He turned to face her, his expression impossible to read in the tricky shadows. “I have to be back in New York on the twenty-fifth. That gives me two weeks to think about this. How does that sound?”
About thirteen days too long.
He came closer and offered his hand, pulling her to her feet and not letting go. Suddenly the air seemed close with his body heat, redolent with his scent. She felt more than a little giddy and struggled not to lean on him for support, then struggled for something to ease the tension.
“Are we shaking on anything in particular?” she asked.
“Shaking?”
He looked down, seemed to consider her hand in his. She felt his grip tighten infinitesimally, and it felt as if something closed reflexively around her heart. Oh boy. Too much Nick at too close a distance. She tried to regain her hand and failed.
“How about we shake to mutual satisfaction?” he purred. Then he laughed in the same low, dark tone, probably at the confused heat in her expression. “You said we should both get what we want, and that sounds fine by me. Deal?”
T.C. blinked as he shook her hand; then she managed to tug her fingers free and back up until her knees hit the couch. If Nick hadn’t been there, a solid anchor for her wildly flailing arms, she would have toppled right down, but once she’d regained her balance he stepped clear and yawned with a total lack of self-consciousness. “Seems like it might be worth giving sleep another try.”
She managed to mumble something resembling good-night, and he left as noiselessly as he had arrived, leaving her with three distinct impressions.
Number one—touching him was like absorbing his voice. Velvet over steel. Soft and harsh, darkness and light. Two—she didn’t feel like she had shaken on anything resembling mutual satisfaction. Three—sleep would be a long time coming.
Nick wasn’t sure why he had exercised such restraint during that moonlight meeting the previous night. The whole hour had been one painful exercise in self-restraint, and when she overbalanced and grabbed at his arms—hell, he’d been one narrow noble streak from following her down onto that couch. From covering her head to foot, skin against skin.
Noble streak? Huh!
He hadn’t used that description for years, maybe a decade. It was Joe who had introduced him to the term—said it was unusual to find a kid with such a noble streak. Given his background, the irony hadn’t escaped Nick, nor had the impact of the compliment, and now Joe had gone and topped it.
He had left him his most precious asset. The ultimate compliment. He felt humbled, honored and, to top it off, mighty confused. Why would Joe single him out? Sure, he’d accepted him into his family and done his best to be fair, to treat him as one of his own children, but they both knew he was only distant kith and kin. That was why George was being such a pain in the rear.
Tamara would know. Even without the benefit of that letter, she knew more about Joe’s thinking in those last months than anyone else. But would she tell him? That was the killer question. He had never met a woman so closed, so unwilling to let anything of herself out, so afraid to let anything of herself go.
Man, but he wanted to know what went on in her head.
As if responding to the power of that thought, she came walking into the kitchen. Stopped. A faint touch of color traced her cheekbones as her gaze met his, then slid away. Then she seemed to gather herself, to take a strengthening breath, and she kept coming. Nick felt breathless himself. He couldn’t figure out why she affected him so immediately, so completely. As usual, she was dressed to make as little of herself as possible, yet something about the way she moved, the way she looked at him, was all woman. Yep, she only had to lean into the fridge at that certain angle to jump-start his engine.
“You want coffee?” he asked, hoping for once she would surprise him and say “yes.”
“Yes, please.”
Nick didn’t do a double take. After all, she had been one surprise after another from the moment they met.
“What are your plans for today?” she asked as she brought milk and cereal to the table.
“Might as well start as I aim to continue. Down at the barn.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re serious about learning how the stables run?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“We’ll see how long you last on the end of a pitchfork, city slicker.”
Nick smiled back. He liked the teasing warmth in her eyes. Very much. “I don’t mind getting my boots dirty.”
He watched her munch her way through a hearty helping of cereal before he spoke again. At least if she bolted he wouldn’t feel responsible for another missed meal.
“You mind if I ask you something personal?”
She paused, coffee mug suspended halfway between table and mouth, her face all big-eyed suspicion. “That depends.”
“I wondered why you needed this job so badly.” What caused that emotional pounding she had hinted at. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just curious,” he said easily, as if he hadn’t spent sleepless hours pondering the many possibilities.
“You know what happened to the curious cat.” Still teasing, although more warily this time. At least she hadn’t walked away. Yet.
“Are you a local?”
“Our family had a small acreage about an hour’s drive west of here,” she said carefully. “I lived there till I was seventeen.”
“Was that when your father died?”
She took a measured sip of her coffee. “That was two years later.”
“Your mother?”
“She died when I was little. I barely remember her.” She put her mug down with an abrupt click. “I don’t know if you’re really interested in my family history or if this is breakfast small talk, so I’ll keep it brief. My father brought us up—my brother and me—which wasn’t so bad, because we both happened to love horses and they were Dad’s life. Jonno was killed when I was fifteen, and things went downhill from there. I stayed as long as I could, but when I got a decent job offer, I left.”
“Sometimes leaving’s best for everyone.”
“Well, my father sure didn’t think so.” She swirled the remains of her coffee around the mug, a small sad smile on her lips. “Obviously he wasn’t as forgiving as Joe.”
