A Match for Morgan

by Marie Ferrarella

  Morgan frowned. What was this, verbal fencing? Or was he just trying to get her to lose her temper? “How would you know?”

  “I know. I know a lot about you.” The music began again, and he took her hand. When he began to dance, she followed. She didn’t think not to. “Can’t help but pick up things over the years, Morgan.” The teasing tone left his voice. He could tell something larger was eating at her. “What’s bothering you?”

  “Other than you crowding my space?”

  He inclined his head, indulging her. When all was said and done, he supposed he liked her, just like every other man in Serendipity. And probably Butte, too. But unlike every other man in Serendipity, he wasn’t about to let her have her way. “Other than me crowding your space.”

  Morgan blew out a breath. Maybe she was feeling the alcohol, maybe it was the moment. Even as she formed the words, a small voice in her head was begging her not to, warning her of consequences.

  For a second she paused to listen, then forged on ahead. “I don’t want anything to change.”

  4

  The minute the words were out of her mouth, Morgan knew she’d made a mistake.

  Just like the last time.

  She was sharing a feeling with Wyatt, something she’d sworn to herself she’d never do again. But though it cost her to admit it, there were times when that handsome face of his was actually easy to talk to.

  You’d think she would have learned by now.

  Abruptly, she walked off the dance floor again and headed back to the glass he’d taken out of her hand. Picking it up, she took a sip. It didn’t help her forget that she’d slipped up.

  Morgan bit her lower lip. She supposed that was how Wyatt had gotten his faithful following of loving females. He was not only drop-dead gorgeous, he was someone you found yourself opening up to in a moment of unexpected weakness.

  CIA agents used that kind of talent to their advantage.

  So did spiders, she thought grudgingly. The deadly kind.

  Wyatt followed her, just as she knew he would. Morgan wound her fingers around the stem of the glass, not looking at his face. At the smirk she knew was most likely lingering on his lips. With her free hand she pressed the tips of her fingers against his lips to forestall any cryptic criticism coming from him and told herself that was not a shiver she felt shimmying down her spine.

  “Before you say anything, I know it sounds childish, and I’m not trying for a Peter Pan thing here.” She raised her eyes defiantly to his face, daring him to say anything. It surprised her to see that he wasn’t laughing at her. Faced with unexpected kindness, she faltered. “It’s…it’s just that maybe the thought that things are never going to be the same again leaves me a little sad.”

  Damn, why had she just said that? He was only going to ridicule her.

  But instead of making light of her feelings, Wyatt just shook his head. More gently than she thought possible, Wyatt removed her fingertips from his lips. “No.”

  She stared at him, completely confounded by the single word. “No?”

  He smiled, more to himself than at her. Just now, with her eyebrows drawn together like that, he remembered the way Morgan had once been— a rebellious little girl who struggled so hard to be just like the big boys. She’d never realized that one day those big boys would all be vying for her attention.

  “No, it doesn’t sound childish,” he elaborated. “And no, things are never going to be the same again, but it doesn’t mean that you’ve lost anything.”

  She rolled her eyes. A lecture. Great, just what she didn’t need or want. Served her right for letting her guard down. With a toss of her head, she drained the rest of the drink, then set the glass down. The next second, she felt a volley going off in her head as alcohol met medicine and initiated a hostile confrontation. It took her a second to refocus on the conversation.

  “Right, I know, I’ve gained a sister.” She didn’t mean it to sound as nasty as it sounded. She loved Fiona and the others, she truly did. But she was momentarily mourning the death of childhood, and she didn’t particularly care to be preached at.

  “Yes, you’ve gained a sister, but I was going to point out that there are a host of possibilities that are just opening up for you.”

  She narrowed her eyes, trying very hard to find a light that made him look bad—and not like sin on toast. Had to be the lighting in here that was making him look so good to her. After all, he was still Wyatt. Nothing had changed, certainly not him.

  Morgan fisted one hand on her hip. “Like?”

