by Rachel Lee
He'd taken the leather thong from around his forehead and used it to tie his hair back loosely at the nape of his neck. Something about that made Sara quiver deep inside with an almost urgent desire to pull that piece of leather free and sink her hands into that long, black-as-night hair. God, what fool had ever thought men were less masculine with long hair? There was nothing at all unmanly about that warrior's mane, or the man who wore it. As he moved, muscles flexed beneath his plain white shirt, muscles developed by moving mountains of steel and building the cities that were the hubs of this country.
He'd rolled back his sleeves, and as he reached for the planer and used it to smooth the edge of a piece of wood, she watched his powerful hands and forearms flex and bulge. She could have watched him for hours, she realized. Could have simply stood there and soaked up the sheer magnificence of Gideon Ironheart with her eyes until some empty spot in her was filled with it.
But she was concerned that he hadn't had his supper, and before she started heating food for herself, she needed to know if he was going to join her. She rapped on the door-frame, a quiet knock.
He broke off singing and glanced her way. A smile creased his dark, dusty face. "Hi. How's Zeke?"
That smile curled her toes in her sandals. "He's doing really well. He asked if you might come in tomorrow and see him, once they get him moved out of ICU."
"Sure. I'd like that." He tugged the goggles off and tossed them onto the workbench. "I'm sorry. I meant to be out front when you got home. I didn't like the idea of you coming home to an empty house."
"It looks like you've been busy."
He smiled, an almost sheepish expression that touched her deep inside. "I forget myself when I get tools in my hands."
"At the rate you're going, things that haven't been fixed in years are going to be fixed in no time at all." Lord, how she wanted to reach out and touch him. Was it only last night that she had lain in his arms before the campfire and felt long-dead urges awaken? How had he become such a craving? "I was going to make some supper. You haven't eaten, have you?"
"Nope."
"Then join me. It'll be ready in fifteen or twenty minutes." She turned before she could betray herself somehow, remembering her promise that nobody would ever know that she had come to care about this man. As a friend, she reminded herself. She cared for him as a friend and nothing more. He was, after all, going to move on.
"I need to shower," he called after her.
"Fine," she called back. "I'll make it thirty minutes."
That sounded casual enough, she thought with satisfaction, although at the thought of him standing naked beneath a shower, her heart had climbed into her throat and begun to beat like a pagan drum. Gideon Ironheart naked was bound to be even more magnificent and a hell of a lot sexier than Gideon Ironheart dressed. Too bad she couldn't peek.
* * *
Gideon left his muddy boots by the back door and stepped into a kitchen filled with rich aromas of stew and coffee. Sara had already set the table and was placing the stew pot on it when he entered.
"Grab a seat," she said, pointing. "Just let me get the bread out of the oven and we'll be ready."
She was still wearing that denim skirt. It wasn't a sexy skirt, but a perfectly plain little A-line that had obviously seen a few washings. It didn't have a flounce or a ruffle or anything else to enhance it, and it was just about the sexiest thing he'd ever seen.
Because she was wearing it, he realized. Because it was curving over her sweet little rump and her rounded hips and brushing against her soft knees and exposing her gently rounded calves. She had pretty knees, he noticed now. Very pretty knees. Not bony, not pointy, but nicely shaped with a little dimple on either side. He had a wild urge to kiss those dimples.
With effort, he dragged his attention away from her legs and focused on the plate in front of him. She joined him and passed him a basket of hot, buttered bread.
"Boy, does this smell good," he told her.
"Do you often forget to eat?"
He looked at her and saw a teasing gleam in her warm brown eyes. She had, he realized with relief, forgiven him for last night. All day long, though he had tried not to think about it, he had been worried about that. "No," he said in answer to her question, "I almost never forget to eat. Do I look undernourished?"
Actually, Sara thought, he looked perfectly nourished. But tired though she was, she had sense enough not to say so out loud.
"I don't think I should sleep in the bunkhouse tonight," he said, startling her out of her preoccupation with her attraction to him.
"What?" Confused, she stared at him. "Why not? Is something wrong?"
