by Carol Grace
“No, it isn't I don't get it A run-down hot-springs resort?”
“Why do you want it?” Sam asked.
“Because, because...it's complicated. Because it belonged to my great-grandfather, it's a part of my past. And because it's going to be my future.”
“Your future?” he asked. “Your future what?”
“You won't laugh?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“He didn't tell you?”
“No.”
“I'm going to turn it into a health spa.” Chloe held her breath. If anyone else laughed at her idea she didn't think she could take it. It was hard enough keeping the faith when she looked around at that old swimming pool and the decrepit cabins, but to have another Bowie brother laugh at her dream would be the last straw.
He didn't laugh. He just nodded. “That's an interesting idea,” he said.
“Thank you,” she said with a sigh of relief. Before he could ask any questions like, 'How are you going to do that?' she went back to the kitchen to check on the potatoes.
Where she ran into Zeb. Literally ran into him, and had the breath knocked out of her. She bounced off his broad chest and washboard stomach, staggered backwards and leaned against the counter, breathing hard, studying the rugged man who never lost his cool, and had a lot on his mind.
“Careful,” he said, reaching out to rub a smudge off her shirt, his hand lingering on the full curve of her breast.
“What are you doing?” she asked in a shaky voice.
“Isn't it obvious?” he asked, his fingers making concentric circles around her nipples. “I'm cleaning your shirt for you.”
The kitchen was hot. The potatoes were roasting. Chloe couldn't have been any warmer if she'd been roasting right along with them. Not only that but there was no air in there. No air for her to breathe. Her breasts were so full, so heavy with desire. Where did this come from, this sudden flood of sexual desire in the middle of a small kitchen?
It wasn't the oven heating her up. It was his steady gaze and the touch of his work-roughened hands that made her cheeks flame and her body throb with longing. Wasn't it obvious, he wanted to know. Yes, it was obvious he was there to drive her crazy with unfulfilled desire. Not that it could ever be fulfilled. Not with a playboy like him.
She stepped back. “No problem. Everything's washable,” she said a trifle unsteadily. “The shirt...me.”
“I'll help you wash up,” he said with a gleam in his eye. “The shirt...you.”
Help her wash up? She could just imagine his wet, soapy hands cupping her heavy breasts, then moving to her sensitive nipples. She stifled a moan in the back of her throat. They were in the commercial kitchen of the town bar and she was fantasizing about making love to a notorious ladies' man. What had happened to the crisp, efficient nurse who had everything, including herself, under control?
“That...that won't be necessary,” she said straightening her shoulders, and rubbing her hands on her jeans. “Well, everything's under control here,” she lied, trying to stop her hands from shaking and her knees from wobbling. “What else can we do?”
“I can think of a lot of things,” he said, a devilish, sexy grin creasing his face. “But they'll have to wait till after dinner.”
Chapter Six
After she and Barney had served one-hundred-plus sizzling steaks, each flanked by a fluffy baked potato and a crisp salad, Chloe sank into a chair in the corner of the crowded bar to listen to the three-piece blues band Barney had hired. Which was a mistake. The plaintive lyrics of “Blues, Leave Me Alone” went straight to her heart, reminding her that love doesn't last. The moody bass guitar reverberated through her, making her remember how it felt to be lost and alone and betrayed. She was too tired to eat, too tired to think. All she could do was feel. And what she felt was sad and blue. Just as well she couldn't think, because if she could, she might think about Zeb Bowie and the promise of seduction in his brilliant blue eyes.
If he came on to her now, when she was so tired, so defenseless, filled not with food, but with longing for something she couldn't have, she didn't know how she'd resist. On top of everything else, there was the music. Sad songs full of melancholy, of tears and parting. Enough to break down the defenses of a tower of strength—which she certainly was not
She reminded herself that Zeb wasn't going to come on to her. There were plenty of attractive women in the bar at this moment she noted and some of them were probably his girlfriends, past present or future.
