Montana Mavericks Christmas

by Susan Mallery

  She had an open face, he thought, watching her. Every emotion flashed across her eyes. She would be a lousy poker player.

  “You seem to have done a good job,” he said.

  “Thanks. I tried.”

  He touched the dining room table. “This looks old. Is it a family antique you managed to salvage?”

  She laughed. “I’m sure it’s someone’s but not mine. I bought it a couple of years ago at a garage sale. The hutch came with it.” She grinned. “These days, I live for a good bargain. You should see me at the half-yearly sales. I’m formidable.”

  “Sounds like it. Do you miss being rich?”

  “Who wouldn’t?” She scooped up a forkful of stuffing. “But I like who I am now a whole lot more than I liked who I was before. I consider that a plus.”

  She was a pint-size bundle of trouble, he thought grimly. Pretty, sexy, single and appealing. Why had he ever accepted her invitation?

  “What brings you to Whitehorn?” he asked. ”It’s a long way from Arizona.”

  For the first time that evening, she avoided his gaze. “I wanted to experience ‘big sky country,’” she said breezily. “You know—the myth of the Old West. I just sort of found my way here.”

  Mark’s chest tightened. She was lying. He would bet his life on it. Which meant there was something she didn’t want him to know. Like Sylvia, she was a woman with secrets—and off-limits to him.

  Three

  After dinner, they cleared the table, then Darcy led the way into the small living room. Mark followed, sitting at the opposite end of the sofa.

  “That was great,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

  “Thank you.” She patted her stomach. ”I’m full but don’t feel as if I’m about to explode. I consider that a positive statement after a Thanksgiving dinner.”

  “I didn’t get through my half of the turkey.”

  She laughed. “That’s right. You were supposed to eat your whole twelve pounds’ worth. Maybe I should pack it up and you can take it home. I have a great recipe for turkey enchiladas. I could write it down for you.”

  “I don’t cook much.”

  She pretended surprise. “I thought all New York City detectives were incredibly domestic.”

  “I missed that class.” He studied her. “So you know I lived in New York. Am I a regular topic for gossip or is it just a sometime thing?”

  Darcy refused to give in to the embarrassment she could feel growing inside her. “Everyone has his or her fifteen minutes of fame at the Hip Hop Café,” she said casually. “You were a hot topic when you moved back, but things have calmed down some since then.”

  “Good to know.”

  Darcy sipped her wine and regarded her guest over the rim of her glass. He was a good-looking man. Too good-looking for her long-celibate state. Tall, strong, with compelling green eyes. She liked that his dark brown hair was a tad too long and that his tailored slacks showed off his perfect butt nearly as much as his jeans did.

  She took another quick sip to keep herself from grinning. She couldn’t believe she was sitting here thinking about Mark’s butt. She had no right—nor was it her style. Even back in the dark ages when she’d actually dated, she’d never been overly interested in sex. She’d given in because it had been expected, but most of the time, she’d been faintly bored by the experience. In the past five years she’d missed the emotional closeness of male-female relationships more than the physical intimacy…right up until she’d laid eyes on Mark.

  Something about the man set her body to humming. She sort of enjoyed the sensation of being faintly aroused without him actually doing anything. At least it was a change from her usual worry and exhaustion.

  He’d surprised her by being a pleasant guest. She’d thought he might not talk at all, which had made the thought of just the two of them at the table fairly horrifying. For a few minutes he’d seemed to withdraw into himself, but he’d recovered and had continued with his questions. Speaking of which…

  “I think it’s my turn to play detective,” she said teasingly. “You learned everything about me at dinner, so now I should learn about you.”

  “Ask away.”

  She shifted so that she was facing him. “How did a man born and bred in Montana end up in New York? As a detective, no less?”

  “It’s something I wanted from the time I was a kid. I never got the rodeo bug, so I wasn’t interested in steer wrestling or bronc riding. I spent my time reading police procedurals. When I graduated from college, I headed for New York where I got a job on the police force. I worked my way up from there.”

  His expression didn’t change as he spoke and Darcy had a difficult time figuring out if the memories made him sad.

  “What brought you back?” she asked.

  “I was shot.”

  She nearly spilled her wine. “In the line of duty?”

  “A murder suspect didn’t like the way the investigation was going. She took out her temper on me.”

  Darcy stared at him in shock. “She? A woman shot you?”

  “Women can be killers, too.”

  “I suppose.” She studied him, looking for healing scars or hints that he’d been hurt. There weren’t any—nothing was visible and he didn’t walk with a limp. She’d seen him out jogging so he must be doing better. She thought about asking where he’d been wounded, but the question felt too intimate. “I don’t think of the average woman as being a violent person.”

  “She isn’t. But there are always exceptions.”

  “Do you miss the work?”

  He shifted uncomfortably, as if he didn’t want to answer the question. “Some.”

  “Do you miss the city?”

  “It sure ain’t Whitehorn.”

  She laughed. “You have that right. I remember growing up in Chicago. We were always going into the city on weekends to different restaurants and plays. Or to the museums.”

  “There’s a great western museum not too far from here.”