“He was tough on you?”
“Yes, but he also taught me how to work and about self-discipline.” She lifted her chin, defied him to take issue.
“Seems to me you’re too hard on yourself. Maybe you needed someone to teach you about lightening up, having fun.”
“I’ve tried that. It’s overrated.”
Nick wondered if that was what her father hadn’t forgiven—not the leaving home, but what she had done in those years—and what his lack of forgiveness had meant to her. “What happened to your father’s place?” he asked on a hunch.
She shrugged, but the gesture seemed awkward. And telling. “He left it to someone else.”
A father gutted by the death of his son, a daughter who tried to fill the gap but felt she had failed, who maybe ran wild for a couple of years. And her bitter, tough, unforgiving father gives away her heritage.
It explained a lot about the woman sitting before him. Her self-contained strength, her vulnerability, how she worked her butt off, as if paying some sort of penance. Her reluctance to accept what she thought she didn’t deserve.
“And this is why you don’t want to accept your part of Yarra Park?”
Determination hardened her expression. “It’s not right. Joe’s family should have it. I know how they must feel about this.”
“Joe’s family is getting plenty. Believe me, this is nothing like the situation between you and your father.”
“But…”
“Accept it, Tamara. It’s what Joe wanted.”
“But you said you would consider taking my half.”
“I said I’d think about it, and I will. Are you this stubborn about everything?” Man, he hoped not. He had less than two weeks to change her mi
nd, and he didn’t mean about the inheritance.
“Stubborn?” She pushed herself off her stool, a faint smile curving her lips. “As a mule, Joe used to say, but only about things that matter. Now, let’s go find you a pitchfork.”
The next five days rolled out smoothly enough, with Nick dividing his time between the stables and the office. Although he made no overt moves or provocative comments, tension simmered beneath the artificial surface of civility, despite her attempts to keep the mood light and easy. The flame had been turned down to pilot, but one quick flick of the switch would kindle the inferno she had felt that night in the moonlight.
Eight more days, she thought with a resigned sigh as she let herself into Star’s stall. Could she keep a grip on her twitchy fingers that long?
She waited while the big mare went through her you-can’t-catch-me routine, prancing from wall to wall with a succession of disdainful head tosses. Collaring her was a game of skill, patience and acquired knowledge. “Finished?” she asked when the pirouettes ended abruptly. Timing was everything in this game. With a nimble sidestep, she intercepted a further halfhearted attempt at a pass and slipped the head collar into place.
“Ready for some work?” Star tossed her head with arrogant scorn, and T.C. laughed softly. “Silly question, huh? You love to run.”
As she smoothed her hand down the mare’s neck, a sense of contentment settled in the pit of her stomach. This was why she had chosen this profession, for this simple, elemental feeling. Stooping down, she felt the mare’s near foreleg, checking for heat in the tendon she had injured the previous season.
“Looking good, girl.” Satisfied with the inspection, she straightened to find Star nodding her head as if in agreement. T.C. couldn’t help but laugh. “You are so full of yourself!”
The sound of her laughter brought Nick’s grooming mitt to an instant halt. It had been like this for days. He would be working away, limber and comfortable, when out of the blue something would ignite his slumbering senses. The soft lilt of her voice as she petted her dog, a wet towel tossed negligently over a laundry basket, the lingering tang of her apricot shampoo.
Or her laughter, unexpected and unrestrained.
He ambled over to the open half-door, watched her hands skate lightly over the horse’s glossy coat. Yeah, those hands doing pretty much anything that involved stroking turned him on.
He cleared his throat. “This one’s Star, right?”
She turned slowly, unsurprised, as if she had known he was there. “Her full name is Stella Cadente.”
“Shooting Star,” he translated.
“You know Italian?”
“Enough. That name’s a mouthful.”
“It is.” She smiled. “That’s why we just call her Star. Most of them have some Italian in their racing names and a shortened version for at-home use.”
“Monte?” he asked.
“Is really Montefalco.”
“Gina?”
“Lollobrigida.” A softly inquisitive expression lit her face. “And I suppose you’re really Nicholas.”
“Niccolo. The Italian version.”
Head slanted to one side, she considered it, considered him. And he knew he would do anything to hear that name, his full name, on her lips. Please, Niccolo.
“And what about you, Tamara?” He drew the name out lushly, saw her hand still on the horse’s flank for an instant before she resumed stroking. Felt his own body pulse. “Why aren’t you Tammy? Or Tara?”
“You have got to be kidding!”
He smiled at her melodramatic tone. “Why do you call yourself T.C.?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” With an abrupt click, she attached the lead and brought the horse to the door. He didn’t open it. He wasn’t letting her out of this quite so easily.
“My guess is you decided your name was too girly. You thought someone named Tamara should wear pretty dresses and high heels and a perfume that smells like a rich garden party—”
“Enough, already,” she interrupted, but a smile lurked around the corners of her mouth, and when that incredibly sexy mouth smiled it did more for him than any perfume or floaty dress.
