She’d begun totalling the figures she had posted in the ledger. His eyes drifted over her, drinking in her serious, absorbed expression and the way she chewed her bottom lip when she was working. She’d taken over his office so completely that he sometimes had to ask her questions about what was going on. He wasn’t certain he liked having part of the ranch out of his direct control, but he was damn certain he liked the extra time he had at night.
That thought made him realize he’d be spending the next few nights alone, and he scowled. Once he would have found female companionship in Miami, but now he was distinctly uninterested in any other woman. He wanted Michelle and no one else. No other woman had ever fit in his arms as well as she did, or given him the pleasure she gave just by being there. He liked to tease her until she lost her temper and lashed back at him, just for the joy of watching her get snooty. An even greater joy was taking her to bed and loving her out of her snooty moods. Thanks to his mother, it was a joy he’d have to do without for a few days. He didn’t like it worth a damn.
Suddenly he realized it wasn’t just the sex. He didn’t want to leave her, because she was upset about something. He wanted to hold her and make everything right for her, but she wouldn’t tell him about it. He felt uneasy. She insisted nothing was wrong, but he knew better. He just didn’t know what it was. A couple of times he’d caught her staring out the window with an expression that was almost…terrified. He had to be wrong, because she had no reason to be scared. And of what?
It had all started with the accident. He’d been trying to reassure her that he wasn’t angry about the car, but instead she’d drawn away from him as if he’d slapped her, and he couldn’t bridge the distance between them. For just an instant she’d looked shocked, even hurt, then she’d withdrawn in some subtle way he couldn’t describe, but felt. The withdrawal wasn’t physical; except for the night of the accident, she was as sweet and wild in his arms as she’d ever been. But he wanted all of her, mind and body, and the accident had only made his wanting more intense by taunting him with the knowledge of how quickly she could be taken away.
He reached out and touched his fingertips to her cheekbone, needing to touch her even in so small a way. Her eyes cut up to him with a flash of green, their gazes catching, locking. Without a word she closed the ledger and stood. She didn’t look back as she walked out of the room with the fluid grace he’d always admired and sometimes hated because he couldn’t have the body that produced it. But now he could, and as he followed her from the room he was already unbuttoning his shirt. His booted feet were deliberately placed on the stairs, his attention on the bedroom at the top and the woman inside it.
SOMETIMES, WHEN THE days were hot and slow and the sun was a disc of blinding white, Michelle would feel that it had all been a vivid nightmare and hadn’t really happened at all. The phone calls had meant nothing. The danger she’d sensed was merely the product of an overactive imagination. The man in the ski mask hadn’t tried to kill her. The accident hadn’t been a murder attempt disguised to look like an accident. None of that had happened at all. It was only a dream, while reality was Edie humming as she did housework, the stamping and snorting of the horses, the placid cattle grazing in the pastures, John’s daily phone calls from Miami that charted his impatience to be back home.
But it hadn’t been a dream. John didn’t believe her, but his nearness had nevertheless kept the terror at bay and given her a small pocket of safety. She felt secure here on the ranch, ringed by the wall of his authority, surrounded by his people. Without him beside her in the night, her feeling of safety weakened. She was sleeping badly, and during the days she pushed herself as relentlessly as she had when she’d been working her own ranch alone, trying to exhaust her body so she could sleep.
Nev Luther had received his instructions, as usual, but again he was faced with the dilemma of how to carry them out. If Michelle wanted to do something, how was he supposed to stop her? Call the boss in Miami and tattle? Nev didn’t doubt for a minute the boss would spit nails and strip hide if he saw Michelle doing the work she was doing, but she didn’t ask if she could do it, she simply did it. Not much he could do about that. Besides, she seemed to need the work to occupy her mind. She was quieter than usual, probably missing the boss. The thought made Nev smile. He approved of the current arrangement, and would approve even more if it turned out to be permanent.