  Wyatt had thought that would be evident to a woman as quick as Morgan. “Nieces and nephews to boss around.”

  She opened her mouth, then shut it again. What she was about to say didn’t sound right, not in the light of the sympathy he was giving her. With a sigh, she studied him, trying to focus. She wished he’d stop getting better looking with each moment.

  What was it about him that she found him so reprehensible, again?

  Her head feeling just the slightest bit unsettled, she slid one hand along his collar. “If you don’t stop being so nice, I’m going to have Quint haul you out of here as an impostor.”

  Wyatt caught her hand in his, lacing his fingers through it. Freeze framing her breath. “Then he’d have to haul both of us out. You’re not exactly in character right now yourself, being sentimental like this.”

  Morgan shrugged in response. It had just taken him time, but he was obviously getting to the gloating part now.

  Wyatt continued to peer at her face, trying to read her correctly. “Unless of course, it’s that you don’t relish the thought of having another female in the Cutler family.” Morgan jerked her head up, her errant spirit returning in spades to her eyes. “Someone to steal your thunder.”

  As if that were possible, he added silently. If he said it aloud, he would have been going against type. Not to mention that she’d probably laugh her head off.

  This was more like it, Morgan thought. He was being an annoying jackass again. How dare he suggest she was jealous of her brothers’ fiancées?

  “I’m not in the thunder business.” Frost clung to her words.

  Wyatt merely grinned at the denial. They both knew that she’d never be accused of being a shrinking violet. “Says you.”

  With a toss of her head, Morgan splayed her hand against his chest and all but moved him out of her path. “If you don’t mind, it’s getting a little stuffy here for me. I need some air.”

  With that, she made her way out of the house and onto the lawn. She didn’t stop until she’d walked beyond the clearing and to the row of trees that bordered what her parents referred to as “the backyard.” She had to move quickly to keep her heels from sinking into the ground and holding her fast.

  Stopping by a tree, Morgan took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

  She didn’t need some air…she needed a lot of air, she thought, as her pulse began to slow down. And all of it away from him.

  Morgan felt color creep up her cheeks, warming them. She slid her fingertips against her skin, as if to press the color back. What was wrong with her tonight?

  Just having Wyatt standing beside her, looking down at her face, into her eyes, was eating up all the available pockets of air at an exceptionally rapid speed.

  The Indian summer night, lush and pregnant with promise, wrapped moist fingers around her. Humidity had arrived like an uninvited guest to Hank and Fiona’s wedding and seemed determined to linger until the last reveler left.

  Morgan raised her hair away from the back of her neck, but there was no relief, no breeze to make it bearable. She hated humidity, hated heat. She was at her best in the winter, even when the wind brought the temperatures plunging down way below freezing. A hot night just wasn’t her element.

  Neither, apparently, was sparring with Wyatt, at least, not tonight.

  Had to be the over-the-counter medication she was taking, Morgan thought, searching for an excuse why her pulse just refused to se
ttle down. It was the medication that was making her all fuzzy.

  Warm and fuzzy and thinking thoughts that had absolutely no business existing. At least, not about Wyatt.

  Morgan sighed.

  “You all right?”

  Morgan bit her bottom lip hard to keep from shrieking. Damn, but he could sneak up on a person better than a mouse in soft-soled sneakers.

  Wyatt had followed her out, concerned by the sudden pale cast on her face. It wouldn’t be like Morgan to ask for help even if she were dying.

  And it hadn’t been like Morgan to share her feelings with him, either, now that he thought about it. The last time she had, he remembered, it had been just before he’d publicly announced his wedding.

  Before he’d been forced to announce his wedding, Wyatt amended silently.

  Not that Judith had held a gun to his head or anything to bring the marriage about. She’d merely told him of her condition, and his sense of honor and responsibility had done the rest.

  At the time he’d thought it was the right thing. He supposed there was a little of the foolish optimist even in him. The right thing had turned out to be horribly wrong. For both of them.

