by Diana Palmer
“Bart said you hired a full-time man.”
She smiled. “I did. He’s experienced in working with cattle and he came with great references. I like him. He’s an older man, settled, with no obvious dependents.”
“Do you trust him?” he asked quietly, and seemed really concerned. “When the part-timers go home, you’re here alone with him.”
“He doesn’t sleep in the house,” she protested.
“That’s not what I mean. Did you do a background check?”
She put her hands on her hips and stared up at him. “I’ll get my attorneys right on it, after they settle the claim for damages to my new yacht.”
He thought for a minute and then he chuckled. “You’re unpredictable,” he said. “Just when I think I’ve got you pegged, you do something out of character.”
“It’s part of my deadly charm,” she said without smiling.
He cocked his head and looked down at her. “Speaking of deadly charm,” he said with a bite in his deep voice,” how did the date with McGuire go?”
“How did yours with the widow go?” she shot right back.
He lifted an eyebrow. He smiled, very slowly. “How do you think it went?” he asked in a slow drawl with a world of sensual knowledge in his pale brown eyes.
Mina’s high cheekbones colored, and she dragged her gaze down to his chest. Another mistake, because it was broad and masculine and there was thick, dark hair peeking out of the top of his shirt, where it was unbuttoned down to his collarbone.
He frowned. She was so unlike women he’d known. She kept to herself. Bart had mentioned that she really didn’t date anybody. She stayed home. He recalled what he knew of her childhood, her trauma with her mother’s lovers. Intimacy would be difficult for a woman who’d been through what she had. An indifferent or selfish partner would destroy what little self-esteem she had left.
An innocent, he thought, his mind whirling with odd, unacceptable ideas. She wasn’t beautiful. But that hair, that exquisite hair hanging like a brownish-blond flag at her back, those pert little breasts that were visible under the sweater she wore, her sweetly curving hips. He felt his body responding to those images and he fought to keep it under control.
* * *
“WHERE DID YOU get apples in March?” she asked when the silence became too full of tension.
“There’s a whole food market that just opened in Catelow,” he said, his voice sounding oddly strained. “Bart went shopping. He likes organic.”
“Me, too.” She’d heard about the market. She’d have to check it out. She turned and looked at the pretty red apples in their small barrel. “These are nice,” she said.
He came up behind her. Close. Too close. She could feel the heat of his tall body, smell the faint cologne that clung to him.
She was breathing oddly. Her heart began to race. She was nervous and couldn’t hide it. She’d never had such a reaction to a man. He was a rounder, they said. Would he know?
Of course he knew. He could almost feel her heart beat. She smelled of wildflowers and flour. Without realizing why, his big, lean hands slid around her waist and pulled her back into his body.
“How long does it take, to make a piecrust like those?” he asked, for something to say.
“Not...not a long time.” Her small hands went to push his away, but they lingered as his fingers spread to her waist and moved to hold her there. Involuntarily, her hands slid over his. Her heart was almost shaking her.
His mouth went to her neck. His lips smoothed over it, through the soft strands of her long hair. Odd, how hungry he was for her. He’d never toyed with innocents, not ever. He confined his pursuit to women who were in his own class, models and debutantes, movie stars, even sports stars. This was a tragedy in the making, and he knew it. But she was so damned sweet. She made him ache for things he’d never wanted.
“Mr... Mr...” She swallowed hard. “I can’t remember your last name.”
“My name is Cort,” he whispered at her ear. His big hands contracted, warm and strong around her waist, and pulled her closer. “Say it.”
“Cort,” she whispered shakily. This was wrong. She had to stop it, now while she could. She turned in his grasp.
But before she could protest or say a word, his pale brown eyes caught hers and held them. His hands went to her back and pulled, ever so gently, until she was almost completely plastered to his long, muscular body.
“I... I can’t...” She tried to speak.
“Yes, you can, Mina,” he whispered as his head bent. “Easy,” he murmured as his mouth smoothed tenderly over hers and she jerked in his arms. “Slow and easy. It’s like...dancing.”
She wanted to push him away. She really did. But her body ached from the contact with his. She felt safe. Restless. Hungry. Shaky. And his mouth was doing something unfamiliar to hers. It wasn’t like with Jake. This was arousing, the soft, slow brushing, the faint nip of his teeth, the harsh sound of his breath as the contact worked on him.
Over the years, there had been just a few kisses, most recently Jake’s. But this was totally out of her experience. He made her want something more, harder, deeper, and she found herself going on her tiptoes to try and coax his teasing mouth to do what she wanted it to do.
He smiled against her lips. He knew how women reacted. He knew all too well. He was practiced in this ancient art. His lips coaxed hers apart and his hands half lifted her into a more intimate contact with him. And then the teasing stopped.
His mouth ground into hers, hard and hungry, his arms enclosing her, possessing her, as the kiss grew more intimate by the second.
She felt his powerful body shudder. He groaned against her lips. She was lost, floating, starving to death for something she didn’t understand.
One big hand went to the base of her spine and pushed her hips into his. He shivered, letting her feel the sudden, growing hunger of his body as it began to swell.
She wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t realize what was happening to him. She was almost drugged by the pleasure his mouth was giving her, but the abrupt change of his body brought her back to reality. He was a cowboy. He’d had plenty of women. She knew by the way he was with her. She could recognize experience, even though she had very little. She eased her mouth from under the crush of his and tried to move back.
He was aching all over. He’d gone in headfirst, so used to women who followed him helplessly into the bedroom that he had no practice at stopping short of intimacy. She was pulling away. His slow brain finally realized that she was protesting the hold he had on her.
He lifted his head. He felt it spinning like a top. She was potent, this sweet, fragrant little virgin.
“I’m...sorry,” she whispered. “But...”
He let her ease away from his hips, but he didn’t let go. His pale eyes, darkened with passion, searched hers. The soft swell of her mouth, the quick little breaths that he could feel against his lips, the faint trembling of her body told him things she wouldn’t.
He shuddered faintly, helpless in his hunger as he fought for control.
She watched him, fascinated, embarrassed, a little shamed. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again, grimacing.
So she knew it hurt men when they couldn’t go past petting, he thought absently. Was she an innocent? “How do you know that?” he asked in a strained tone.
“Know what?” she asked.
“That it hurts a man to have to come to a sudden stop.”
She bit her lower lip and looked away.
He frowned. That didn’t look like any experienced woman he’d ever known. “Tell me,” he said quietly.
She pressed her small hands into the softness of his shirt, feeling thick hair and muscle under it. “Mama’s boyfriend. Henry. He tried to...” She bit back tears. “I was asleep. I had the door locked, but they all opened with one of th
ose funny-looking long keys and he had one. I woke up with him on me. I pushed him away and he groaned and said it hurt him to stop and why wouldn’t I let him do what he wanted to? After all, my mother did...”
He wrapped her up in his arms and just held her, rocking her. “How old were you?”
She choked back a sob. “Fifteen.”
“That wasn’t the only time, was it?” he asked, his voice deep and cutting. Angry.
“No. But I learned to push heavy furniture against the door. That made him mad. It was just after that when he came after me with the belt and beat me bloody.”
“Dear God,” he whispered.
“I called the sheriff and they sent a deputy, but my mother said I hated Henry and made up stories about him. She wouldn’t let the deputy see me. I was covered with bruises all over my back.” She choked back another sob. “The only good thing,” she said in a miserable undertone, “was that Mama kept him away from me, after that. Well, after he got even for me calling the police. I was really bruised then. I missed two days of school.”
His big hand smoothed her long hair. “You poor kid,” he ground out, pressing his mouth to her forehead. “What a hell of a life you’ve had.”
“They say what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger,” she said, her voice wobbly. “I guess it does.”
“No kid should have to go through that.” He eased back from her and looked down into her wet eyes. He bent and softly kissed away the tears. Which only brought more. Nobody had ever been comforting to her. Not even Bart, who knew that she disliked being touched, even if they were friends.
“I never had anybody to run to,” she whispered, leaning her head against him. “Cousin Rogan lived mostly in Australia. Bart was my friend, but much later.” She sighed and laid her cheek against his broad chest. “I’ve never had anyone to talk to, about what happened.”
His arms tightened. She felt his lips in her hair.
“I went to Iraq to save the world,” he whispered. “But combat isn’t like that. It’s bloody and cruel and you lose buddies who die right beside you.” His eyes closed. He’d never talked about it, either, except to his brothers. “It does something to you, inside, to go through an experience like that.”
She pulled back and looked up into his eyes. “You have nightmares, don’t you?” she asked, as if she knew.
He hesitated. Then he nodded. His face was hard and cold and taut with remembered pain.
She reached up a small hand and smoothed back a strand of cool, dark hair that had fallen onto his broad forehead. “I have nightmares, too.”
He smiled tenderly. “Life is hard.”
She smiled back. “‘The night is dark and full of terrors,’” she quoted from her favorite television series.
He chuckled. “So it is. Wolf or lion?” he added.
“Wolf. Definitely wolf. I love Ghost,” she said, referring to the direwolf who was the companion of one of the main characters of the show. She cocked her head. “And you?”
He shrugged. “Bear.”
Her eyes widened. There was only one faction that had a bear as its sigil, and it was headed by a little girl with a brave heart and a bad attitude. “You’re kidding!”
He smiled. “She’s the underdog. She doesn’t even have a hundred fighting men. Besides,” he added with a chuckle, “she’s got more guts than some of the soldiers.”
She beamed. “Yes, she does.”
He framed her face in his big hands and slid them back into her long, soft hair. He sighed. “I loved what we did,” he said after a minute. “But I’m not prepared.”
She flushed. “Excuse me?”
He grinned wickedly. “I’m all out of prophylactics,” he said bluntly, and laughed when she flushed even more. “And you probably wear a metal studded chastity belt.”
“It has spikes, actually,” she chided.
He laughed. “Just as well. I’m terrified of virgins.”
“Are you really?” she asked and seemed curious about the answer.
He drew in a long breath. “How much do you know about your own body?”