After four days of doing as much as she could, Michelle was finally exhausted enough that she thought she could sleep, but she put off going to bed. If she were wrong, she’d spend more hours lying tense and sleepless, or shaking in the aftermath of a dream. She forced herself to stay awake and catch up on the paperwork, the endless stream of orders and invoices that chronicled the prosperity of the ranch. It could have waited, but she wanted everything to be in order when John came home. The thought brought a smile to her strained face; he’d be home tomorrow. His afternoon call had done more to ease her mind than anything. Just one more night to get through without him, then he’d be beside her again in the darkness.
She finished at ten, then climbed the stairs and changed into one of the light cotton shifts she slept in. The night was hot and muggy, too hot for her to tolerate even a sheet over her, but she was tired enough that the heat didn’t keep her awake. She turned on her side, almost groaning aloud as her muscles relaxed, and was instantly asleep.
It was almost two in the morning when John silently let himself into the house. He’d planned to take an 8:00 a.m. flight, but after talking to Michelle he’d paced restlessly, impatient with the hours between them. He had to hold her close, feel her slender, too fragile body in his arms before he could be certain she was all right. The worry was even more maddening because he didn’t know its cause.
Finally he couldn’t stand it. He’d called the airport and gotten a seat on the last flight out that night, then thrown his few clothes into his bag and kissed his mother’s forehead. “Take it easy on that damned checkbook,” he’d growled, looking down at the elegant, shallow and still pretty woman who had given birth to him.
The black eyes he’d inherited looked back at him, and one corner of her crimson lips lifted in the same one-sided smile that often quirked his mouth. “You haven’t told me anything, but I’ve heard rumors even down here,” she’d said smoothly. “Is it true you’ve got Langley Cabot’s daughter living with you? Really, John, he lost everything he owned.”
He’d been too intent on getting back to Michelle to feel more than a spark of anger. “Not everything.”
“Then it’s true? She’s living with you?”
“Yes.”
She had given him a long, steady look. Since he’d been nineteen he’d had a lot of women, but none of them had lived with him, even briefly, and despite the distance between them, or perhaps because of it, she knew her son well. No one took advantage of him. If Michelle Cabot was in his house, it was because he wanted her there, not due to any seductive maneuvers on her part.
As John climbed the stairs in the dark, silent house, his heart began the slow, heavy rhythm of anticipation. He wouldn’t wake her, but he couldn’t wait to lie beside her again, just to feel the soft warmth of her body and smell the sweetness of her skin. He was tired; he could use a few hours’ sleep. But in the morning… Her skin would be rosy from sleep, and she’d stretch drowsily with that feline grace of hers. He would take her then.
Noiselessly he entered the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. She was small and still in the bed, not stirring at his presence. He set his bag down and went into the bathroom. When he came out a few minutes later he left the bathroom light on so he could see while he undressed.
He looked at the bed again, and every muscle in his body tightened. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He couldn’t have torn his eyes away even if a tornado had hit the house at that moment.
She was lying half on her stomach, with all the covers shoved down to the foot of the b
ed. Her right leg was stretched out straight, her left one drawn up toward the middle of the mattress. She was wearing one of those flimsy cotton shifts she liked, and during the night it had worked its way up to her buttocks. She was exposed to him. His burning gaze slowly, agonizingly moved over the bare curves of her buttocks from beneath the thin cotton garment, to the soft, silky female cleft and folds he loved to touch.
He shuddered convulsively, grinding his teeth to hold back the deep, primal sound rumbling in his chest. He’d gotten so hard, so fast, that his entire body ached and throbbed. She was sound asleep, her breath coming in a deep, slow rhythm. His own breath was billowing in and out of his lungs; sweat was pouring out of him, his muscles shaking like a stallion scenting a mare ready for mounting. Without taking his eyes from her he began unbuttoning his shirt. He had to have her; he couldn’t wait. She was moist and vulnerable, warm and female, and…his. He was coming apart just looking at her, his control shredded, his loins surging wildly.
