by Tina Leonard
Chelsea walked out with the tray of fruit and the bottle of champagne just as Gage hung up the phone.
“All’s well at the homestead,” he said. “Moira and Chelsea are going to the library, now that they’ve finished their baking to take to Rancho Diablo for the Fourth of July gathering. They said they hoped we’re having fun. Jonas hung around for a while, and they all went for a dip in the creek. He’s been quite the host, apparently.”
“I’m sure,” Chelsea said, extending the tray. Gage took a dark-chocolate strawberry and smiled.
“Champagne? That’s fancy,” he said. “I don’t drink much champagne.”
“We might as well drink it,” Chelsea said, “because we’ve been had, cowboy.”
Chapter Seven
Gage put the strawberry back on the tray and looked at Chelsea. “Had?”
“Tricked. Bamboozled.”
“I know what the word means. I want to know what you mean.”
Setting the tray near the body oils on the long, slender table by the bed, Chelsea sighed. “You were right. This is a Callahan setup.”
He took the champagne from her, popping it open. The cork made barely a protest as it left the bottle. “If it is, I’m going to add on to my employer’s tab. What makes you think so?”
“There’s no meat in the fridge. Plenty of salads and fruit and tasty treats, but no meat. I’d say the guacamole was the ultimate giveaway.”
“Guacamole is really only good fresh,” Gage said. “I get why you’re a mystery writer.”
“It doesn’t take a detective to figure this one out. Smithers knew she’d be feeding a guest who didn’t eat meat. She prepared a great menu of what you could eat.”
Gage filled two flutes with champagne. “Why?”
“Because all the Callahans are born matchmakers. It runs in their blood. And like you said, they want everyone to share their misery.”
Gage looked at her. “It could be a coincidence. She could have had a customer who canceled. Besides which, Jonas is barking up the wrong tree, doll. The last thing I can handle right now is any kind of relationship. I’m not a relationship kind of guy, anyway. But the fact is, even if I were, my drama quotient’s too high to add a love angle right now. Probably ever.”
“Tell me about it.” Chelsea nodded. “I’m going to kill him.”
Gage tipped his glass against hers, the crystal clinking in the candlelit darkness. “I’ll help you. Here’s to killing Jonas.”
They sipped, studying each other over their glasses. Gage set his down on the table. “I’m more of a beer guy.”
“I’ll join you in a beer. Ellen does stock the libations well, I noticed.”
Gage followed her into the kitchenette, holding the flashlight so she could peruse the fridge. “You know, it could be a coincidence. Ellen might be the mischief maker here, looking to pad her monthly income. She strikes me as being a touch mercenary.”
“Don’t forget the fresh guac,” Chelsea said, “and the lack of even one chilled shrimp. What honeymooner do you know who doesn’t want a healthy helping of protein?”
“Not necessary.” He reached around her for the cheese. “Not all men need meat for boundless energy.”
“Why don’t you eat meat, anyway?” she asked, joining him at the small table with her own small ransacking of the fridge arranged on a plate.
“None of my family does.” Shrugging, he dug into the spreads and guacamole. “Never did. Dad had some disease, and my mom, considering herself a holistic type, believed that everyone could heal themselves with proper diet. As one tenet of Eastern medicine says, the four white deaths are white salt, white sugar, white flour and white fat. Mom added meat to the list. She had her own garden, even made her own pasta. It’s not as limiting as you think.”
“Did it help your dad?” Chelsea asked curiously, munching on the wheat cracker and cheese he offered.
“Dad’s disease wasn’t actually diet, it was financial. He loved money better than anything on the planet. And nothing can save a man from the lust for gold. Mom just didn’t want to accept that he loved money better than all of us put together.”
Chelsea looked at him. “So you’re going to be a really good father to Cat.”
“Yes, I am. As much as Leslie will let me. I suspect she’s got her own agenda. If I have to sue for custodial rights, I will. I’d prefer to work it out with her. This summer will be a trial run on how well Leslie and I can do joint parenting.”