  “Gee, thanks. Next you’ll be telling me that the Hip Hop Café serves international cuisine.”

  “They do offer an Oriental chicken salad on the menu.”

  She took another sip of wine. “I actually knew that.”

  He picked up his glass from the coffee table. “Okay, so Whitehorn doesn’t exactly have the same amenities. I’ll admit I do miss New York. The ethnic foods were great, as was the idea that I could get anything I wanted at any time of the day or night. Detective work isn’t nine-to-five, so we appreciated the late hours the restaurants were open.” He drank from his glass. “I was never much of a museum guy, but I did enjoy theater.” He frowned slightly. “I don’t think I ever saw the end of a play. I nearly always got called to a crime scene.”

  She leaned her head against the sofa back. “I can’t begin to relate to your experiences.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to. Sometimes they make it hard to sleep at night.”

  She waited, but he didn’t say more. Did he have trouble sleeping? Did he pace long into the night? Lamplight highlighted the strength of his jaw. He had a well-shaped mouth, she thought dreamily. She would bet ten bucks that Detective Mark Kincaid was one fine kisser. Not that she was going to find out, but a girl could dream. She smiled at the thought of telling him kissing might make sleeping easier…or not.

  “You’re not married,” she said before she could stop herself.

  His eyebrows rose slightly. “No. Never have been.”

  “Me, either.”

  “No surprise there. You’re barely old enough to be legal.”

  “I’m twenty-five.”

  “A baby.”

  She straightened. “You’re hardly in your dotage.”

  “It’s not the miles, it’s the wear and tear.”

  He smiled as he spoke. A teasing curve of lips that made her heart stutter against her ribs and her hands suddenly go damp. She had to be extra careful when she put down her glass so that it didn’t slip.

  �
�You should smile more,” she said.

  His good humor faded. “I don’t find life especially funny.”

  “Maybe not, but there are still pleasant surprises. Tonight, for example. I was worried and nervous about you coming over to dinner, but it’s turned out fine. We’ve chatted more easily than I would have thought.”

  “I’ll give you that,” he said. “I didn’t want to come. The way you badger me about what I eat, I was sure you were going to put tofu in something.”

  “You didn’t even taste it.”

  His eyes widened. “Darcy.”

  He growled her name more than said it. Shivers trickled down her spine. She found herself wanting to lean toward him, press against him to see what would happen. Dangerous thoughts, she told herself. She must make sure to keep them to herself.

  “It was in the mashed potatoes,” she whispered. “I would never put tofu in the stuffing.”

  He laughed. She’d never heard him laugh before—not that they’d spent all that much time together. Most of their conversations had been abbreviated exchanges with her arguing about his breakfast choice.

  “I’ll bet you don’t even have tofu in the house,” he said, then finished his wine.

  “You’re right, but I will admit to the pleasure of watching a grown man tremble at the thought.” She rose and stretched. ”There’s probably one more glass of wine in the bottle,” she said. “As you’re not driving, why don’t you finish it?”

  He nodded his agreement and she walked into the dining room. The wine bottle stood on the table. She grabbed it. As she approached the sofa, she fought against the urge to slide down next to him. What would the detective say if she suddenly plopped herself down close, maybe even on his lap. She giggled as she pictured him leaping up in horror. The wine would spill on her sofa and she would be humiliated. It was probably best if she kept her feelings to herself.

  “What’s so funny?” he asked.

  “Just my own twisted sense of humor.”

  He held out his glass. She bent toward him to pour, but instead of focusing on what she was doing, she found herself staring into his green eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever known a man with green eyes before. They were actually beautiful—well shaped and fringed with long, dark lashes.

  “Darcy?”

  She heard him speak her name, but she couldn’t respond. Her heart thundered painfully in her chest. There was a pressure, as well, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. She felt unbearably warm, yet her legs were trembling. If not from cold, then from what?

  Mark took the wine bottle from her. She glanced down and saw she hadn’t poured any of the pale liquid. He set his glass on the table, next to the bottle, all the while keeping his gaze firmly locked with hers.

  “We can’t do this,” he said.

  She licked her suddenly dry lips. “Do what?”

  He swore. She realized she was still bent over him. Like an idiot, she thought, starting to straighten. But then his hand was on her arm, tugging her closer. She didn’t know which way to move. Her center of balance shifted and suddenly she was falling.

  Before she could stop herself, she landed on his lap—exactly where she’d imagined herself not thirty seconds before. His arms came around her, drawing her closer.

  “You’re not the only one who’s been thinking about it,” he said quietly, right before his mouth settled over hers.

  For several seconds Darcy couldn’t respond. She was afraid she was imagining all this. That the wine had gone to her head—so much so that on another plane of reality, she and Mark were actually having a rational conversation while her imagination created this romantic scenario.

  Yet he felt very real as he pulled her against him. She wasn’t sure her fantasizing could have created such an amazing combination of heat and desire.

  As she’d thought, Mark Kincaid kissed like a dream. Soft yet firm, warm and tempting. He didn’t take, didn’t hold back, didn’t give her time to think, which was all exactly how she wanted it. His lips brushed against hers in a sensual greeting that made her toes curl. His scent, the feel of his body against hers, the way his arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him were all delightfully unfamiliar, but oh, so welcome.