He left his clothes on the bedroom floor and bent over her, forcing his hands to gentleness as he turned her onto her back. She made a small sound that wasn’t quite a sigh and adjusted her position, but didn’t awaken. His need was so urgent that he didn’t take the time to wake her; he pulled the shift to her waist, spread her thighs and positioned himself between them. With his last remnant of control he eased into her, a low, rough groan bursting from his throat as her hot, moist flesh tightly sheathed him.
She whimpered a little, her body arching in his hands, and her arms lifted to twine around his neck. “I love you,” she moaned, still more asleep than awake. Her words went through him like lightning, his body jerking in response. Oh God, he didn’t even know if she said it to him or to some dream, but everything in him shattered. He wanted to hear the words again, and he wanted her awake, her eyes looking into his when she said them, so he’d know who was in her mind. Desperately he sank deeper into her, trying to absorb her body into his so irrevocably that nothing could separate them.
“Michelle,” he whispered in taut agony, burying his open mouth against her warm throat.
Michelle lifted, arching toward him again as her mind swam upward out of a sleep so deep it had bordered on unconsciousness. But even asleep she had known his touch, her body reacting immediately to him, opening for him, welcoming him. She didn’t question his presence; he was there, and that was all that mattered. A great burst of love so intense that she almost cried out reduced everything else to insignificance. She was on fire, her senses reeling, her flesh shivering under the slamming thrusts of his loins. She felt him deep inside her, touching her, and she screamed into his mouth like a wild creature as sharp ecstasy detonated her nerves. He locked her to him with iron-muscled thighs and arms, holding her as she strained madly beneath him, and the feel of her soft internal shudders milking him sent him blasting into his own hot, sweet insanity.
He couldn’t let her go. Even when it was over, he couldn’t let her go. He began thrusting again, needing even more of her to satisfy the hunger that went so deep he didn’t think it would ever be satisfied.
She was crying a little, her luminous green eyes wet as she clung to him. She said his name in a raw, shaking voice. He hadn’t let her slide down to a calm plateau but kept her body tense with desire. He was slow and tender now, gentling her into ecstasy instead of hurling her into it, but the culmination was no less shattering.
It was almost dawn before she curled up in his arms, both of them exhausted. Just before she went to sleep she said in mild surprise, “You came home early.”
His arms tightened around her. “I couldn’t stand another night away from you.” It was the bald, frightening truth. He would have made it back even if he’d had to walk.
No one bothered them the next morning, and they slept until long after the sun began pouring brightly into the room. Nev Luther, seeing John’s truck parked in its normal location, came to the house to ask him a question, but Edie dared the foreman to disturb them with such a fierce expression on her face that he decided the question wasn’t important, after all.
John woke shortly after one, disturbed by the heat of the sunlight streaming directly onto the bed. His temples and mustache were already damp with sweat, and he badly needed a cool shower to drive away the sluggishness of heat and exhaustion. He left the bed quietly, taking care not to wake Michelle, though a purely male smile touched his hard lips as he saw her shift lying in the middle of the floor. He didn’t even remember pulling it off her, much less throwing it. Nothing had mattered but loving her.
He stood under the shower, feeling utterly sated but somehow uneasy. He kept remembering the sound of her voice when she said “I love you” and it was driving him crazy. Had she been dreaming, or had she known it was him? She’d never said it before, and she hadn’t said it again. The uncertainty knifed at him. It had felt so right, but then, they had always fitted together in bed so perfectly that his memories of other women were destroyed. Out of bed… There was always that small distance he couldn’t bridge, that part of herself that she wouldn’t let him know. Did she love someone else? Was it one of her old crowd? A tanned, sophisticated jet-setter who was out of her reach now that she didn’t have money? The thought tormented him, because he knew it was possible to love someone even when they were far away and years passed between meetings. He knew, because he’d loved Michelle that way.
His face was drawn as he cut the water off with a savage movement. Love. God, he’d loved her for years, and lied to himself about it by burying it under hostility, then labeling it as lust, want, need, anything to keep from admitting he was as vulnerable as a naked baby when it came to her. He was hard as nails, a sexual outlaw who casually used and left women, but he’d only prowled from woman to woman so restlessly because none of them had been able to satisfy his hunger. None of them had been the one woman he wanted, the one woman he loved. Now he had her physically, but not mentally, not emotionally, and he was scared spitless. His hands were trembling as he rubbed a towel over his body. Somehow he had to make her love him. He’d use any means necessary to keep her with him, loving her and taking care of her until no one existed in her mind except him, and every part of her became his to cherish.
