered, fumbling for the fastenings of her negligee.

  Poppy guided his hand to the row of tiny buttons from neck to waist and her smile broadened at his muffled curse.

  "There are a thousand of those damned buttons," he moaned. "I'll tear—"

  Poppy put her hand over his. "You'll unbutton like a gentleman," she said, enjoying the teasing even while her vision went blank at the desire in his voice. "Anything worth having is worth working for."

  His only answer was a growl.

  She swallowed a smile while he worked at the buttons and pulled the clouds of soft fabric away from her breasts. She watched him look at her. Her nipples peaked and throbbed in response to his stare, and when he leaned down to kiss them, she wriggled helplessly. "Oh." Her whisper made it a plea and a prayer and a paean of gratitude.

  He leaned down and kissed each nipple, the tip of his tongue sparking a shower of pleasure. She gripped his shoulders. He shuddered under her touch and covered her breasts with his hands. "Honey," he said, and came out a groan that rumbled through her bones. "Poppy." He kissed the side of her neck and she rolled her head to give him whatever he wanted, pressing her breasts up into his touch.

  She fumbled his jeans open, and wished that the heavy denim would disappear magically the way it did in books. His heavy erection pressed into her hands. She cupped him, running her fingers over the hot, hard length of him until he pressed his hands over hers, stopping her.

  "You keep doing that and this'll be all over before it starts." He pulled her hands up, kissing each palm in turn, and released her to pull off his jeans and throw them on the floor.

  When he rolled back to her, he had a condom in his hand, and she snatched at it, fumbling to rip open the foil envelope. His hands closed over hers, under hers, fumbling and trembling just as much. "Smooth, huh? We're some pair," he said with a shaky laugh.

  Yes, she wanted to be paired with him. Pleasure sang through her brain when he finally mastered the condom, along with a sense of rightness that she didn't have time to stop and examine. She ran her hands through his hair and arched her back, a gesture of surrender and welcome to remind him—if he needed reminding—of what the fumbling was about.

  "Witch," he muttered, and kneed her legs wide apart. He settled over her, nudging hot and hard against her.

  She reached down to guide him. He trembled over her for an endless moment, his hard, blunt heat just touching her, a tormenting promise of how he would fill her. She rocked against him. The gentle motion dampened him until he eased into her a millimeter at a time. She pulled his head down, put her mouth on his, and murmured his name into the kiss.

  He made a strangled sound that could have been anything and plunged full into her, fitting into her in an exquisite, blinding coming together. He set a fire in her blood, hotter and hotter. She moved against him, demanding more, more, harder, pleading, forcing.

  "Do you know what you're doing?" he muttered, his voice, so guttural she could scarcely recognize it.

  "I know," she said breathlessly, trembling on the edge. "I know." And felt the first warning shocks deep inside her.

  He put a hand on her throat, his fingers hard on her jaw, bringing her mouth to meet his. Sweat slicked his body, hard and slippery under her hands, and she fell into the hot slap of flesh on flesh until the world went dark with
a white spinning fire behind her eyes and nothing existed but Mac, nothing to hold onto but Mac.

  When she drifted back to awareness, the first things she knew were his arms around her, his breath in her ear, his comforting weight sprawled across her.

  "Welcome back," he said, and she felt the rumble of his almost soundless laugh. His breath still came unsteadily but she certainly didn't have the energy to tease him.

  Her own breath hitched, still not all that dependable. At least he could talk. She wasn't sure she could.

  "Let me stay with you tonight." He shifted his weight to the mattress beside her without loosening his hold on her.

  It would feel like being ripped in half to have him leave her now. "Yes," she managed, and snuggled into him, happy and safe for the first time in—years. The thought surprised her just enough to let a thought for the morning leak in. Maybe she should worry.

  But she wouldn't.

  * * *

  The first hint of sunlight struck across Mac's pillow, and he woke to memories of the night. The mattress under him said they'd managed to make it back to bed after that midnight shower, although he couldn't remember how. He reached for Poppy, ready to go back to sleep with her in his arms, a smile already curving his mouth. Empty space and cold sheets met his hand.

  The thunder of hooves interrupted his rationalizations. He jerked upright. Through the window, he saw his brother-in-law driving the saddle horses in from their night of grazing. Tom, cantering along in the early morning sun as if this were only thing in the world he ever wanted to do. Tom, happy and laughing, with all of his attention on the woman who rode close by his side, laughing up at him, smiling a dazzled smile at him. Tom, ignoring his wife where she stood by the corral gate she'd just opened, watching her husband ride in with Poppy.

  His hands clenched so hard on the sheet that it ripped.