  And maybe, he thought, looking at Morgan, for more than just them.

  But that was all in the past now. And he and Morgan were in the present.

  Morgan nodded in reply to his question and instantly regretted it. Her head felt like it had just elected to go for a spin, leaving her body behind to fend for itself.

  She didn’t even fully realize that she’d gotten dizzy until she felt Wyatt’s arms closing around her. Strong, hard arms that she almost sank into before her brain finally caught up to her.

  Her body stiffened like the blade of a newly released jackknife. Morgan pushed against him, but he didn’t release her immediately.

  “Just what the hell do you think you are doing?” she demanded.

  They were out of range of the house, but she could scream louder than anyone in the county if she had to. Morgan glared at Wyatt, waiting for an explanation. Or a reason to scream.

  “Keeping you from getting grass stains on your bridesmaid dress. They tell me it’s hell to get out.” Wyatt released her. “Blue becomes you.” The comment was delivered with all the feeling of a man taking note of the weather.

  “Thank you,” she mumbled, more dazed by the observation than by her momentarily reeling head. Morgan took a brief second to collect herself before she looked at him. “What are you doing out here? Why are you checking up on me?”

  The woman would challenge an angel on a mission of mercy, not that anyone would ever accuse him of being an angel, Wyatt thought, amused at the notion.

  “It’s a dirty job, but someone has to do it.”

  Taking Morgan’s chin in his hand, he turned her head toward the light from the lanterns that were strung up all around the perimeter and examined it. Her color looked as if it was returning. He should have known better than to be concerned about Morgan.

  Seconds ticked by and she still hadn’t drawn her head away. “If you’re in the mood to play doctor…”

  Their eyes met and held. Wyatt felt his pulse jump. Now there was a surprise. “Yes?”

  The warm night seemed to envelop both of them. Morgan felt something twist within her. Something needy. “You picked a heck of an opportune time, but then, you’re good at that.”

  The response surprised him more than Morgan could have hoped for even if she’d orchestrated this. He’d expected her to tell him to take a flying leap, not look up at him like that.

  Like a woman who’d suddenly become aware of a deep-rooted longing.

  Wishful thinking, that’s all it was, Wyatt told himself. Wishful.

  The single word echoed in his head, mocking him. Teasing him.

  Yeah, he supposed he did like her at that, he realized again. More than liked her. But that route only promised trouble. Trouble by the truckload.

  He’d never run from trouble before, and this certainly wasn’t the night to start.

  Feeling almost disembodied, Wyatt lowered his mouth down to hers until their lips just barely touched. All the while he kept waiting. Waiting for her to react, for the trap to snap, the rattler to strike, the jack-in-the-box to explode out of his tin home and laugh at him.

  She surprised him more than any of those.

  With a little moan, Morgan wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back. Kissed him as if there was an internal combustion engine housed within her tight, hard body and she’d just worked up a full head of steam, standing there in front of him.

  The analogy bore more truth than he’d first thought, because if ever a man felt as if he’d just been run over by a train, it was him. A very long, very heavy train pulling about a million cars in its wake.

  He’d always had a weakness for trains.

  Blood churning, heating, Wyatt tightened his arms around Morgan, allowing himself, just for a moment, to go with his reaction before he began to entertain the very real thought of consequences.

  And Morgan’s retaliation.

  But for now, all Wyatt wanted to do was feel. And enjoy.

  He deepened the kiss. The madness increased, taking with it his sense of reality and whatever anchor had always kept him landlocked.

  This was Morgan? Morgan Cutler? Wyatt found it all but impossible to believe that the woman in his arms, the woman who was very nearly sending him reeling off a cliff was the sharp-tongued female he’d crossed barbs with for the past fifteen years.

  The last, and only, kiss they’d shared oh, so long ago paled in comparison to this.

