Blush

by Suzanne Forster

  Another wave of dizziness rocked him. Swaying back on his elbow, he realized he was going to pass out. "Swell, " he mumbled thickly. "I'm just swell. "

  The next thing he knew he was sprawled on his back on the floor and she was all over him, seemingly everywhere at once, caressing his face, her hands fluttering over his torso, unbuttoning his shirt and unzipping his pants. He could feel her inspecting his stomach, his pelvic basin, and lower. God, it felt wonderful, all of it, only she was messing with the wrong stuff.

  "My leg, " he croaked. "It's my leg. "

  There was a flurry of movement in the area of his groin and thighs, and he realized she was pulling his jeans off. Christ, what was she doing? Playing doctor? His vision washed to pale, then faded to gray. It terrified him to think that his life was in her hands, in the hands of a flaky supermodel with a trust fund. Jesus!

  "Get my knife," he told her. "Sterilize it with the matches in the duffel bag—"

  "Oh, my God!" she cried. "I found it!"

  He tried to sit up, to see what she was doing, but he was overcome with a sickening wooziness. He broke out in a film of cold sweat and dropped back to the floor, his head clunking against the boards. Suck out the venom.

  He gasped the words, or thought he did, wondering if she could hear him, wondering if she was paying any damn attention. In a matter of seconds it was a moot question. He was whirling in a gray fog again, spiraling down into a liquid darkness. And there with him was Gus Featherstone with a huge knife and a wicked grin. Her eyes gleamed as she surveyed his nakedness. Was he having a nightmare or did she look frighteningly like Lorena Bobbitt?

  It's my leg, he tried to tell her. It's my leg!

  Sometime later—it could have been hours or even days—he began to float back to the surface. When he finally awakened, he was sporting a major headache and not much else. Even before he'd opened his eyes, the hot breeze skimming over his body told him he was missing something, namely his clothes.

  He could feel the air riffling the dark fleece that covered his pecs, as well as the small crop much farther down. His head throbbed so fiercely he could barely bring the ceiling into focus, and when he did he saw tiny green things whipping back and forth through his field of vision.

  Lizards. Great.

  He closed one eye and concentrated on Gus. At least she wasn't green. Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to him and still gowned in his T-shirt, she was observing him with an expression that was more expectant than fearful. In fact, if she looked concerned about him at all it was in a motherly feeling-better-now? sort of way. But there was something else about her he found even more bemusing. A spark lurked deep in her eyes, and it flared brighter when he squinted at her suspiciously. What had she done to him? He was still alive, unless this lizard was from hell, so apparently she hadn't killed him with his own knife.

  In fact, Gus had done nothing to him at all. Oh, she'd undressed him, yes, and tried everything she could think of to save his incredibly sexy butt. But as it turned out, none of her efforts were necessary for reasons she would soon explain to him. She wasn't even staring at him now for any particular reason. She just loved it when he squinted at her as if she was the woman he'd least like to be stranded with on a desert island.

  She was also rather intrigued at the quite lascivious spectacle he made, lying there in glorious abandon, his shirt hanging open, his jeans bunched down around his ankles, and nothing in between except muscle after muscle of strong and sunburned masculine pride.

  She'd seen her share of nude male models, flashing their hard bodies as they tore off their designer clothes between runs, but this display of raw might was nothing to sneeze at, either. He was barbed-wire lean, not an extra kilogram on him anywhere, yet he was all brawn around the shoulders and chest. His arms looked like solid muscle, even relaxed.

  He was hung, too.

  She caught a little corner of her lip between her teeth to keep from smiling. Rather nicely, she had to admit, though she'd been trying to keep her gaze from drifting too conspicuously to that very conspicuous part of him. The springy dark curls looked crisp, yet soft, and the other prominent feature seemed surprisingly tensile considering the man's weakened condition.

  Actually, it was tensile. She knew because she'd lifted it to look underneath. She had to check him for snakebites, didn't she?

  He forced himself up, resting on his elbows as he peered down the length of his body. "What did you do?" He gaped with disbelief at his exposed organs, then up at her. "Molest me?"