He shook his head. "I just don't like the idea of you sleeping here alone. I know you have a gun, and I know you know how to use it. I know you're a deputy and all that, but—" He shook his head. "But you're still only one person. Two of us even the odds better if something happens, but I wouldn't be much help all the way out in the bunkhouse. Short of utter mayhem, I'd never know anything was happening over here. So I'll sleep on the couch. Or the porch, if you don't want me inside."
An honest-to-goodness Galahad, Sara thought, not quite certain what to say. She had been raised among chivalrous men and had worked daily with some of the best for the last nine years. She was accustomed to seeing their courtliness to their wives and girlfriends, but not since Jeff Cumberland had offered to date her after George fled had anyone been so gallant on her behalf.
No, she thought suddenly. Not true. Gideon Ironheart had, in his own way, been gallant toward her from the start. He might not have been courtly in his manner, but it was pure chivalry that had refused to let her walk alone into those bars, gun or no gun, badge or no badge.
"On the porch?" she repeated. "You've got to be kidding. You'll freeze." Spring nights were chilly in the Wyoming mountains, but the cold front that had brought the storm had made it chillier than usual. There would probably even be some fresh snow higher up come morning.
"I've got a good sleeping bag." Satisfied, he rose and carried his dishes to the sink where he began to wash them as naturally as if this was his kitchen and he did it every day. "I won't freeze. Look, Sara, I don't want to press you and I don't want to make you uneasy by forcing myself on you, but I'd feel a whole lot better if those guys had stolen something. The fact that they hurt Zeke and then didn't take anything leaves a really bad taste in my mouth. I don't want you facing them alone."
Sara was never sure why she said what she said then. Later, thinking it over, she decided it had more to do with her feelings about Gideon Ironheart than any fears for her safety. It sure didn't have anything to do with some female desire to put a man on an ego trip, though. That was definitely the last thing on her mind. "I'll be glad to have you here. You look like you could handle just about anything."
Gideon, with his back to her, stiffened visibly and for an endless moment didn't respond. Sara stared at his back, growing acutely embarrassed as she realized how that might have sounded. What it might have revealed. But before she could turn completely crimson, or embarrass herself further by trying to explain her remark, he turned from the sink, tossed aside the towel he'd been using to dry his hands and faced her.
Leaning back against the counter, he folded his arms across his broad chest and smiled. Grinned, actually. There was no mistaking the sudden teasing gleam in his steel-gray eyes. "Thank God you noticed. I'm getting tired of sucking in my gut to impress you."
Inevitably, instantly, her eyes were drawn to his incredibly flat stomach. "What gut?" she asked, realizing he'd done it again. He'd said something so outrageous that all the embarrassment was gone as if it had never been. He was good at saying things no one else on earth would have the nerve to say, saying things that lightened the atmosphere.
That troubled her a little, she realized suddenly. He was good at evading uncomfortable feelings, good at diverting attention. How had he learned to do that? And why?
And then she realized she was doing
it again, drawing his attention to the fact that she was noticing such things. And now, worst of all, she was simply staring at a belly that probably looked like a washboard, and was inevitably noticing the male bulge lower down, a bulge thrust into prominence by the way he was leaning back against the counter.
Oh, Lord, she thought almost weakly, he was such a fine-looking man. Just looking at him made her intensely aware that she was a woman, made her intensely aware of her body in ways she hadn't felt in a decade.
God, thought Gideon, she was stirring him up into a roaring blaze just by looking at him. It was the way she was looking that got to him. He was used to being noticed by women, used to speculative looks, used to outright sexual invitation. Sara's look was different. In it there was no speculation, no blatant, knowing curiosity. In her face was simple yearning, and it ripped his soul, unleashing a torrent of needs and wants he had never acknowledged before and didn't even know how to name.