What if she slipped out now, got into her car and headed for home? No one would miss her. Or would they? It was clear Barney and the Bowies were overwhelmed by their success. So overwhelmed they didn't have enough help either to serve the dinner or clean up afterward. They might be counting on her. They certainly needed her.
She started to stand, then felt a large, firm hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down in her chair. Zeb eased himself into the chair next to hers.
“Enjoying the music?” he said under his breath so as not to disturb the trio. He was so close she could feel his warm breath against her ear. His shoulder was pressed against hers. Her bones seemed to have turned to jelly. She might not be able to get up and go anywhere. Any time.
She nodded. “Is it time to clean up?” she whispered back.
“It's done. Barney hired a couple of teenagers. I've got my truck packed up. Want to leave?” He held out his hand.
She took it and let him pull her to her feet. The band was now playing “Blues Before Sunrise.” It was time to get out of there.
“I'll walk you to your car,” he said as he guided her out the front door, still holding her hand tightly. “You know,” he said as they walked down the quiet street past stores long since shut down for the night, “we could pick you up at the Paradise Springs entrance where you park your car and give you a ride to your property line. Save you a long walk in.”
“No thanks,” she said, picturing sharing the front seat with his date for the evening. “I'll enjoy a little hike this time of night.” A hike in the dark, where roots and branches reached out to snare her ankle or hit her on the head. Where wild bears hid behind trees just waiting to pounce on her. Sure she would. But all that was better than blues before sunrise. “You're not going home alone, are you?” she asked pointedly.
“No,” he said brusquely. But he figured Sam wouldn't mind giving her a lift, too. “I'm going home with Sam.”
“Uh-huh.” Just as she supposed. Well, she wouldn't be a party to his little games.
He dropped her hand. “So you won't take a ride?”
“If Great-Grandpa Horatio could walk that trail at age eighty-seven, I can too.” She unlocked her car door. “Thanks anyway.”
He leaned down and spoke to her through the side window. “Thanks for helping out I...” he said.
She turned the key in the ignition. She didn't want to prolong this goodbye, didn't want him elaborating on his previous suggestion—that he could think of a lot of things they could do. So could she. She had to get out of there before he said something, did something and she found herself saying something or doing something she'd be sorry for later.
She pulled away in her car while he was still talking. When she glanced in her rearview mirror, she saw him standing in the middle of Main Street with his arms across his chest watching her leave town. Maybe no one had ever left him in the middle of a sentence like that If not, it was about time somebody did.
“What did she say when you asked her?” Sam asked as they drove down the highway on their way home.
“Said she'd enjoy a hike. Said if her grandpa could walk that trail, then so could she.”
“Got a lot of spunk,” Sam remarked.
“Yeah. Like her grandpa,” Zeb said.
“Anything going on between you two?” Sam asked.
“Absolutely not. Wouldn't be right,” Zeb said.
“Wouldn't be fair,” Sam added. “So you wouldn't mind if I...?”
“Try
it and I'll break your face in half.”
“That's what I thought,” Sam said with a knowing smirk.
“Let me off at the Paradise Springs entrance,” Zeb said.
Sam gave him an inquisitive look, but he didn't say anything. Good thing he didn't ask any questions, because Zeb didn't have any answers. He just knew he had to catch up with Chloe. There was unfinished business between them. For one thing, he hadn't thanked her properly for all the work she'd done that night.
All the while she'd been frantically busy barbecuing steaks, he couldn't shake the image of her in the kitchen, her heat-flushed face, her luminous eyes, the way she held her breath when he caressed her breasts, the way they seemed to swell to fit his hands. Just thinking about her now made him go rigid with need.
“Can't you drive any faster?” he demanded through clenched teeth.
“I'm going sixty-five,” Sam said mildly with a quick glance at his brother. “How're you gonna catch her anyway? She's miles ahead of us. Probably halfway home by now.”
“Let me worry about that,” Zeb said.