Would she run if he told her he loved her? If he said the words, would she be uncomfortable around him? He remembered how he’d felt whenever some woman had tried to cling to him, whimpering that she loved him, begging him to stay. He’d felt embarrassment, impatience, pity. Pity! He couldn’t take it if Michelle pitied him.
He’d never felt uncertain before. He was arrogant, impatient, determined, and he was used to men jumping when he barked out an order. It was unsettling to discover that he couldn’t control either his emotions or Michelle’s. He’d read before that love made strong men weak, but he hadn’t understood it until now. Weak? Hell, he was terrified!
Naked, he returned to the bedroom and pulled on underwear and jeans. She was a magnet, drawing his eyes to her time and again. Lord, she was something to look at, with that pale gold hair gleaming in the bright sunlight, her bare flesh glowing. She lay on her stomach with her arms under the pillow, giving him a view of her supple back, firmly rounded buttocks and long, sleek legs. He admired her graceful lines and feminine curves, the need growing in him to touch her. Was she going to sleep all day?
He crossed to the bed and sat down on the side, stroking his hand over her bare shoulder. “Wake up, lazybones. It’s almost two o’clock.”
She yawned, snuggling deeper into the pillow. “So?” Her mouth curved into a smile as she refused to open her eyes.
He chuckled. “So get up. I can’t even get dressed when you’re lying here like this. My attention keeps wander—” He broke off, frowning at the small white scar marring the satiny shoulder under his fingers. She was lying naked under the bright rays of the afternoon sun, or he might not have noticed. Then he saw another one, and he touched it, too. His gaze moved, fin
ding more of them marring the perfection of her skin. They were all down her back, even on her bottom and the backs of her upper thighs. His fingers touched all of them, moving slowly from scar to scar. She was rigid under his hands, not moving or looking at him, not even breathing.
Stunned, he tried to think of what could have made those small, crescent-shaped marks. Accidental cuts, by broken glass for instance, wouldn’t all have been the same size and shape. The cuts hadn’t been deep; the scarring was too faint, with no raised ridges. That was why he hadn’t felt them, though he’d touched every inch of her body. But if they weren’t accidental, that meant they had to be deliberate.
His indrawn breath hissed roughly through his teeth. He swore, his voice so quiet and controlled that the explicitly obscene words shattered the air more effectively than if he’d roared. Then he rolled her over, his hands hard on her shoulders, and said only three words. “Who did it?”
Michelle was white, frozen by the look on his face. He looked deadly, his eyes cold and ferocious. He lifted her by the shoulders until she was almost nose to nose with him, and he repeated his question, the words evenly spaced, almost soundless. “Who did it?”
Her lips trembled as she looked helplessly at him. She couldn’t talk about it; she just couldn’t. “I don’t… It’s noth—”
“Who did it?” he yelled, his neck corded with rage.
She closed her eyes, burning tears seeping from beneath her lids. Despair and shame ate at her, but she knew he wouldn’t let her go until she answered. Her lips were trembling so hard she could barely talk. “John, please!”
“Who?”
Crumpling, she gave in, turning her face away. “Roger Beckman. My ex-husband.” It was hard to say the words; she thought they would choke her.
John was swearing again, softly, endlessly. Michelle struggled briefly as he swept her up and sat down in a chair, holding her cradled on his lap, but it was a futile effort, so she abandoned it. Just saying Roger’s name had made her feel unclean. She wanted to hide, to scrub herself over and over to be rid of the taint, but John wouldn’t let her go. He held her naked on his lap, not saying a word after he’d stopped cursing until he noticed her shivering. The sun was hot, but her skin was cold. He stretched until he could reach the corner of the sheet, then jerked until it came free of the bed, and wrapped it around her.