by Lind Howard
Silently she had removed her slacks and panties, standing naked before him. Her waist and hips were narrow, but the cheeks of her ass were as deliciously round as her breasts. The need to touch her was painful. Hoarsely he had ordered her to come to him, and she had silently obeyed, moving to stand beside the bed.
He’d touched her then, and felt her quiver under his hand. The column of her thigh was sleek and cool, her skin delicate in contrast with his tanned, work-roughened hand. Slowly, savoring the texture of her skin, he stroked upward and around to her buttocks; she had moved a little, rubbing herself against his hand, and mingled excitement and delight had roared through him. He had cupped the firm mounds and felt them flex, and she had begun to shake even harder. He teased her with a daring caress and sensed her shock, and he’d looked up to find that her eyes were tightly closed.
Somehow he couldn’t quite believe it was Roanna who stood naked before him, yielding her body to his exploration, and yet everything about her was infinitely familiar, and far more exciting than ten years’ worth of frustrating dreams.
He didn’t have to imagine the physical details now; they were laid out before him. Her pubic hair was a neat, curly little triangle. It had drawn his gaze, and he’d been entranced by the delicate folds, shyly closed, that he could glimpse under the curls. The mysteries of her body had made him ache with need. Roughly he’d told her to spread her legs so he could touch her, and she had.
He’d put his hand on the most private part of her body, and felt her startled response. He’d petted her, stroked her, opened her, and eased one finger into her startlingly tight sheath. He was so hard he thought he might explode, but he held back, because here was the proof that the lust wasn’t all on his part. She was slick and damp, and her soft, low moans of arousal had nearly driven him crazy. She seemed shyly bewildered by what he was doing, what she was feeling. Then he’d tried to slip another finger into her, and couldn’t. He’d felt her instinctive withdrawal, and a sudden suspicion flared in his tequila-fogged brain.
She’d never done this before. He was abruptly certain of it.
Swiftly he tumbled her down onto the bed, dragging her body across his. With more deliberation he’d probed her body, watching her reaction, fighting the alcohol as he tried to think clearly. He’d been the first with a couple of girls, back in high school and college, and even once since he’d left Alabama, so he noticed the way she blushed, her slight flinch as he pushed his rough finger even deeper. If it hadn’t been for her years of horseback riding, he doubted he would have been able to even get his finger inside her.
He should stop this, now. The knowledge seared him. His body damn near revolted. He hadn’t meant to let it go this far anyway, but he’d been undone by the tequila, and by his own arousal. He’d had just the wrong amount to drink, enough to slow his thoughts and make him not give a damn, but not enough to soften his dick. He was disgusted with himself for making her do this, and he’d opened his mouth to tell her to put on her clothes when, for an instant, he saw how terribly vulnerable she was, and how he could destroy her with a careless word even if it was for her own good.
Roanna had grown up in Jessie’s shadow. Jessie had been the pretty one, Roanna the plain one. Her physical self-confidence, except where horses were concerned, had always been close to zero. How could it not be, when rejection had been more the norm for her than acceptance? For a split second he saw the raw, desperate courage it had taken for her to do this. She had stripped naked for him, something he was certain she’d never done with any other man, and offered herself to him. He couldn’t imagine what it had cost her. If he rejected her now, it would devastate her.
“You’re a virgin,” he’d said, his voice hard and flat with frustration.
She hadn’t denied it. Instead she had blushed, a delicate rose tinting her breasts, and the delectable sight had been irresistible. He’d known he shouldn’t do it, but he’d had to touch her nipple, and then he’d had to taste her, and he’d felt the answering need in her slender body as it arched to his touch.
He’d offered to stop. It took every ounce of willpower he had to rein himself in and make that offer, but he’d done it. And Roanna had looked as if he’d slapped her in the face. She had gone white, and her lips had trembled. “Don’t you want me?” she’d whispered, the plea so faint that his heart had squeezed. His own defenses, already weakened by the tequila, went down with a crash. Rather than answering, he had simply caught her hand and dragged it down to his groin, pressed it over his erection. He hadn’t said anything even then, staying silent as he watched the sense of wonder creep into her eyes, chase away the pain. It was like watching a flower bloom.
Then she had turned her hand to hold him and had said, “Please,” and he was lost.
Still, he had tried grimly for control. Even as he shucked off his clothes, he had been sucking in deep breaths, trying to cool the fire inside him. It hadn’t worked. God, he was so ready he’d probably come as soon as he put it in her.
He had damn sure wanted to find out.
Somehow, he managed to hold himself back. His control hadn’t extended to prolonged foreplay. He had simply mounted her, tucking her delicate body under his much more powerful one, and kissed her while he forced his erection in her to the hilt.
He’d known he was hurting her, but he couldn’t stop. All he could do, once he was inside her, was make it good for her. “Ladies first” had always been his motto, and he had experience in achieving his objective. Roanna was startlingly, overwhelmingly responsive to his every touch, her hips moving, her back arching, hot little cries breaking from her lips. Jessie had always held back, but Roanna gave herself without restraint, without pretension. She had climaxed fast, and then his own orgasm had seized him and he had come violently, more violently than he’d ever experienced before, pounding into her and flooding her with semen.
She hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t jumped up to run into the bathroom and clean herself. She had simply dozed off with her arms still looped around his neck.
Maybe he had dozed, too. He didn’t know. But eventually he had roused himself and slid off her, turned out the light, tucked her under the covers, and joined her there.
It hadn’t been long before his cock had stirred insistently, lured by the silken body in his arms. And Roanna had welcomed him without hesitation, as she had every other time during the night that he’d reached for her.
It was almost dawn now.
The effects of the tequila had faded from his system, and he had to face the facts. Like it or not, he had blackmailed Roanna into this. The hell of it was, he hadn’t needed to. She would have lain down for him without it being a condition for his return.
Something had happened to her, something that had robbed her of her zest, her spontaneity. It was as if she had finally been defeated by all the efforts to force her into a certain mold, and had surrendered herself.
He didn’t like it. It made him furious.
He wanted to kick himself for becoming just one more person in a long line of people who had forced her to do something. It didn’t matter that she had responded to him. He had to make it plain that his return didn’t depend on her giving him the use of her body. He wanted her—hell, yes, he wanted her—but without any conditions or threats between them, and it was his own damn fault that he was in this situation.
He wanted to make his peace with Lucinda. It was time, and the thought of her dying made him regret the lost years. Davencourt and all the money didn’t matter, not now. Mending fences mattered. Finding out what had extinguished the light in Roanna’s eyes mattered.
He wondered if they were prepared for the man he’d become.
Yeah, he’d go back.
CHAPTER 10
Roanna seldom slept well, but she was so exhausted from the day of hard travel and emotional stress that when Webb finally let her sleep, she dropped immediately into a hard, deep slumber. She was groggy when she woke, unable for a moment to remember where she was, b
ut over the years she had become accustomed to waking in places where she hadn’t gone to sleep, so she didn’t panic.
Instead she lay quietly while reality reassembled itself in her mind. She became aware of some unusual things: One, this wasn’t Davencourt. Two, she was naked. Three, she was very sore in all her tender places.
It all clicked into place then, and she bolted upright in bed, looking for Webb. She knew immediately that he wasn’t there.
He’d gotten up, dressed, and left her alone in this cheesy motel. During the night his heat had melted some of the ice that had encased her for so many years, but as she sat there naked in a tangle of dingy sheets, she felt the cold layer slowly solidify again.
It was the story of her life, it seemed. She had always felt that she could offer herself to him body and soul, and he still wouldn’t love her. Now she knew for certain. Along with her body, she’d given him her heart, while he’d simply been screwing.
Had she really been silly enough to think he cared for her? Why should he? She’d done nothing but cause him trouble. He probably hadn’t even been particularly attracted to her. Webb had always been able to get any woman he wanted, even the prettiest ones. She couldn’t compare with the type he was accustomed to, in either face or body; she had simply been handy, and he’d been horny. He’d seen an opportunity to get his rocks off and taken it. Case closed.
Her face was expressionless as she slowly crawled out of bed, ignoring the discomfort between her legs. She noticed then the note on the other pillow, scribbled on the scratch pad stamped with the motel’s name. She picked it up, recognizing the black slash of Webb’s handwriting immediately. “Be back at ten,” it read. The note wasn’t signed, but then that wasn’t necessary. Roanna smoothed her fingers over the writing, then tore the note from the pad and carefully folded it and slipped it into her purse.
She looked at her wristwatch: eight-thirty. An hour and a half to kill. An hour and a half of grace before she had to listen to him tell her that last night had been a mistake, one he didn’t intend to repeat.
The least she could do was crawl back into her severely stylish shell, so she wouldn’t look pitiful when he gave her the old heave-ho. She could bear a lot, but she didn’t think she could stand it if he felt sorry for her.
Her clothes were as limp and wrinkled as she felt. First she washed out her underwear and draped it over the noisy climate control unit to dry, then turned the temperature control to heat and set the fan on high. She carried her slacks and blouse into the tiny bathroom with her, and hung them over the door while she took a shower in the minuscule stall that sported a cracked floor and yellowed water stains. The cubicle quickly filled with steam, and by the time she finished, both blouse and slacks looked fresher.
The climate control unit was a lot louder than it was efficient, but still the room quickly became stuffy. She shut it off and checked her panties; they were dry except for a lingering bit of dampness in the waistband. She pulled them on anyway, then quickly dressed in case Webb came back earlier than he’d said. Not that he hadn’t already seen everything she had, she thought, and touched it as well, but that was last night. By leaving the way he had, he’d made it plain that last night hadn’t meant anything to him beyond physical release.
She combed her straight, heavy hair back and left it to dry. That was the major benefit of a good cut: it didn’t require much maintenance. The small amount of luggage she’d brought was locked in the trunk of her rental car, which was presumably still parked outside that grimy little bar just off the highway, but she wasn’t certain exactly where she was in relation to it. The only makeup she had in her purse was a powder compact and a neutral-colored lipstick. She made quick use of it, not looking at her reflection in the mirror any longer than was required to get the lipstick on straight.
