by Carol Grace
He lowered his lips until they were just a whisper away from hers. He looked into her eyes, searching for something. Red light or green. What he saw was red-hot desire that matched his own. He reminded himself that this woman was standing between him and everything he wanted. But at that moment he didn't want anything as much as he wanted her. The air was thick with tension. Then he couldn't take it any longer.
He kissed her. She kissed him back. She leaned forward and he leaned back until his spine was pressed against the side of the house. Her lips were sticky and tasted like honey. Maybe his did, too. If so, they might be stuck together forever. He trailed his callused fingers down her back then cupped her firm bottom in his broad hands to bring her even closer.
She made a little purring sound of pleasure, then paused to lick the honey off her lips. Then off his lips. Causing a rapid increase in his heart rate until his libido couldn't take it any more. Until all he could think about was his warm bed upstairs and how much he wanted to carry her up there and smear honey all over his body just to see if she could lick it all off.
“Boss. Boss, you still here?” George yelled from the general direction of the barn.
He opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out, only the hoarse breathing of an aroused male. Until Chloe broke out of his arms. Then he tried again. “Yeah,” he said.
“There's somebody to see you. Something about a bull.”
Good. Something about a bull. Nobody comes to the ranch for a week, it's usually just him and George and some part-time help. But today it's a regular Grand Central Station. Thank God, because he didn't want to be alone with Chloe. Not at all. Before he went to see who it was, Chloe turned on her heel, and without a word, walked down the path toward the hot springs. He had no idea if she was mad, sad or as turned on as he was. He thought she'd say something—like “See ya,” or “Don't forget about tonight”
What was he supposed to do about dinner? Nothing. That's what he was supposed to do. Pretend she hadn't asked him. Pretend she hadn't kissed him. Forget she melted in his arms like butter on a hot biscuit. Forget about the rush of relief he felt when she told him she wasn't married. Forget about her entirely. Yeah, right.
Chloe had plenty to do. In addition to the sleeping bag, the mattress, the hammock, the stove and the groceries, she'd bought cleaning supplies. As she scrubbed the inside of the nicest cabin, if you could call any of them nice, she had a little talk with herself.
She reminded herself that she was very susceptible. That she'd recently been rejected and that it was only natural that she should want to prove she was still attractive to men. But this wasn't the way to do it. Not with a cowboy who was amusing himself by flirting with the new girl in town. No matter how sexy and desirable he made her feel, she was not his type and he was not hers.
But, oh, the way he made her feel. Could anything that felt that good be all bad? Yes! She picked up her wire brush and scrubbed the old planked floor of the cabin so hard she took off a layer of old paint with the dirt Her goal was to turn this resort into a spa. That a sexy cowboy thought it was a ridiculous idea only made her more determined to make it succeed. She would never again sacrifice her own goals for someone else's. She'd worked hard to put Brandon through those last years of school. Thanks to her and to his parents, he had no debts to pay off. Thanks to his dumping her, she would never trust or love again. On the other hand, thanks to his dumping her, she was here in Colorado embarking on a new adventure.
She didn't know if Zeb was coming to dinner or not It didn't matter one way or the other. She was cooking anyway—outside, if it didn't rain. And if it did, there was her cabin. Her newly scrubbed, empty cabin. There was no furniture in it, but all she needed was her mattress, the supplies she'd bought and her suitcase. If it rained, she'd sit on the mattress and eat off her lap.
If her friends could see her now. Planning a dinner next to a mountain stream, sitting on a rock eating off a tin plate. She who'd once given elegant dinner parties in a town house overlooking the Bay Bridge, and worried about who would sit next to whom. That wouldn't be a problem tonight Even if he came. But he wouldn't. Hadn't she gotten the message? He was busy.
She didn't care, she told herself as she soaked in her extra-long tub in her very own bathhouse. She changed her clothes, from old dirty jeans and a T-shirt to a fresh T-shirt and a clean pair of jeans. Not for him. For herself. Then she made a fire the way she'd seen him do it, and lit her camp stove as well. That way she could have a two-pot dinner. For one.
She was so intent on opening boxes, measuring powdered milk and stirring the sauce, she didn't hear him approach. When she finally looked up from the fire, he was standing there. Her gaze traveled slowly over him, starting with his scuffed boots, to his clean, well-worn jeans and on to his freshly shaved, rugged face and clean hair that brushed the collar of his blue denim shirt She dropped her measuring cup and promptly forgot what she was doing. She wished he'd given her some warning, like snapping a few twigs underfoot or discreetly coughing, so she could have steeled herself for his arrival. There ought to be a law against anyone sneaking through the forest and looking that good, in the morning, in the evening, in town and in the country.
“Looks good,” he said.
She dumped the ingredients together, gave them a stir, and got to her feet. Then wished she hadn't. Her knees buckled. He reached out to steady her, then dropped his arms as quickly as if he'd been scalded.
“You didn't say what time,” he said.
“You didn't say you were coming.”
“I wasn't sure I'd be able to.” He held out a bottle of wine.
“Thank you. How nice.”
“Not sure how nice. Found it in the cellar. Might have been there a good while,” he said.
