The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

by Sandra Marton

  There was no way she could blame it on Jake Wilde alone, much as she wanted to.

  She’d been part of it.

  Her throat constricted.

  More than part.

  She’d been an eager participant.

  The proof was in each wild, exciting memory.

  The taste of him, still on her lips.

  The scent of him, still in each breath she took.

  The echo of her own voice, feverishly repeating his name, asking him, begging him to—to—

  Her belly knotted.

  She thought of how they must look, he standing with his back to a truck in the middle of nowhere, she standing before him, what they’d just done stamped all over her.

  His tie was askew.

  More to the point, she didn’t have her panties on.

  She wanted to weep with humiliation. That she, of all people, would do such a thing. She’d grown up with a mother whose attitude toward men had devolved to something about as complicated as her attitude toward potato chips.

  Why have just one if more are available?

  As for her … she wasn’t a virgin. She wasn’t some sad little innocent. She’d had sex before.

  A few times …

  Very few.

  The truth was, she was on the pill to regulate her menstrual cycle, not for anything more exciting.

  For one crazy second, she thought of telling him that.

  And almost laughed.

  What would she say? I’m not the kind of girl who has sex up against a truck with a man I’ve known for five minutes….

  But she was. And there was no explanation for it that would make her feel better.

  “Look,” he said, his tone conciliatory, “I know you’re upset….”

  She took one quick look at his face, all hard angles and planes in the moonlight, and then she turned away.

  The flashlight lay at their feet, still lit, the beam illuminating—she shuddered—illuminating what remained of her panties and one shoe.

  What had become of the other?

  As if it mattered.

  She bent. So did he. His hand closed on hers as she reached for the flashlight. She pulled her hand free, picked up the light and the scrap of silk that was proof of her shame.

  “Dammit,” he growled, “talk to me!”

  She looked at him. The muscle in his jaw was flickering. What did he expect her to say? Thank you for the good time?

  “Listen, lady, I’m not going to let you pretend this didn’t happen.”

  “You’re not going to let me pretend this didn’t happen?” Addison tossed her tangled curls back from her eyes. “Here’s a news flash, Captain. What I do or don’t do isn’t up to you!”

  He caught her by the wrist again; she gasped as he pulled her closer. “We’re a little past the ‘Captain’ routine. And, yeah, you’re damned right, what you do is none of my business.”

  “I’m glad we agree,” she said coldly.

  The pressure on her wrist increased; he tugged her the last few inches toward him until there was virtually no space separating them at all.

  “But there’s no way I’m going to let you look at me as if I forced you to do this. We made love,” he said bluntly. “Why can’t you accept that?”

  “We had sex,” she snapped. “And if you don’t know the difference, I feel sorry for you.”

  The quick change in his expression terrified her. She stared up at him. Even in her stilettos, she’d had to look up to see his face.

  Now, she had to tilt her head back.

  It made her feel powerless.

  “Do not,” he said, very softly, “do not ever make the mistake of feeling sorry for me.”

  His hand fell from hers. He turned on his heel, swung the Tundra’s door open and climbed behind the wheel.

  “And you’re right, Ms. McDowell. We had sex. Nothing to write home about, either.”

  Addison forced a little smile. “At least we agree on something.”

  It was the worst kind of lie and it left the taste of ashes in her mouth, but the look he shot her told her it was a small victory.

  God knew, she needed it.

  Head up, shoulders back, she marched away from him toward her car, still shoeless. No way was she going to give him the pleasure of watching her search for that miserable missing shoe.

  She waited for the sound of the truck starting up.

  Nothing happened.

  Her spine tingled. She could feel his eyes on her. She wanted to run but she wouldn’t do it.

  This was her property.

  He was still watching as she got behind the wheel, started the engine and turned on her lights. It wasn’t far to the house, only a couple of hundred yards.

  Would he follow?

  Would he expect to have sex with her again?

  Her heart began to race as she imagined what would happen if he came after her. If he took her not against a truck but in a bed.

  Naked, skin to skin. That hard, powerful body under her hands.

  He was like no one she’d ever known before. Beautiful. Proud. Complex.

  And wild.

  God, so wild …

  She reached the house, stumbled from the truck and went to the porch.

  She was alone.

  His truck, engine idling, stood unmoving.

  He wasn’t coming after her.

  Still, she didn’t take an easy breath until she was inside the house with the door closed and locked. She leaned back against it, panting.

  The truck roared to life. The engine faded.

  Jacob Wilde was gone.

  Shaken, she slumped against the door.

  “Damn you,” she whispered.

  Tears filled her eyes. Not tears of sorrow. She had never believed in feeling sorry for herself.

  It was just that after all this time, she’d behaved exactly the way the world had always seen her, first when she was a girl and an entire town seemed to hold its breath, waiting for her to become her mother’s daughter, and then after Charlie’s death.

  What had happened with Jacob Wilde made no sense. You slept with a man after you got to know him. After you decided you liked him, had things in common. You went to dinner, to the theater; you took long walks, came home, made popcorn, watched a movie.