Chelsea touched his hand. “Cat loves you.”
“She might one day. Right now she’s trying to figure out who I am.” Gage shrugged, his typical blow-off of life’s events that meant too much. “That’s my only mission right now, besides my job.”
“Are you going to take Cat to see your family? She mentioned she’d like to meet them.”
“No.” Gage dipped guac on a chip and gave it to Chelsea. “This is better than I would have believed Ellen the Amazon could fix. In fact, I find her a study in contrasts.”
Chelsea smiled at him, warming him. “Ellen is a sturdy lass, my mum would say. Anyway, I think Cat has plans to hound you about her aunt and uncles.”
“She can hound all she likes. I have very little to say to Xav and Kendall. I’d talk to Shaman if he was around, but my guess is he lets the military be his guide. Shaman’s a helluva free spirit, believes in Native American spiritualism, tosses in a little Catholic mysticism for balance, and says screw the family tree. I agree with him on all that.” Greg saw Chelsea’s eyebrows raise, and decided to elaborate. “Xav and Kendall inherited our father’s love of the almighty dollar, along with his penchant for making it. I stay clear.”
“Should that affect Cat, though?”
“Now, Miss Marple,” Gage said, not wanting to talk about his family anymore, “that’s enough digging for skeletons for one day. Even a mystery writer has to put away her pen and enjoy the moonlight.”
“Ugh, don’t mention mystery writing. I’m behind.”
“I hear. Cat says both of us have issues.”
Chelsea laughed. “I guess so.”
Lightning flashed through the windows, and thunder boomed over the cottage. “Well, if this was a Callahan setup, it could have been worse.”
“I guess so.”
Gage smiled. “You have a problem with the company?”
“Not exactly.” She looked at him. “In fact, not at all.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want you to avoid me like you do, say, snakes.”
Chelsea thumped his finger lightly. “Bad boy. You scared me out of my socks on purpose.”
“I believe, doll, I scared you out of your swimsuit.”
He saw a reluctant smile flash across her face. “So you did look,” she said.
“Hell, yeah,” he said. “I’m a red-blooded man. There’s not a living guy on this planet who wouldn’t have at least grabbed a fast peek at that set you’ve got.” He raised his beer. “Believe me, the memory is as burned into my mind as that nude in there with the artfully placed peacock feathers. But in my defense,” Gage continued, “once I realized you’d had a swimsuit malfunction, I heroically did not look again. And I’m hoping for points for that, minus one or two if I tell the truth and admit I would have gone for another bug-eyed ogle if you’d lost your bottoms, as well. Polka dots are great, but I have a thing for freckles. I think I deserve hero points.”
Chelsea slipped her hand into his, the same hand that she’d thumped a moment ago. “I’m wondering if maybe you’d like more than points.”
He swallowed, his throat suddenly tight. “More?”
“Yeah. Something to go along with the memory.”
She would regret this later. It was the champagne and the lightning and the erotic wall art working her over. Gage made a last-ditch attempt to throw them both on a pyre of sanity. “My memory’s pretty good,” he said. “Beautiful breasts tend to stay with me.”
She slid into his lap and put his hand on one of the breasts he’d tho
ught about a hundred times. Maybe a thousand.
“Then again, touch is better than memory, as they say,” he said, carrying Chelsea to the peacock bed.
“Who says?” she asked, curling into his neck and placing small kisses there. His body hit horny overload.
He could not be this lucky.
“I say,” Gage said, and laid her on the mattress.
Chelsea thought she was going to die of the sexual attraction swamping her. A wild roller coaster of emotions threatened to overtake her senses—she knew that—but the fact was, once Gage kissed her on the lips, parting her mouth with his tongue, she was lost. And she was happy to be lost.
He was a man who wouldn’t stay in her life, wouldn’t want an entanglement. He was perfect.
“Are you sure?” he asked, running his hand under her blouse to her bra clasp.
“Positive,” she said, undoing his belt buckle.