She opened the door to let in the freshness of the dry desert morning, turned on the small television that was bolted to the wall, and sat down in the lone chair in the room, an uncomfortable number with a torn vinyl seat, which looked as if it had been stolen from a hospital waiting room.
She didn’t pay much attention to what was on, some morning talk show. It was noise, and that was all she required. Sometimes when she couldn’t sleep, she would turn her own television on so the voices could give her the illusion of not being utterly alone in the night.
She was still sitting there when a vehicle pulled up right outside the door. The motor cut off as a cloud of dust blew in. Then a door opened and was slammed shut, there was the sound of booted feet on the concrete walk, and Webb filled the doorway. He was silhouetted against the bright sunlight, his broad shoulders almost stretching from one side of the door frame to the other.
He didn’t come any farther inside. All he said was, “Are you ready?” and she silently got up, turned off the light and the television, and picked up her purse.
He opened the truck door for her, his southern manners still holding sway despite a decade of self-imposed exile Roanna climbed inside, concentrating on not giving any flinches that betrayed her physical discomfort, and settled herself. Now that it was daylight, she could tell that the truck was gunmetal gray, with a gray interior, and was fairly new. There was an extra stick shift on the floor, meaning it was four-wheel drive, probably a necessity for taking it across the range.
As Webb slid behind the wheel, he slanted her an unreadable glance. She wondered if he expected her to either start planning a wedding or pitch a fit because he’d left her alone this morning. She did neither. She sat silently.
“Hungry?”
She shook her head, then remembered that he liked verbal answers. “No, thank you.”
His lips thinned as he started the motor and reversed out of the parking spot. “You’re going to eat. You’ve gained a little weight, and it looks good on you. I’m not going to let you catch your flight without eating.”
She hadn’t booked a return flight, because she hadn’t known how long she would be staying. She opened her mouth to say so, then caught the flinty expression in his eyes and realized he had booked one for her.
“When am I leaving?”
“One o’clock. I managed to get you on a direct flight from Tucson to Dallas. Your connection in Dallas is a bit tight, forty-five minutes, but it’ll get you into Huntsville at a reasonable hour. You should get home around ten, ten-thirty tonight. Do you have to call anyone to pick you up in Huntsville?”
“No.” She had driven herself to the airport, because no one else had been willing to get up at three-thirty to perform the service. No, that wasn’t fair. She hadn’t asked anyone to do it. She never asked anyone to do anything for her.
By the time she ate, as he seemed determined for her to do, she would have to leave almost immediately in order to turn in her rental car at the airport and make it to the gate in time to board. He hadn’t left her any breathing space, probably by design. He didn’t want to talk to her, didn’t want to spend any more time in her company than necessary.
“There’s a little place not far from here that serves breakfast until eleven. The food’s plain, but good.”
“Just drop me off at the bar so I can pick up my car,” she said as she looked out the window, anywhere but at him. “I’ll stop at a fast-food place.”
“I doubt it,” he said grimly. “I’m going to watch every bite go into your mouth.”
“I eat now and then,” she replied in a mild tone. “I learned how.”
“Then you won’t mind if I watch.”
She recognized that tone, the one he used when he’d made up his mind that you were going to do something, so you might as well not argue. When she’d been younger, that tone had been of infinite comfort, symbolizing the rock steadiness and security she had so desperately needed after her parents’ death. In an odd way it was still comforting; he might not like her, might not desire her, but at least he didn’t want her to starve to death.
The little restaurant he took her to wasn’t much bigger than the kitchen
at Davencourt, with a couple of booths, a couple of tiny tables, and four stools lined up at the counter. The rich scent of frying bacon and sausage was in the air, underlaid with that of coffee and the spiciness of chili peppers. Two sun-baked old men were in the back booth, and they both looked up with interest as Webb escorted Roanna to the other booth.
A thin woman of indeterminate age, her skin baked as hard and brown as that of the two old men, approached the booth. She pulled a green order pad out of the hip pocket of her jeans and held a stubby pencil at the ready.
Evidently there was no menu. Roanna looked at Webb in question. “I’ll have the short stack, ham and eggs on the side, sunny side up,” he said, “and she’ll have an egg, plain scrambled, with dry toast, bacon, and hash browns. Coffee for both of us.”
“We can’t do eggs sunny side up no more. Health Department rules,” the waitress said.
“Then I want them well done but take them up early.”
“Gotcha.” The waitress tore the top sheet off the pad as she walked over to an opening cut out in the wall. She laid the ticket on the sill. “Betts! Got an order.”
“You must eat here often,” Roanna said.
“I usually stop by whenever I’m in town.”
“What does plain scrambled mean?”
“No peppers.”
It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if they called that fancy scrambled but bit the comment back. How easy it would be to fall into the old habits with him! she thought sadly. But she had learned to curb her quips, because most people didn’t appreciate even the milder ones. Webb had once seemed to, but perhaps he’d been kind.
The waitress set two steaming cups of coffee in front of them. “Cream?” she asked, and Webb said, “No,” answering for both of them.