  Addison tossed her purse and the flashlight on a small table.

  Okay, so she wasn’t an expert on when-to-have-sex protocol.

  But she knew one thing for certain.

  You didn’t have sex with a stranger.

  She didn’t, anyway. Never mind that it had been exciting and, God, incredible; never mind that she’d never had an orgasm before and on this night, in, what, five minutes, she’d had two.

  Three, she thought, and she shut her eyes, remembered the liquid, hot feeling of Jake inside her, Jake taking her up and up and up …

  Her eyes popped open.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she said.

  She had to be.

  Or maybe she was just worn out.

  Losing Charlie had been painful. The whispers had been agony. And then she’d come down here and found a ranch that looked like something out of a bad dream …

  “Okay,” she said briskly.

  Forget what had just happened.

  Forget Jake Wilde.

  Forget everything.

  She would blank all of it from her mind. She’d blank out Texas, too, and Wilde’s Crossing. She belonged in New York, where life was a lot easier to understand.

  She’d had enough.

  To hell with finding out exactly what the ranch was worth.

  “Charlie,” Addison muttered as she made her way upstairs, “forgive me, old friend, but I don’t like this place one little bit.”

  Tomorrow, she’d contact the Realtor.

  And go home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  JAKE SLEPT badly.

  The truth was, he hardly slept at all but there was nothing new in that. He spent most nights tossing and t
urning, only to fall asleep and dream things that made him wake with his heart pounding, his skin drenched in sweat.

  At least last night’s dreams had been different, he thought as he stood in the shower and let the water sluice down over him.

  They hadn’t been nightmares about firefights and IEDs and men dying because he hadn’t been able to save them.

  Last night’s dreams had been about the feel of a woman’s skin. The taste of her mouth. The scent of her hair.

  The dreams had been about Addison, how it had felt to make love to her….

  Jake frowned, shut off the water and reached for a towel.

  Not love.

  Sex.

  She’d been right about that, and so what? There was no reason to disguise a basic human need with layers of phony hearts and flowers.

  It was her attitude that ticked him off.

  They’d had good sex. Hell, he thought, knotting the towel around his hips and glaring at his face in the mirror, they’d had great sex.

  The problem was, when it was over, she’d acted as if what had happened was ugly. As if he’d somehow forced himself on her, or coerced her into giving in to him.

  “No way,” he muttered as he lathered his face and reached for his razor.

  She’d been a willing participant.

  More than willing, he thought, remembering the way she’d wrapped herself around him, her moans, her cries, her wetness and heat ….

  His hand slipped. The blade bit at his flesh. A tiny dot of blood appeared high on his cheek.

  He cursed, tore off a square of toilet tissue and dabbed at it.

  It was true, though.

  She’d been with him all the way. Clinging to him. Riding him. Kissing him, biting his lip …

  “Dammit, Wilde …”

  He was turning himself on. And wasn’t that interesting, for lack of a better word?

  He hadn’t had an erection since he’d been wounded, even though the docs had assured him that his equipment still worked. Now, just remembering what he’d done with a woman he didn’t even like was giving him a hard-on.

  What he needed, he thought coldly, was a trip to Dallas, a night at a singles bar where either some hot-looking babe with enough booze in her to ignore the face staring back at him from the mirror or one who’d find his face a turn-on would take him home to bed.

  Did that explain last night? Was the McDowell woman the kind who saw something interesting in a man who was disfigured?

  It didn’t matter.

  His hormones were working again. They’d told him that would happen. It didn’t have a thing to do with her except that she’d been in the right place at the right time.

  Jake splashed cool water on his face, tossed the towel aside and stepped back into his bedroom. His clothes were still in the closet and dresser, same as they had been when he first left for the army. He pulled on faded jeans. An equally faded chambray shirt. A pair of roper boots, the leather worn soft and pliable with age.

  No need to wear his uniform anymore.

  His time in the service was over. So was his life here, working the ranch. He’d loved both things, always figured one or the other would become his career.

  Not anymore.

  He needed a fresh start. Where, doing what … He had no idea. All he knew was that he was going in search of the answers.

  Last night, he’d figured on heading out right away but another day wouldn’t matter. He wanted to spend a little time with his family.

  He ran his hands through his damp hair, tucked his wallet and keys in his pockets, put the patch over his eye. A glance out the window revealed a pewter sky, ripe with the portents of rain.

  A deep breath.

  Then he grabbed a denim jacket, opened the bedroom door and went in search of coffee.

  The Wildes were gathered in the kitchen.

  The girls were at the stove, an amazing sight in itself because Lissa was the only cook among them and she usually shooed her sisters away.

  Today, Emma was scrambling eggs, Lissa was taking a pan of biscuits from the oven and Jaimie was frying bacon.

  Travis and Caleb were sitting at the big oak table that was the heart of the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.

  For a minute, he stood and watched them, these people he loved and who loved him.

  He’d let them down.

  That was the worst part.

  They didn’t know it but he had—and why in hell hadn’t he stepped off that plane last night, gone straight to the ticket counter and booked himself to L. A. or New York or Seattle or—

  “Hey,” Travis said, “it lives!”