“Have you lived here long?”
“All my life. The land has been in the family for three generations. The wine may have been, too. Let's open it and see.” He pulled a corkscrew from his back pocket and removed the cork, then he poured generous portions into two tin cups and handed her one.
“Here's to Paradise Springs,” he said.
“And to Grandpa Hudson.”
“May he rest in peace,” he said respectfully.
Chloe sipped slowly, letting the flavor wrap around her tongue. He did the same.
“Spicy,” she said, looking at him over her cup.
“Earthy,” he returned, his brazen gaze lingering on the swell of her breasts.
“Plummy with tangy acidity,” she retorted, feeling her skin tingle as the wine slid down her throat
“And a long, smooth finish,” he added with a gleam in his eye.
She swallowed hard and caught her breath. She was warm. So very warm. Heat suffused her body. And it wasn't from the fire or the little stove. This was an inner heat she couldn't damp down or turn off. She could only move away from the source. She stepped back and folded her arms over her chest as if she was shielding herself from the sensual heat emanating from this sexy, flirtatious cowboy.
“How do you know so much...about wine?” she asked him.
“I've been around a little. But I'd like to do some more tasting. How about you? Care to join me?”
His voice was as smooth and seductive as the wine. They both knew what kind of tasting he was suggesting. She reminded herself to be careful. He was not quite the country bumpkin she'd first thought. And she was not as in control of the situation as she'd like to be. Wisely, she left his question unanswered.
“I thought we'd start with salad,” she said, bending down to heap some lettuce with an oil-and-vinegar dressing onto a metal plate for him.
He looked at it suspiciously for a moment, as if he was about to make some remark about rabbit food, but after she'd served herself and joined him on a log at the fireside, he dug in and cleaned his plate in minutes.
“Where'd you learn to cook?” he asked, leaning lazily back on his elbows to watch her stir the piquant mixture on the stove.
“Just trial an
d error. When I got married I couldn't boil an egg. Before I left I could throw together dinner for twelve.”
Zeb accepted a plate full of pasta with a rich, creamy sauce on it and shook his head in amazement. Not at the fact that she could cook dinner for twelve, but that her husband, the doctor, could let her go. Somebody who looked like that and cooked like that? He didn't get it.
“What was it, some kind of midlife crisis he had?” he asked.
“I guess you could call it that.” She paused. “You said you came close to getting married.”
“Did I?” he asked. Why had he said that? He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to think about it.
“This morning. You talked about love and trust.”
He shook his head. “Not me. I never talk about love and trust.”
“Well, you did,” she said, refilling his cup.
He took a long drink then set his cup down. “It's a long story.”
She leaned back against a fir tree. “I'm not going anywhere.”
Chapter Five
It might have been the wine. It might have been the food. It might have been her, looking at him across the fire with her big brown eyes, the flickering light turning her hair to gold and her skin to bronze. Sitting there patiently waiting for him to talk. Whatever it was, he told her about Joanne, his high-school sweetheart. About how they'd been the perfect couple. Until she left town with the propane-delivery man.
“Just like that?” Chloe asked. “Without any warning?”
“Plenty of warning. Everyone warned me. But I was too blind to see. Too deaf to hear what I should have known,” he said soberly. “All those nights she was busy. Besides, she was a town girl. Never did feel quite comfortable out here. I thought after I got the place fixed up, she'd like it better. But she didn't. She thought it was too quiet. Too far from town. Too far from friends.”
“But you've got a nice house. It feels lived in,” Chloe said.
“It has been. By three generations of Bowies. I thought there'd be at least three more. Maybe there will be. That's up to my brother now.” He set his plate on the ground and brushed his hands together.
“Why? There must be someone else for you. I understand you're quite popular.”
“Popular, yes. Someone else, no. Not for me. I'd always wonder, I'd always be afraid she'd leave.” He stared into the dying embers. “Nope. What do they say? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I won't take another chance.”
There was a long silence where the sadness and the self-pity threatened to come rushing back. But he shook off the cobwebs of memory and stretched his arms over his head. Regarding her with narrowed eyes, he said, “I don't know why I'm telling you all this.”
“Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger,” she said.
“Maybe. I know I haven't mentioned her name in two years. Thought I'd forgotten her.” God knew he'd tried.
“I got the impression from the clerk in the general store that you were something of a ladies' man.”
“Don't believe everything you hear.”
“You mean you don't go out with women?”
“Of course I go out with women. I just don't get serious. And neither do they. Works out fine. Probably it was all for the best, Joanne's leaving. She knew something I didn't know at the time. I'm not the marrying kind.”
“I guess that's how I feel, too,” she said. “I've had enough marriage to last the rest of my life.”
“I can't believe that,” he said, stretching his legs out toward the fire and looking at her with amazement. “Somebody else will come along and snap you up. Because he was a fool to let you go.”
Her eyes widened. “That must be the wine talking. That's the nicest thing you've said to me.”
Uh-oh. What had he done? Gone and made a personal remark to his neighbor. It meant nothing, but she might think it did. Now it was time to go home. Now, before he got sentimental and said something else. He set his cup on the ground and stood, feeling just a tad unsteady on his feet. The wine might be talking, but the wine was going to have a hard time walking. He took a step backward and tripped over a root.