"C'mere," he said, his voice a rough whisper, a breath of sound barely forced past a dry throat. He was burning. Burning. "C'mere, Mouse." She had to come to him, he thought. Had to. He didn't want to ever wonder whether she really wanted to be in his arms. He didn't want to wonder later if he'd somehow…
The thought was never completed. Licking her dry lips in an unconsciously sensual way, Sara rose on shaky legs. She stood there, looking at him with huge brown eyes, yearning so plainly written there that his heart throbbed in response.
"C'mere," he whispered again. "Closer…"
She moved toward him. It wasn't even a full step but more of a tentative edging his way.
"Oh, God, Sara," he said hoarsely. "Closer, baby…" He unfolded his arms, widened his stance, aching for her … aching… "Sara…"
Just the way he whispered to that damn mustang, she thought dazedly, edging closer … closer… Except that there was something so sexy, so sensual, about the grittiness of his voice just now that everything inside her clenched in response.
And then, with a little sob, she was there in his arms, wrapped in him, surrounded by him, and it felt good, so good, to be held…
"Oh, God, baby…" The words escaped him on a ragged sigh of relief as he bowed his head and buried his face in her hair. He couldn't remember the last time he had wanted so badly to hold a woman, to feel her softness pressed to him. Just to have her there, to hold her, to feel her close, eased yearnings so deep he didn't have words for them. Maybe he was losing his mind at long last, but for now, right now, he didn't give a damn.
Sara's arms stole around his narrow waist and hugged him back. He widened his stance a little more, drawing her deeper into his embrace, and for a moment she didn't breathe as she realized how intimately she was pressed to him. Her breasts were crushed to a chest as hard as iron, and nestled against her lower belly was that bulge that had earlier fascinated her. She could feel every hard, masculine line of him, and all she wanted was to burrow deeper and deeper.
Easy, he told himself. Easy. This woman was the same one who hid behind a deputy's uniform and mirrored sunglasses, who talked tough and pretended to be one of the guys. Here at the ranch she softened up, as if here she felt safe, and she had softened up considerably with him. He didn't want to ruin that by hurrying her or pushing her. For whatever reason, she was as shy as that mustang.
His hands ran slowly down her back, a soothing, gentling touch, halting at her waist and then returning slowly upward. Her hair was caught in a ponytail again, and without a word he snapped the rubber band and freed it.
"You have beautiful hair," he murmured against her temple. "Soft and silky." Gently, he combed his fingers through it. "So soft."
"You have nice hair, too," she said, feeling terribly, painfully shy, wanting whatever he might give her so badly that she could hardly stand it, and sure that he couldn't really want to give her very much. She was such a plain Jane after all, so dull and ordinary and unappealing. The kind of woman men fled from.
Reaching up with one hand, Gideon released the leather thong that tied his hair back and dropped it on the counter. Somehow that was, she thought as her insides twisted pleasurably, one of the most shatteringly intimate things a man had ever done in her presence.
It was also a silent invitation, as was the way he tugged one of her small hands up until her fingers were in his hair. "Touch me," he whispered, the slightest tremor in his breath. "Don't be shy, Mouse."
But she was, miserably so, and it was there in her soft brown eyes as she tilted her head back and looked up at him. But there also was the yearning, the longing, the need. Seeing it, he bent his head and touched her petal-soft lips with his.
"Sweet," he murmured. "So sweet." She was absolutely the sweetest thing he'd held in so very many years. Gently, so, so gently, he brushed his mouth back and forth across hers, coaxing and teasing. And little by little her hands slipped into his hair, stroking and finally gently pulling him closer.
Another ragged sigh escaped him, each of her tentative touches detonating along his nerve endings like dynamite. He opened his mouth over hers and ran his tongue along her lips, along the exquisitely sensitive seam between them. He needed to be inside her, needed the taste of her and the heat of her.
She gave it to him. With a soft little moan she opened to him and eagerly accepted the thrust of his hot, rough tongue. She knew now the kind of pleasure his kiss could give her, the way the stroking of his tongue seemed to reach every nerve in her body and cause a twisting, clenching thrill to run through her, making her ache for more and more.
She clutched handfuls of his hair, of his soft, silky, sexy-as-sin hair, and pulled him nearer still. The tug didn't hurt him, but it electrified him, causing his arms to tighten almost painfully around her as he heard all that she was unconsciously telling him.