Ten minutes later Sam let Zeb out at the trailhead. He glanced over his shoulder to watch the lights of the truck disappear in the darkness. And instantly regretted this stupid, ill-conceived plan. He didn't even have a flashlight. He was a fool. He'd been even more of a fool to think he could put Chloe out of his mind by staying away from Paradise Springs these past few days. He ran into her in the diner and bang, she wove her spell around him just like she had the first day she arrived.
That's what it was, it was a magic spell. Because no ordinary woman had this kind of power over him. Not even Joanne. He didn't like it. Not one bit. He was going to exorcise that spell tonight, or he'd turn in his membership card to the Bowie Brothers Wild Man Club. The Bowie Brothers never let a woman have the last word. Never let them have the upper hand.
So what was he doing, pursuing a woman down a dark, overgrown trail in the middle of the night, he asked himself as he recklessly splashed through a small stream. Usually they pursued him. But where the hell was she?
“Chloe,” he shouted. “Chloe, stop. Wait for me.”
No answer. The forest was still except for the hooting of an owl, the occasional sound of a deer or a raccoon crashing through the brush. Or could it be a woman crashing through the brush, a woman who didn't want to see him or talk to him? She was so damned stubborn. Who knew what she wanted or why she wanted it? Sometimes she seemed responsive to his advances, other times she brushed him off like an annoying deer tick.
“Chloe,” he yelled. “Where are you?”
He thought he heard a voice. He plunged forward, the branches tearing at his clothes. His eyes were finally accustomed to the dark, but in his haste he still stumbled and tripped on fallen limbs and unexpected rocks.
It was a voice. It was her voice. Very small and far away. But it kept him going. Until he found her sitting on a boulder on the side of the trail, calmly watching him frantically climb up to join her. As if she knew he'd come. As if this was some midsummer picnic instead of a late-night chase through the darkness.
Instead of throwing her arms around him and heaving a sigh of relief at being rescued, she surveyed him coolly. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I was worried about you. I told you I wanted to walk you home.”
She hopped off the boulder and continued the upward climb to the springs. “You also told me you wouldn't be going home alone, that your plans were up in the air. I certainly wouldn't want to cramp your style.”
“So that's what this is all about. You're jealous,” he said, smiling to himself in the dark.
She whirled around and confronted him. “Jealous? I'm jealous? Of who?”
“Of my past, of the legions of women in my life.”
“Oh, right,” she said. “If anyone's jealous, it's you. You're jealous of my land, aren't you? Of my ability to adapt to the Wild West.” She turned on the heel of her new waterproof boot and continued marching up the trail, the beam from her flashlight illuminating the trail ahead of her.
He saved his answer until they reached the tumbledown resort, inhaled the faint scent of minerals in the air, saw the ever-present plume of steam outlined against the dark sky.
“Okay,” he said, noting with satisfaction that when they reached the clearing in front of the bathhouse she was breathing hard. “I am jealous of your land. I haven't made a secret of the fact that I want it. Say the word and I'll give you a fair price for it.”
“Never,” she said, leaning against a spruce tree.
He shrugged. This was not the time to press her. Not when she was in this feisty mood. But then, when wasn't she? “I'm not jealous of your adapting to the Wild West. I'm impressed. I didn't give you enough credit. You've managed to survive here in the wilds with no amenities. I'm...what can I say? I'm amazed at your fortitude, your stick-to-itiveness, your hard work.”
“That's enough flattery,” she said “I'm not going to sell you the land.”
He crossed the clearing, stepping over piles of brush, and put his hands on her shoulders. “Forget the land for one damn minute. Can't you tell the difference between flattery and honesty?” he asked. “Don't you feel proud of yourself for what you've done here?” He gestured to the brush piles, to the ground she'd cleared. “If you're not, I am. When I first saw you I wouldn't have given you twenty-four hours here. Do you have any idea how I feel about you,” he blurted. “Besides proud?”