Alarmed, she reached out to take his arm. “Are you okay?” she asked. The concern in her voice was touching.
He took her arms and looked into her eyes. “I'm fine,” he said. God, she was beautiful by firelight She was beautiful, sympathetic and understanding, too. She even smelled good. Like flowers. Even though there wasn't a flower within spitting distance.
Why did she have to inherit the land he wanted? If she was just some tourist they could have one hell of a fling this summer. Because he had a feeling it might be just what she needed. Him, too. A summer romance to end all summer romances. Something to remember. Or forget. Whatever.
“I could walk you home,” she offered, drawing her delicate eyebrows together.
“But then I'd have to walk you back,” he said.
“On account of all those bobcats and mountain lions?”
He nodded. “Or I could stay right here in your hammock. With you.” He paused, watching her, waiting for her reaction. He loved to see her get mad. See her eyes flash and her face turn red. But she didn't get mad. Not this time. A series of emotions crossed her face. Maybe she was tempted to say yes. Or was that just wishful thinking? “That way nobody has to walk anybody anywhere,” he said with an engaging smile, as if it was the most logical solution.
“I don't think so,” she said with a determined lift of her chin. “I didn't come to Colorado to indulge in some romantic fantasy.”
“I know. You came to make a fat farm out of a broken-down hot-springs resort. Thanks for reminding me. And thanks for the dinner.” He reached for his hat, and slammed it tight onto his head. “Good night.”
He stumbled more than once on his way home, strayed off the trail in the dark and bumped into more than one tree. What a night. He'd drunk too much wine. Her fault, for refilling his cup. He'd spilled his guts to a woman he didn't know. Her fault again. She'd acted so sympathetic, so understanding. Easier to talk to a stranger, she said. So easy he found himself talking about matters that were no concern of hers.
Then he'd made an overture and he'd been rejected. But hadn't she encouraged him by inviting him to dinner? Discussed the wine with him, with every remark having a double meaning? What did she expect after a dinner like that? Oh well, it was just as well. He could not get involved with the great-granddaughter of Horatio Hudson. He could just hear old Horatio now.
“Hands off my great-granddaughter, boy. I want her to have the place. Want her to do what I couldn't do. Restore Paradise Springs to its former glory.”
“But Horatio,” Zeb mumbled as he staggered toward his house, “She's a city girl. She can't even ride a horse. She's afraid of heights. She drinks coffee in a bar. She doesn't belong here. Horatio,” he called desperately, glancing up at the sky. “Did you hear me? Give me a sign that you want me to have your land.”
The clouds raced across the sky and blocked the moon from view. But Horatio, wherever he was, was silent.
On top of everything, Zeb was no closer to his goal than he'd been two days ago. He could only pray Chloe Hudson would run out of steam before she found out what he knew. What everybody knew. Everybody but her. That the Bureau of Reclamation was planning to build a dam downstream from the hot springs, which would flood her property. That whoever owned the property could turn a tidy profit by selling to the Bureau.
The next morning when his head pounded in time to a distant drummer, thanks to that spicy, earthy wine he'd consumed the night before, Zeb decided to give Paradise Springs a wide berth for a few days. He was just a mite embarrassed about spilling the story of his broken engagement. Still didn't understand how it had happened. It had to be the wine. Of course it was the wine. But he'd had wine before and never been tempted to tell a total stranger how he'd been dumped. Maybe it was knowing she'd been hurt, too. Knowing they had something in common. It didn't matter. Hopeful
ly she'd forgotten all about it by now.
He assumed Chloe had enough supplies so that she wouldn't be likely to go to town any time soon. Which meant there was no danger of her hearing any gossip. And who would be coming out to see her? Nobody. If she didn't give up out of sheer loneliness, overwhelmed by the enormity of the job she faced, then he didn't understand city women. So all he had to do was to keep away from her and let her come to a decision on her own. The right decision. The only decision that made any sense. To sell the place and go back where she belonged.
It wouldn't be hard to stay away from Paradise Springs. Oh, he'd miss his nightly soak in the therapeutic waters that felt so good after a hard day in the saddle. But God knew he had enough work to do on his own place. After letting most of his crew go to save money, he had to do most of the branding, roping, breeding, calving on his own. He was especially busy now, with Sam on the road.
In the following days he occasionally thought about his neighbor, remembering, in spite of himself, how at home she'd looked at his breakfast table, scarfing down his biscuits. How delicious she'd tasted after breakfast. And how much he'd wanted to pursue her. Right up the stairs to his bedroom. How frustrated he felt every time he saw her. Frustrated that she wouldn't sell out to him. Frustrated that he hadn't gone to bed with her.
Yet he wondered what she was up to. She was surely discouraged by now. Maybe she'd even gone home. Without saying goodbye? Why not? She didn't owe him a goodbye. She didn't owe him anything. Just the transfer of land would be sufficient. But that didn't require him to see her again. See her damp curls splayed against the edge of a white enamel tub. See her cheeks flush from the heat of the fire. Feel her snug bottom pressed against his masculinity.