  He kept the kiss light, yet despite the delicate pressure, she found herself overwhelmed by need. Heat poured through her with an intensity she’d never experienced. She knew however unexpected the turn of events, they were very real.

  Every cell in her body cried out for her to have her way with this man. She tried to tell herself that she had to be careful not to scare him off, that she needed to be the tiniest bit sensible and that it had been at least five years since she’d been with a man and she’d probably forgotten how to do it. None of that mattered. Not when his mouth moved over hers, back and forth, slowly, so slowly.

  He tilted his head to improve the angle of their contact. Instinctively she parted for him, wanting him to kiss her deeply, needing that intimacy more than she’d ever needed anything. But he made her wait. First he nibbled on her lower lip, the pull of his teeth nearly making her cry out with pleasure. Her breasts swelled and began to ache. Without meaning to, she found herself moving her hands up his shoulders to his neck, then burying her fingers in his hair.

  Finally, amazingly, he swept his tongue against the inside of her lower lip. Desire shot through her, making her cling to him. Something hard and masculine bumped up against her hip. The proof of his arousal made her brush her tongue against his, taking rather than waiting.

  It was as if she’d set fire to dynamite. Passion exploded through her. Through Mark, as well, if his actions told the truth. Even as they leaned into each other, trying to kiss more deeply, to explore every aspect of their sensual connection, their hands reached for each other.

  He grabbed her hips, lifting her. She shifted around until she straddled him. Instantly her hot, ready feminine center pressed against his hardness. The perfect pleasure of the contact nearly made her scream. She couldn’t stop the pulsating movement of her hips, or the catch in her breath when she found a rhythm that nearly sent her over the edge. Mark only made it worse—and better—by urging her on. The hands holding her hips eased her back and forth until they both moaned.

  He pulled away enough to kiss her cheeks, her chin, then to nibble along her throat. He moved his hands from her hips to her waist, then around to her ribs. From there it was a short journey to her breasts.

  She was too stunned to protest…at least that’s what she tried telling herself in the tiny part of her brain that was still coherent. This wasn’t her fault. Except she’d wanted it to happen, had imagined what it would be like. Instead of stopping him, she arched her back, pushing her full curves into his hands. He squeezed gently, then explored her. When his fingers brushed against her nipples, she cried out, exhaling his name.

  When he tugged on the hem of her sweater, she helped him pull off the garment. He unfastened her bra without a single fumble, leaving her bare to the waist. Before she could even think about being embarrassed or stopping him, he straightened and leaned forward, then took her right nipple in his mouth.

  The sensation was nearly more than she could stand. As his lips closed around her and his tongue flicked against her taut peak, he used his fingers to tease her other breast. She clutched at him, feeling the silk of his hair. Powerful muscles bunched as he shuddered.

  The voice whispering this had to stop began to fade as desire pulsed in time with her rapid heartbeat. Tears burned in her eyes—brought on by skin long deprived of human touch. Every brush of his fingers was exquisite. When he stood her on her feet and reached for the button at her waistband, she didn’t have the will to stop him. Especially when his fingers trembled slightly. She looked at his face. The raw need in his green eyes reassured her more than words.

  He unfastened her slacks. Before tugging them down, he paused to shrug out of his shirt. She had a brief impression of strong muscles and a still-red scar, but then he urged her
out of her shoes and she couldn’t think about anything except him pulling off the rest of her clothes.

  He settled back on the sofa, then ran his hands up and down her legs, pausing at the top of her thighs. The pulsing desire had only increased and when he swept close to the blond hair protecting her most private place, she began to quiver. He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her down next to him on the cushion. They kissed. A deep, stirring sharing of souls that made her shake even more.

  Long fingers rested on her thigh. She parted slightly, so ready she knew that it wouldn’t take but a touch to bring her to climax.

  “Mark, I—”

  He touched her there. Through the slick folds of skin, the dampness, he found the one spot designed to bring her to her knees. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but silently beg him to never stop.

  He read her mind.

  With agonizing slowness, he circled the sensitive place, then returned to brush over the swollen nerve center. Twice more he repeated the process and, on the third lap, she lost herself.

  Her climax shuddered through her with the intensity of a volcano. He deepened the kiss, swallowing her cries as pleasure rippled through her, making her shake and cling to him. He touched her lightly until the last tremor faded.

  He drew back slightly and stroked her cheek. When she finally gathered the courage to open her eyes, she found him smiling at her. The slow, easy, masculine smile of a man who has just pleased a woman.

  “Yes, well.” She cleared her throat. ”It’s been some time since I’ve, ah…”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Liar.”

  His smile widened. “All right. Maybe I noticed a little. It happened so quickly, it was hard to tell.”

  She swatted at his arm, but without any great force. He slipped off the sofa, then turned her so she was half sitting, half lying against the back. She tried not to think about the fact that she was completely naked and that they were in her living room. Not to mention that she barely knew the man. But when she would have protested, he bent down and nibbled the skin at the inside of her knee.