She wanted him. Oh, God, she wanted him. He felt it in her clutching, tugging hands, in the way she molded herself against him, and the way her head sagged back beneath the onslaught of his mouth.
She wanted him as he'd never been wanted before, with a passion flaming every bit as hotly as his own, with a passion for him. He knew it in his very bones. Sara Yates was reaching for Gideon Ironheart and no one else. If he'd been anybody else, she wouldn't have wanted him. And that was the most seductive thing he'd ever known.
For a moment his passion flared even hotter. With a tug he yanked her blouse free of her skirt and sent his hand foraging beneath, across soft, satiny skin until he found the beckoning hill of her breast. Soft, simple cotton encased it, without even a trim of lace. As plain and everyday as Sara Yates herself. Finding the bra clasp between her breasts, he twisted it and freed her. She gasped and tore her mouth from his, but her head fell back in surrender as he covered her soft, small, aching breast with his large, warm hand.
"Gideon…" His name escaped her on a tremulous sigh, at once a plea and a sound of pleasure. Her breasts were small, just another one of the things that made her feel inadequate, but Gideon's touch almost made her forget such concerns.
"You feel so damn good, Sara," he muttered roughly. "I'll bet your breast is every bit as pretty as it feels. Do you like that?" He tugged gently on a small, hard nipple.
A rippling shiver passed through her and escaped her as a soft moan. The sound of her desire sent a shudder of pleasure racing through him, making him even harder and heavier than he already was.
He wanted her … wanted her … wanted her. The need was a drumbeat in his blood. And she wanted him. Just him.
And that was why he didn't give in to himself or her. The conviction that she wouldn't be responding this way to anyone else, the belief that she wanted only him, was the very reason he couldn't take her. She didn't offer herself cheaply, so he couldn't take her that way. It was just that simple.
For a long moment he held her, his hand on her breast, feeling his brain try to kick into gear through the muzzy red haze of his hunger. With just a single, ruthless effort he could have silenced reason, but he didn't. Sara had touched some place deep i
nside him, and concern for her overrode his hammering hunger. He couldn't hurt her. Wouldn't hurt her.
Gently, carefully, he withdrew his hand and pulled her snugly against his chest. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged her tightly and rocked her tenderly, giving her time to return to reality and wake from the daze of passion.
Oh man, he thought, now she was really going to hate him. He was showing himself for a real fool. Getting carried away was an excuse that sounded pretty damn lame the second time.
But Sara didn't get mad. Leaning against him, soaking up the comfort of being held, she acknowledged that his withdrawal had been the result of his concern for her. Even now she could feel his tension and his arousal, and she'd listened to enough men talk over the years to know that an aroused man didn't call a halt because he didn't feel like proceeding.
"I'm sorry, Sara," Gideon said finally, still holding her and rocking her. "I did it again, didn't I? Damn it, woman, you turn me on like a switch. It's as embarrassing as hell at my age, but around you I seem to have about as much control as a sixteen-year-old."
She still ached, and she still yearned, but common sense told her that she was going to be very glad later that Gideon had as much self-control as he did. More, apparently, than she could claim for herself. It wasn't as if she hadn't been an eager and willing participant. "That's okay," she managed to say.
"Is it? Is it realty?" He caught her chin and urged it up so he could read her face. "You're not furious?"
"I think I'm flattered," she said, and blushed. "I mean … well, I never thought of myself as being…" How had she gotten into this? There was nothing she could say that wouldn't embarrass her.
"Irresistible?" he supplied. A smile began to dawn on his dark face, and a twinkle came into his dark gray eyes. "A femme fatale? A sex object?"
"Gideon…!" Squirming, blushing wildly, she tried to break free.
"A siren," he said relentlessly. "Yeah, that's what you are. Something about you is an irresistible lure. It might be those legs of yours. You've got great legs, Mouse. Or maybe it's those warm brown eyes. A man gets an urge to drown in them. Beautiful."