“Changing your mind is allowed. Just say the word.”
He sounded worried, so she sneaked her hands around his muscled back and down into his jeans, kneading the skin, slowly moving to the front. He took off her bra, and she shimmied her jeans off, letting him make the final move with her string bikini underwear. Gage hesitated, his gaze on her in the flickering candlelight. And then, before she realized what he was going to do, he’d reached over and turned off the flashlight, blew out the candles and kissed his way down her stomach to her navel.
Gently, slowly, he removed her panties, kissing her there as thoroughly as he’d kissed her lips. She cried out, never imagining such pleasure existed, and when it seemed she couldn’t take anymore and grabbed his shoulders for the pleasure of it all, he rose and slowly sank inside her.
It hurt, God it hurt, and she swallowed the cry she nearly uttered.
“Are you okay?” Gage asked.
“Yes,” Chelsea whispered. But he knew anyway, because she was lying completely, rigidly still under him. So he rolled over and pulled her on top of him, holding her, and as the storm flashed light and fury through the windows, Chelsea knew she’d been right to wait for the only man of her impossible dreams.
* * *
“HOW ARE YOU DOING?” Gage asked, leaning over to kiss her lips about an hour later, after they’d dozed a little. Chelsea had stunned him. He’d never expected her to be a virgin. She was too pretty to have never had a boyfriend. Then he remembered that she’d mentioned she’d spent years taking care of her mother, and everything made sense.
“I’m fine,” Chelsea said. She nuzzled his neck. “I think I could be better, though.”
“Tell me how, doll.”
His voice sounded rough in the darkness, though he’d tried to keep the moment light. The last thing he wanted was for the electricity to come back on and her to be embarrassed by their lovemaking.
“Like this,” Chelsea said, moving on top of him.
His breath caught, and his body was instantly awake, roaring like a tiger. She was hot and tight and wet, and the crazy best part was that she wanted him.
Not half as much as he wanted Red right now. If she was game, he’d aim to please.
He grabbed another condom from his wallet on the nightstand.
“Come here, beautiful,” he said, kissing her, turning her onto her back and moving inside her. He hesitated, waiting for her to clench up again with pain, but when she didn’t, he began long, slow strokes to get her to the place he was already. At long last, he could tease her nipples, kiss them to his heart’s content. “Ever since I saw these, I wanted them,” he told her, his voice husky and tight like it hadn’t been since he was a teenager.
Chelsea moaned in response, reaching for what she didn’t know was out there, on the edge of pleasure. “Relax,” he whispered, “I’ve got you.” And moving inside her more swiftly, he listened for the sounds he needed to hear, letting him know he was pleasing her. When she suddenly went over the edge, crying out his name, Gage was startled. Burying his face in her neck, he said, “Chelsea, Chelsea,” over and over again like a drowning man, and when he felt her wetness washing over him, he let go, sinking into her accepting body, knowing somehow that everything he’d ever thought and ever wanted in life had just changed, miraculously, and completely beyond his control.
Chapter Eight
As Ellen had predicted, the “juice” had not come back on by daybreak. Gage was gone when Chelsea finally stirred. She grabbed a quick, satisfying shower, grateful that the small cottage had gas heat. She wished she’d been awake when Gage had gotten up—but waking up with him would have been awkward, too.
He’d probably thought to spare her.
Thing was, she didn’t regret last night. And if he was worried about her not understanding his feeling about no relationships in his life, he needn’t be. She pulled on her jeans and shoes, fluffed her hair to dry it a bit, and told herself she’d never had a long-term relationship, and now wasn’t the time for her to start. She couldn’t even be sure she’d get her green card. Her mother needed her, and she had a deadline looming.
Clearly, this was not the time for romance.
Not to mention she was pretty certain Gage had a daughter who wouldn’t accept a woman in her father’s life easily. Chelsea couldn’t blame her.
She went to find Gage, not surprised to see him outside with Ellen, looking over some tall, wide pens.