Speechless with surprise at his outburst, she shook her head.
“I don't either,” he confessed. “So that makes two of us.”
A gurgle of laughter escaped from her throat She shook her head. “At least you're honest”
Honest? Oh, lord, if she only knew. For one crazy moment he almost told her the truth. The whole story. It was the way she looked at him, with a combination of trust, amusement and downright anticipation that tempted him to confess. Then a smile curved her lips and he squashed the idea of taking the honesty route. He couldn't stand to see that smile fade.
A gleam shone in her dark eyes, an awareness of highly charged particles in the air, of the tension that was always there between them. In the diner, at the bar, out in the open. Everywhere, it was always there and always building. One of these days or one of these nights, it was going to snap like a rubber band that was stretched too tight. Was this the night? The night for passion? For lust, pure and simple? He knew the answer. It was yes, yes and yes. Was it the night for honesty? No. Honesty would just muck things up. Probably for good.
She lifted her hand to his face and traced the hard line of his jaw with her finger.
Her touch was so soft, so gentle, yet so unmistakably inviting. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed. “I hope you know what you're doing.”
The answer was there in her eyes. She knew, she knew. She lifted her lips to his. He would have been crazy to ignore the invitation. And Mrs. Bowie didn't raise any crazy children.
He took her mouth completely in one swift motion. He was tired of wondering. Tired of flirting. And talking. He wanted her. All of her. Now. Their tongues tangled in a rapturous kiss that went on and on and made his heart hammer until she finally came up for air.
Chloe clung to him, her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his, merging with his until she was desperate to feel the texture of his skin and the heat from his body without clothing in the way. He picked her up with one swift motion, and carried her to the bathhouse. She dug her face into his neck, nuzzling and kissing him as he kicked the door open and set her on the bench.
Dazed and dizzy, Chloe watched Zeb turn on the hot water to fill the tub. Her body was aching, throbbing with desire. She needed him, wanted him. She had reason to think he felt the same. Through the steam she watched Zeb come toward her, his eyes burning.
“Brings back memories,” he said, watching her with the same heated gaze he'd fixed on her that very first day. “I wanted to take your clothes off then and I wa
nt to now.” He knelt next to the bench and unbuttoned her shirt, his fingers clumsy and awkward.
Impatient, she yanked her shirt over her head, unsnapped her bra and tossed it aside. Finally her breasts, swollen with lust and longing, were free. Zeb didn't move, didn't speak. He just stared at her as if she were a statue just unveiled for his pleasure. Maybe he thought she was wanton. Maybe he thought she had no scruples. Maybe he'd regret this tomorrow. Maybe she would too. But at the moment she didn't care. She needed this. Now. She needed him. Now. To feel whole again. To feel wanted, desired again.
“My God, Chloe, you're so...so beautiful,” he stammered. He reached for her then and cradled her breasts in his hands. She felt her nipples peak as he stroked them reverently with the pads of his thumbs. Her body quivered, every cell, every pore alive and aware.
Arching her body to give him access, she suddenly glimpsed the water cresting over the top of the tub. “Zeb, the water,” she gasped.
He let some out, then motioned for her to get in. She approached cautiously, watching him kick off his shoes and strip down to his jeans.
“I want you to come in, too,” she said, in a breathy voice she hardly recognized. She quickly shed the rest of her clothes.
“I'm coming all right, sweetheart,” he promised, ripping his jeans off as he watched her slip into the tub.
She wanted a good look at him, at his body in all its naked magnificence, but he slid into the water before she could satisfy her curiosity. With his hands on her shoulders, he held her on top of him, her back against his chest, where she half floated, half rested, half satisfied, half frustrated, as his arms went around her. His broad fingers stroked the outline of her breasts, then moved to her belly and the soft slick skin of her inner thighs. She shuddered. A rush of pure sexual desire left her quivering, begging for release. She was losing control fast, too fast.