  For a woman whose words often stung bitterly, she tasted incredibly sweet. So sweet he knew he could easily be hooked on the taste of her mouth forever.

  And therein lay his complete undoing.

  He couldn’t dwell on that now, not when every fiber of his body was begging him to take her, to make love with her now while the moment existed.

  Slowly, as if he had no say in the matter, Wyatt began to glide his hands along her back, along her arms. Along her sides until his fingers slid over the tempting swell of her breasts. The more he touched, the more he tasted, the more he wanted.

  He had to be out of his mind.

  At that particular moment, Wyatt wouldn’t have argued if anyone had said he was. He also knew he was going to pay dearly for this.

  He didn’t care.

  Heat had spiraled through Morgan’s core the instant she’d looked up into his eyes. The instant she’d known that he was going to kiss her. The instant the fear had materialized that perhaps he wouldn’t.

  Being Morgan, she’d jumped the gun. As always. She wouldn’t have been Morgan if she hadn’t. She’d always been the one to take the first step, push the first button, plunged headfirst into the first dare. She’d done all of that and more just now.

  And gotten a hell of a lot more than she’d bargained for.

  Every other time, anticipation, shimmering a moment before attainment, had always outshone reality. She had come to expect that. A real kiss was never as good as a phantom one. Reality was never as good as fantasy.

  This time it was.

  This time reality was beating in her chest like the wings of an eagle flying against the wind during a gale. Her breath hovered within her, not moving forward, not moving back, taking her to the point of explosion, and all because she’d felt Wyatt touch her. Felt him touch her and knew she wanted him to. Not just touch her, but have her. More than anything, Morgan desperately wanted to have him. Wanted to make wild, passionate love to him, here, on the land where she’d been born. The land she dearly loved.

  She’d never been a cautious person. Any gray hairs her mother had all bore her name. But this time she was feeling utterly reckless.

  And loving it.

  Had to be the medicine. Or the wine. The wine, that was it. It was the wine. No, both. Why else was she behaving this way? Why else hadn’t she stopped him?

  Why else did she want
him to go on?

  Desperately the tiny part of her that could still think searched for a shred of a reason she could cling to once the madness passed and her blood cooled. She knew she was going to regret this, really regret this, but that would all come later.

  For now, she wanted Wyatt to alleviate this craving, this hunger that was all but gnawing away at her.

  She wanted to have something to regret later.

  She was going to regret this. The words pounded in Wyatt’s head even as he kissed her. Even as he lost himself in the taste, the feel, the scent of her. His conscience rubbed at him with the persistence of a pebble in a runner’s shoe. He knew Morgan shouldn’t have had the wine, not when she was taking something for her cold. And certainly not three glasses.

  Damn it, why did he have to feel so responsible for her? Why couldn’t he just enjoy her, enjoy the hands that were questing over him, all but ripping off his jacket? Enjoy this tigress who had emerged from beneath the guise of his best friend’s sister.

  Wyatt resigned himself. He was an idiot. There was no other name for him. But idiot or not, he couldn’t take what she was offering. What he desperately wanted. Not when she wasn’t fully responsible for her choice.

  With an effort that would have made a superhero proud, Wyatt pulled away and caught her hands. If she only knew what this was costing him…

  The confused question in her eyes almost tore him apart. And wouldn’t she get a laugh out of that, out of knowing that at this moment, he probably would have bartered his immortal soul in exchange for making love with her.

  His soul, but not hers.

  He knew she couldn’t be allowed to let this happen. Not when her mind was addled.

  It took him a moment to find his voice and not sound as breathless, as strained as he felt. “I don’t think you want to do this, Morgan.”

  Morgan froze. Translation—he didn’t want to do this. He thought she was too tame, too boring to trifle with. Maybe he thought she couldn’t knot her body into the positions his ex-wife could.

  The realization that he was rejecting her while he had welcomed Judith echoed in her brain, threatening to make angry tears come. Morgan caught her breath like a diver plunging into icy water.