  Caleb grinned. “Had a late night, did you, my man?”

  Jake searched for an answer. Foolish, when all he had to do was grin back and say nothing.

  Somehow, he couldn’t.

  Em unknowingly came to his rescue with a mug of black coffee, a one-armed hug and a smacking kiss.

  “Sit down, little brother, and pay no attention to these jerks.”

  Little brother. She’d always called him that because he was the youngest of the Wilde brothers, even though he had four years on her as well as seven or eight inches.

  “Do I ever?” he said, flashing her a smile.

  Travis raised an eyebrow. “We hope you did last night.”

  Lissa scooped bacon and eggs on a plate, put the plate in front of Jake and hugged him, too.

  “Eat while it’s hot, and they hope you did what?”

  Caleb shot Travis a look. “Oh, Jake said he wanted to get some air, so we told him to take Trav’s truck and go for a drive.”

  Jaimie put the basket of biscuits on the table, dropped a kiss on Jake’s head, sat next to him and said, “A drive where?”

  Jake looked at the food. The coffee was all he wanted—he had the feeling anything else would lodge in his throat—but his sisters would never let him get away with that, especially when it was obvious they’d shooed away Senora Lopez, the housekeeper, so they could make breakfast themselves.

  “Believe it or not,” Caleb said in a deliberate stage-whisper, “it’s all edible,”

  Em grabbed a napkin and threw it at him.

  “A drive where?” she said.

  Jake concentrated on forking up some eggs. “Oh, you know. Just around.”

  Jaimie ruffled his hair. “We wondered what happened to you.”

  Lissa nodded. “We thought it might have something to do with the McDowell woman.”

  Jake shot his brothers a look. Travis gave a little shake of his head; Caleb mouthed a quick no.

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Well, you both vanished.”

  “Pretty much at the same time,” Em added.

  “Except, she didn’t exactly vanish.” Jaimie stole a strip of bacon from Jake’s plate. “Ellen Boorman said she made a scene and stalked out in a huff. Anybody know what happened?”

  “No,” Travis and Caleb said, with one voice.

  “Ellen said you were part of the scene and then you disappeared, too. So we thought you might have gone after her.”

  His three sisters fixed him with laserlike stares. Jake coughed.

  “Piece of biscuit,” he gasped. “Caught in my throat.”

  Em rose, went to the sink, returned with a tall glass of water. Jake nodded and gulped down half.

  “So, what happened?”

  “Nothing,” he said quickly.

  “You’re not going to do an assessment for her?”

  Jake narrowed his eyes at his brothers, who looked at each other then gave their complete attention to their mugs of coffee.

  “Where’d you hear that?”

  Lissa shrugged. “Around,” she said airily. “Are you?”

  “No. I’m not.”

  “Because?”

  “Because,” he said, putting down his knife and fork, “because I’m not—I’m not—”

  “Not what?” Em asked, and that was when he remembered he’d still not
told his sisters he wasn’t staying.

  “Because he won’t have the time,” Jaimie said blithely, “once he’s taken up his duties here.”

  Silence fell over the room.

  “Jeez, Jaimie,” Caleb said.

  Jaimie held up her hands. “What’d I do?”

  “What duties?” Jake said carefully.

  Travis sighed.

  “Well, running El Sueño. Taking it over. You know.”

  Jake narrowed his gaze.

  “No, I don’t know. You want to tell me what you’re talking about?”

  Caleb gave an elaborate shrug.

  “Tom Sloane is retiring. Remember?”

  “Of course I remember. What does this have to do with me?”

  “Well, the General thinks—”

  “The General thinks,” Jake repeated slowly.

  “So do we. All of us. We hoped you’d step into Tom’s shoes. More than that, actually. We’re all part owners of The Dream, of course, but we want you to be its CEO.”

  “The paperwork is all drawn up,” Lissa said.

  Caleb and Travis groaned.

  “Paperwork?” Jake said carefully.

  “Legal documents. Changes to the trust that holds El Sueño, that will reflect you taking over operations.”

  Jake looked at his brothers.

  “You went ahead and did this even though I told you that I’m not staying.”

  “Oh, Jake,” Em said. Her sisters shushed her.

  “Well, we were hoping you changed your mind.”

  “Didn’t it occur to you to consult me?”

  “Sure. But—”

  Jake was angry. Angrier than the situation demanded. He knew that—but knowing it didn’t change a thing.

  He shoved back his chair, tossed his napkin on the table and got to his feet.

  “How nice of you all to plan out my life.”

  “Hey, man, we aren’t—”

  “Yeah. You are.”

  “Look, El Sueño needs you. And you need El Sueño.”

  And there it was. The cause of his anger. Jake leaned over, slapped his palms flat against the tabletop.

  “What am I, the family rehab project?”

  “Jake,” Travis said, “we love you.”

  “Then don’t play at being my therapists,” he said, and he ignored his sisters’ voices calling after him and got out of the house before he said something he’d truly regret.