She cleared her throat. “I know enough. Health class was very specific.”
“You learned about...barriers?”
She flamed. “Well...”
He bent and brushed his mouth over hers. “That’s what terrifies me,” he concluded. “Just so you know.” He lifted his head, but his eyes were solemn. “I get hot when I touch you. Really hot. I almost lost control, before you pulled away.” His big hands rested on her shoulders, and he looked ages older than she was. “It’s been a while since I’ve indulged my base urges. So we need to cool it.”
She lowered her eyes to his shirt. “I didn’t start it.”
“You didn’t have to.” He tilted her chin up and studied her. “Did McGuire get what you gave me?”
Her mouth fell open. Her eyes were like saucers.
He thought about McGuire and his wealth, and a nagging thought came into his mind and refused to be banished. He didn’t like her around the other man. He wondered what she saw in him. If she wasn’t indulging her hunger with McGuire, why wasn’t she? Was she stringing the man along, for some ulterior motive? Making him hungry so that he’d give her anything she wanted? The thought wouldn’t go away. He knew about mercenary women. They came in all shapes and sizes, and some of them were really good actresses. They could fake innocence. He didn’t trust women. Not even this one, who appealed to his senses in an uncommon way.
His pale eyes darkened. “McGuire could buy and sell most men around here. And you’ve got a tiny little ranch. Compared to some others.”
She drew back and her dark eyes started to glitter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“THAT’S A NASTY INSINUATION,” she said shortly.
He pursed his sensual, slightly swollen lips as he studied her. “It is, isn’t it? He’s rich and you’re not. And you’re dating him.”
She bit her lower lip, almost drawing blood. She looked up at him with pain in her eyes. How could be believe that she was that mercenary?
The answer was that he’d seen it firsthand. He was richer than McGuire, but she didn’t know. She felt and tasted innocent. But he’d been fooled before. Maybe she knew about him, knew the truth, and she was just playing a game.
His pale brown eyes narrowed. “You were dirt-poor growing up, weren’t you?” he asked suddenly.
She swallowed, hard, and pulled away from him. “Yes.”
He studied her, taking in her soft mouth, her hostile eyes, her rigid posture. He was confused. It had been a long time since he’d wanted a woman so much. What if he leveled with her; told her who he really was, offered her pretty things?
She drew in a breath, turned and went back to her piecrusts. “In case you were wondering,” she said in a voice that was just a little shaky with anger, “I won’t do anything for money. That was my mother. Not me.”
Why he should feel guilty was a puzzle. But he did. She couldn’t be making it up. He’d heard the truth about her past from Bart already. She’d been victimized in a terrible way by her mother’s boyfriend. So why was he accusing her of being mercenary? Perhaps because he’d had experience with women who’d had nothing and wanted everything.
He didn’t want to be taken in again. He had to keep his hands off her and put some distance between them. She was sweet and responsive and he was hungry. Very hungry. It had been a long time. Well, it had been a long time for him, he amended. And if there was even a chance that she really was a virgin...
His pulse jumped, just thinking about it. He’d never had an innocent. She made him ache. It was uncomfortable.
“Was there anything else?” she asked tersely.
He moved to the table and leaned his hip against it while he watched her hands work. His own hands were deep in the pockets of his jeans, to
keep them honest. Her face was averted, but he could see the pain in it. Would a mercenary woman really look like that?
“I don’t trust women,” he said bluntly. “I don’t like them much, either.”
She glanced at him, surprised at the honesty. She swallowed. “I don’t like men much,” she replied. She grimaced. “There’s all this hoopla about how women can do anything. But when Henry took that belt to me, all I could think about was how big he was. I was afraid to fight him, because he was drunk and I thought it would just make him use the belt even harder.”
“There are a lot of things women can do,” he said quietly. “But some they can’t. Basically, a woman can’t match a man’s upper body strength. That puts her at a disadvantage if things get physical. Well, if she hasn’t had training in martial arts or hand-to-hand combat,” he amended.
“I would have liked a few lessons in martial arts,” she said. “But I never had the money. All I had coming in was what I made as a waitress, and my mother got that.”
He scowled. “Why didn’t you run away?”
She turned and looked up at him. “Where would I have gone?” she asked solemnly. “Mama convinced people around here that I was a liar. Nobody would have believed me about Henry.”
“Bart would have.”
She smiled sadly. “Henry was dangerous when he drank, and he kept a loaded pistol in the house. I wasn’t willing to risk Bart’s life, even to save myself.”
He drew in a long breath. She seemed genuine. It would have been hard to make up so many lies about her past.
“I was never around drunks,” he said. “Well, not until I went overseas.” He sighed. “A lot of men drink after they’ve had a taste of combat.”
“Including you?” she asked, as if she knew.
He averted his eyes. “For a time,” he confessed. “I had a pal that I went all the way through basic training with. He was a great kid. Grew up in Dade County, Florida, and his dad was a detective there.” His face tautened. “We’d just been deployed in Iraq. It was our first day there. A sniper took him out. He was standing next to me one minute and dead the next, with part of his head missing. I’d never seen anybody killed before,” he added very quietly.