  Nothing you haven't already done to yourself, I imagine, she thought, smiling at the wickedness of the image that brought. In truth, the jeans around his ankles did give rather the impression of a rodeo romeo caught with his pants down. "Don't be silly, " she told him. "I was looking for the snakebite you kept screaming about. "

  He squinted at her again. "Where is it?"

  "It isn't. There isn't one. Anywhere. Believe me, if there was, I would have found it. I even rolled you over and checked your cheeks. "

  Watching him turn as hot pink as her erstwhile nail polish, Gus realized she'd embarrassed him. It struck her as rather charming that someone like him could be sensitive about such things. And it gave more credence to her theory that he had hang-ups. Poor sweet boy, she thought. He was blushing. Maybe she ought to see what she could do about his problem.

  "But you said you found something, " he insisted. "I heard you. "

  "I found some cuts on your legs, and one of them was red and swollen. " She pointed to an enflamed area on his shin, trailing her fingers around it lightly and watching him stiffen up. What a responsive fellow he was.

  "Here, this is it," she said, fluttering her fingers over the wound again just to see his reaction. "I thought it was a snakebite, but when I cleaned it up, I saw it was only a scrape. You must have done it yourself when you fell through the floor. "

  "The rattler got me," he said stubbornly. "I felt it."

  "It got your boot, twice. I can show you if you want," she offered, pointing to his footwear. The mangled boots were neatly aligned next to the table as if waiting for him to get up in the morning, slip them on, kiss the little wife, and trot off to work. She'd done some housekeeping while he'd been in dreamland.

  "Then why did I black out?" he wanted to know.

  "You probably hit your head when you fell in the pit and got yourself a small concussion. "

  "A small concussion? Aren't we the doctor? What are you doing?"

  He tried to ward her off as she raised up on her haunches and bent over his head as if to groom him, but she was determined. "I want to see if I'm right. If you've got a concussion, I should feel a knot somewhere. "

  "Aren't you supposed to check my eyes?"

  "Your eyes?"

  "To see if they're dilated."

  Her brows knit. "I'll do that right after I find the knot. "

  Jack glowered up at her with enough heat to torch the shack, for what little good it did him. She was totally into her Mother Teresa, save-the-unworthy-kidnapper thing. She soothed his hot, damp forehead with the heels of her hands, her fingers feathering lightly into his hair as she worked.

  "Hmmm," she murmured softly, purling her way along the contours of his scalp with movements so light and gentle they rippled his spine and sent a pleasant chill racing down his arms.

  He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to let go of the breath he was holding in reserve. Gus, baby, why are you doing this to me? Why are you tying me in knots? "So?" he grumbled. "Is there a knot?"

  "Oh, I'm sure there is, somewhere around here. My, but you have a wonderful lot of dark hair... and very little gray. I guess we don't worry much, do we?"

  She'd just love to know what he was worried about now.

  It felt great, what she was doing. It could have felt annoying or distracting. But no, it had to feel great, which was the last thing he needed under the circumstances. Some other guy might even have thought it was better than great. That other guy might hav
e thought it was damn near irresistible the way she was stroking and petting and purring all over him. Especially if the guy's shoulders and arms were turning to butter... if his lids had begun to droop... and if his spine were going limp.

  Jack's droopy lids flicked open. His spine might be going limp, but he could feel nerves quickening and heat stirring in dangerous places.

  "Oh, here's a little bump... ahhh, yes, feel that?"

  All he could feel above the neck were her fingers playing hide-and-seek in his hair. Maybe he did have a concussion. That would explain why he was losing control of his bodily functions. His rational brain had short-circuited and his animal urges had commandeered the control panel.

  "Maybe if I try a little lower...?"

  "No, I don't think—" Like he could stop her. Like a Mack truck could stop her. Her fingers were sifting and drifting down the sides of his head, running amuck in his military brush cut. She traced the outline of his ears with flirty little sensations that tickled like crazy when she got to his earlobes. And then one of her fingers slipped just inside the sensitive orifice and stroked the tender membranes. Jack felt as if lightning had struck him.