“I just can’t part with any of my birds right now,” the breeder said. “Good morning, Chelsea.”
Gage gave her a slow, sexy smile that flipped her heart, then went back to his conversation. “I believe, Ms. Ellen, you might have known that you couldn’t part with any last night.”
Chelsea’s jaw dropped. They had gotten taken for a night of room rental—and had taken full advantage of the moment to be alone. She blushed, knowing Jonas was going to be plenty annoyed when they returned without the colorful, beautiful peacocks he envisioned for Rancho Diablo.
“I said I’d think about it,” Ellen said, her tone defensive. “The problem is that it’s breeding season, as you might have heard last night.”
They had heard the loud calls of the peacocks searching for partners. Chelsea found herself blushing again, remembering that Gage had said he was glad he didn’t have to make those kinds of noises to get his lady into bed. And then he’d made slow, sweet love to her, feeding her a strawberry and making good use of the strawberry oil on the gilt tray, murmuring that she was his own delicious—
“What do you think, Chelsea?” Gage asked.
Her gaze snapped to his. “I think Miss Ellen has a point about waiting until after breeding season. We don’t have a pen yet, and it would give us time to build one. We could come back at the end of the summer, say, September, and get a pair of peacocks then.”
Nodding, Gage glanced at Ellen. “Works for me.”
“Well,” she said, pretending to think over the proposition, “I would feel better if you had your pens built. And once the ladies are done nesting, it wouldn’t be harmful to transport them so far. Where’d you say you’re from?”
“Hell’s Colony,” Gage stated.
“That’s what I thought you said.” She gave him a sharp eying. “I knew a man from New Mexico who wanted peacocks. I didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him with my birds.”
Gage smiled reassuringly. “Glad you like us, then.”
Ellen hesitated. “There aren’t that many people in the market for peafowl. So I have to be careful.”
Chelsea saw that the woman had her radar up for trouble. Nothing good could come of her asking more questions. “We’d like to make a fifty percent deposit, Ms. Smithers, and then pay the other half when we receive our pair. Would that suit you?”
Gage pulled out his wallet, retrieving green bills that caught Ellen’s gaze.
“I think it might,” she said.
“Good,” Chelsea said. “Now we’ll take a tour of your birds, and get your help picking out a likely pair we could take home in September. I’d like to snap some pictures so I’ll
have something to look forward to.”
“All right,” Ellen said, her voice uncertain. Snatching the money from Gage, she turned toward the pens. “Hope you two slept comfortably last night. Sorry about the electricity. Crazy storm we had.”
“We slept fine,” Chelsea said, not about to look at Gage. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
“Anytime,” Ellen said.
Chelsea didn’t even glance at Gage as they walked toward the pens over the muddy ground. There wouldn’t be a “next” time, which filled a part of Chelsea with regret.
* * *
THE RIDE BACK to DARK DIABLO was quiet. Gage had tried to talk to Chelsea about last night—and she’d shut him down pretty coolly, saying every woman wanted adventure at some point, and that the Great Peacock Chase had certainly been an adventure.
She seemed inclined to let their amazing—at least he’d thought it was amazing—night go unmentioned.
He guessed he should feel relieved she wasn’t one of those needy females who wanted to discuss everything to death.
He didn’t feel relieved. In fact, he wanted to tell her how special she was. Wanted to tell Chelsea that he’d enjoyed every moment of their evening together.
So he murmured something instead about how clever it had been to pin Ms. Smithers down with a fifty percent deposit—he had no idea how Jonas would feel about that, but that was his problem—and that he admired how Chelsea had handled a difficult negotiation.
She’d nodded, got in the truck, her face paler than normal, and said little else—until they were nearly back to Dark Diablo.
“Gage,” she said, “you work for Jonas, and I work for Jonas keeping his farmhouse up and in order, and any other little things he decides he wants, like peacock buying. I’ve always heard it’s bad to mix business and pleasure, and I’d have to agree with that.”