Intent on teasing her embryonic smile to full life, he leaned over the half-door to sniff at her unperfumed throat…and the horse lunged, eyeballs rolling, mouth open.
Seven
In a knee-jerk reaction, he hauled her out the door and out of the path of a set of extremely large and not very white teeth.
“Hey, what was that all about?” She sounded breathless and slightly stunned.
“That beast masquerading as a horse would have taken a piece of your sweet little hide if I hadn’t saved you.”
“Oh, no, she was definitely gunning for your hide.”
Her husky laughter rippled close to his throat, and when she shifted her weight, her hip rolled against his thigh. The fire on slow smolder in Nick’s blood roared into full flame, but when his hands firmed on her back, she sobered instantly, pushing and twisting her way clear of his arms.
“She’s never done that before,” she murmured distractedly as the horse continued to stomp her hooves and toss her head.
“She’s not the first female who’s wanted to bite me.”
“I bet she’s the first to take an instant dislike to you.”
“Ah, so you didn’t.”
A wry smile quirked her lips. “If you’re fishing, Nick, forget it. I’m sure you’ve heard exactly how likable you are from plenty of people with far prettier words than me.”
Yeah, but the thing was, he wanted to hear it from her. “If I was fishing, Tamara,” he said slowly, clearly, seriously, “it wasn’t for pretty words but honest ones.”
Their gazes met and held, and Nick felt the heady rush of anticipation as keenly as if he stood strapped to his skis on a virgin Chugach ridge, about to go vertical. Then Star issued a shrill authoritative whinny that sliced right through the moment.
“That’s her opinion,” he said. “Now what about yours?”
“She’s speaking for the both of us.”
“If only I had a translator.” He gestured toward Ug, who lay sleeping under the feeder. “Don’t suppose she speaks horse?”
T.C. laughed. “Not so anyone would understand.”
The mare stretched her long neck over the door in a gesture both elegant and eloquent, enticing Tamara to gather up the snaking lead and to scratch behind her ears.
Nick took a cautious step closer. Star rolled her eyes but kept her mouth closed. A promising start. Another measured step, a third, and she laid back her ears and kicked out at the wall. “Close enough, huh?”
The mare snorted.
“Seems I do speak some basic horse.”
This time it was Tamara who snorted.
He rested a hand atop the door, waited. When the mare didn’t take a piece out of it, he left it there, although he didn’t take his eyes off her long black face.
“Can she run?” he asked.
“Like the wind.”
“Is that how it feels, when you’re driving? Like you’re riding the wind?”
“Yes. That’s it exactly.”
He heard the smile in her voice, longed to see it on her lips, but when he started to turn, the mare bared her teeth. He kept his eyes firmly on those teeth.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“I’m guessing it’s a bit like skiing. The wind, the rush, the sense of freedom. There are mountains like this beauty here, all mean and full of spirit, and then there are the rest.”
She laughed softly. “Let me guess which you prefer.”
He watched the big mare toss her head and swing her quarters around, left to right, as if impatient with the inactivity. “I’d like to try it,” he said suddenly.
“You want to drive a horse?”
“I want to drive this horse. Will you teach me?”
“You’re kidding! Was your first driving lesson in a Ferrari?”
Straight-faced,
he looked down at her. “No. It was a Jaguar.”
For a moment she simply stared back at him, eyes wide and incredulous; then she burst out laughing. The dulcet sound danced through his senses, filling him with a pleasure so pure it warmed him to the marrow of his bones.
“Well?” he asked when she finally recovered.
She glanced at the horse, who stood rolling her eyes at him. “When you can catch her, I’ll teach you to drive her.”
He took his time inspecting the horse, drawing out the suspense. Then he shrugged, pocketed his hands and stepped back. “Looks like I’ll have to stick to the mountains.”
“You’re not going to try?”
He met the surprise in her eyes with a slow grin. “I know when I’m being had.”
“Jase!” She sounded disgusted, but the look in her eyes approved his quick reading of the situation, and it warmed places Nick couldn’t remember as anything but cold. “You could learn on another one. Monte’s a real gentleman.”
“Thanks,” Nick said slowly. “But I seem to have developed a taste for the difficult, spirited type.”
She met his unmistakable message head-on. And surprised him by not flinching. “Then it’s a shame you have so little time. It could take months for a temperament like that to come around.”
“Yeah?” His gaze skated from her face to the horse and back again. “Then it looks like we both lose out.”
Despite his prior knowledge of Star’s tricky temperament, T.C. had expected Nick to take up her challenge. She thought him arrogant enough to back himself in any difficult situation. Maybe he was, she thought consideringly, when she caught him standing at Star’s stall door several days later.
Star took a tentative step forward and lowered her head to sniff at the hand resting on the door. Nick responded with a low laugh accompanied by some message of praise, and although distance muffled the words, T.C.’s body responded instantly to the mellow depth of his voice.
Exactly the same effect as he was having on Star, she realized. They had both started out kicking and snapping, and look at them now. Still wary, still inclined to take one step forward and two back, but both oh, so dangerously close to being seduced by a dark velvet voice and a steadily patient hand.
Addicted to Nick Page 8