  "Ouch!" he said.

  She swung back to look at him. "Am I hurting you?"

  More than you know, he thought.

  He claimed her wrists and held her back so that he could glower at her from arm's length. Not a swift move, he realized immediately. His instinct had been to avoid eye contact with her, in fact, to avoid looking at her at all. His instincts had been right. She had the kind of eyes that a century ago might have gazed at you from behind a harem veil of exotic, Oriental silk. There wasn't a word for the color. The closest he could come was violet, but that didn't even touch the vibrance. Her lids were smoky, her lashes thick and onyx black.

  Harem eyes set in a sullen, slender tomboy face.

  If the word pouty had been in his vocabulary, which it wasn't and wouldn't be, ever, he might have used it to describe her mouth—pouty, succulent, plump. He was beginning to see what everyone was talking about. Even as disheveled as she was right now, she was still sultry enough to melt icecaps. There was one thing working against her though. She stunk.

  "Go take a shower, " he said.

  "Beg your pardon?"

  "See that curtain over there?" He jerked his head toward the alcove. "There's a shower stall inside. I got the pump going this morning. "

  "Why... thank you."

  She was obviously puzzled until she glanced down at his physical condition. Sparks flared in the violet depths of her irises, painting them a deeper blue color as she looked back up at him. "Seems like you could use a shower yourself, a cold one. "

  He warned her with his eyes. "There's only enough water for one, cold or otherwise. " She'd been warned. "That's fine... I'll share. "

  Jack could feel himself heating up again. Christ, this woman was making him blush like an idiot kid! He ought to put her in the pit and leave her there. "Take the damn shower before I change my mind, " he growled, releasing her and reaching for his jeans.

  He had his butt covered by the time he'd sprung to his feet and whipped around, but getting his pants zipped would have involved an act of ritual tribal mutilation. Instead he yanked his shirt together and turned just in time to see her peeling off hers. "Undress in the shower, " he bit out.

  "Okay, okay!" She held the cotton material to her breasts, which exposed her behind as she prissed across the room, taking care to avoid the abyss she'd created.

  Whoever had said her breasts were incredible had missed the boat, Jack thought. Her breasts were fine. But her ass, now that was incredible, worthy of whatever award it had won. She whipped the curtain aside but couldn't get the corroded shower door open. Watching her struggle to unjam it made him feel as if his neck had been caught in a noose, only the tension was considerably farther south.

  "Here, let me do that," he said, anxious to have her and her hot little bottom out of eyeshot.

  Jack Culhane to the rescue.

  The door came unstuck with one blow of his shoulder. He waved her inside with a dark look, heaved a sigh of relief as she disappeared, and turned his back on the entire situation.

  The rusty groans and squeaks of knobs being forced told him she'd figured out how to release the valves. Her little gasp of surprise told him the water was cold. He swiped an arm over the dampness on his forehead and walked to the window. The breeze felt hot and gritty, choked with dust. His whole body was filmed with sweat and the aroma rising off him was ripe enough to ferment fruit. And he'd been complaining about her?

  He walked over to the table and stood there, having a look at the miniature kingdom he'd whittled and aware of the physical tension in his body as he hadn't been in years. His chest tightened with each breath he took. Even the soles of his bare feet felt rigid against the rough wood planks.

  Behind him the shower door swung open and the T-shirt sailed into the room. He could hear her splashing gaily, water sloshing down the drain. Little silvery droplets flew like stars.

  "Sure you won't join me?" she burbled. "It's fabulous, so cool and wet! And the water's hardly even red, more like amber. "

  He broke out in a hot sweat. It beaded on his temples and trickled down toward his ears. As he blotted the warm rivulets with the hem of his shirt, he remembered the play of her hands in his hair and the feathery caress of her fingertips along his earlobes.

  Join her? Ignoring the treacherous throb in his groin, he stared at the can of beer he'd been fondling the night before, fondling like it was a warm, soft, healing woman, a woman he could lose his mind with. Jesus, he wanted a drink. How long had it been? Far too long the way he felt. The physical craving was still strong, still urgent, almost as urgent as his need to strip down and get naked in the goddamn shower.

  His body wanted what he couldn't give it, what it had been denied for so long—sexual satisfaction with a woman.

  He wiped the sweat from his eyes and raked his hair back. The heat was weighing him down, making it hard to breathe. What would happen if he did it? Suppose he gave in to this insane urge to join her, what then? He knew the answer without even thinking about it. He had to be crazy. What he needed from this woman was information, not sex. But tell that to his dick.

  "Is there something wrong?" she called out.

  He spun around and yelled at the partially open door, "Not a goddamn thing, Gus. It's just hot enough to bake pottery in here, that's all. "

  "Brrrrrr, " she trilled as if shivering from the cold. "It's freezing in here. "

  "Smart ass, " he said under his breath.

  "What is it you don't like this time? Women or showers?" Her head popped out and she looked him up and down, grinning. "I guess it must be showers. Or is that a pistol in your pocket?"

  "Cocked and locked," he assured her grimly, but she'd already popped back inside and pulled the door shut with her.

  He reached over and grabbed up the beer, gripping it so tightly his fingers dented the can. His thumb began to work the crease, and with every stroke, he could feel an echoing quiver inside him. Maybe they both had a death wish, he and Gus Featherstone. Joining her would make him as in- sane as she was, especially knowing what the repercussions could be. As he set the can down, an awareness hit him like the bullets that had perforated his body. He was going to do it anyway. Christ, he was!

  Don't contaminate the work! Don't contamin—

  He brought his fist down hard, causing the castle to quake mightily. Contaminate, my ass, he thought. He was in the middle of the Mojave, sweating like a pig. He had a shower, a woman, a hard-on, and what was he doing? He was equivocating like a kid in the candy store. What was missing from this picture?

  "Balls," he muttered. "Mine."

  A moment later, stripped down to the hard-on in question, he opened the shower door.

  Chapter 8

  They called her Blush.

  Webb Calderon had understood why the moment he set eyes on her. She was kissing her ow
n reflection in a baroque, gilt-edged mirror, shyly touching her rosebud lips to the glass and gazing at herself from beneath the lovesick droop of heavily lashed lids. Her cheeks held a feverish flush and one of her delicate hands caressed the ornate frame as if it were a man's shoulders. The other hand clutched a hat with huge red roses. Her hot, moist breath misted the mirror in a teardrop pattern, but it wasn't herself she so admired or desired. This was kissing practice for some phantom lover, some man who had yet to touch her... perhaps even to notice her.

  Webb knew this with the same metaphysical certainty that he knew she would lose her innocence the moment she was touched. The imagined was pure and perfect. Her lover wouldn't be. He might fulfill her physical longings, but he could never meet the needs of a dreamer's heart. They were pristine, like dewdrops clinging to a leaf. The sun's glory made them radiant, but only for an instant before it destroyed them. Webb knew all about that kind of destruction. He specialized in it.

  A doorbell sounded somewhere in his Beverly Hills gallery. He barely registered the sound, knowing it was probably a delivery and his assistant would handle it. He hadn't finished inspecting the oil painting for damage... or studying the young woman's intoxication. He couldn't help but wonder who had inspired such a fever of longing in her, what sort of man? A tiny, whiplike nerve stung deep in his jaw as he surrendered control of his objectivity for a moment and let himself imagine that very first touch of her trembling lips, the sweet taste of her innocence.

  He breathed with the feeling, his head lifting. It had been so long since he'd felt anything, anything at all, that he wasn't willing to let go of it immediately, even the sensation of pain. It was interesting that this particular work stirred something inside him when little else could. Technique-wise it was one of the least exceptional of Mary Goddard's oeuvre. The American painter specialized in portraits of women and girls, and she'd done many that were more technically adept. Still, Webb could hardly take his eyes off this one. The subject's innocence was the draw, perhaps because he'd lost his in such an early, violent way.