Numbly she turned back to watch the coffee dripping; when it finished, she filled a big mug, then wrapped her cold fingers around the mug to warm them. It had to be nerves making her hands so cold. Quietly she went upstairs to look into her bedroom, wondering if he would still be sleeping.
He wasn’t, though evidently he’d awoken only seconds before. He propped himself up on one elbow and ran his hand through his tousled black hair, narrowing his eyes as he returned her steady gaze. Her heart lurched painfully. He looked like a ruffian, with his hair tousled, his jaw darkened by the overnight growth of beard, his bare torso brown and roped with the steely muscles that were never found on a businessman. She didn’t know what she’d hoped to see in his expression: desire, possibly, even affection. But whatever she’d wanted to see wasn’t there. Instead his face was as hard as always, measuring her with that narrowed gaze that made her feel like squirming. She could feel him waiting for her to move, to say something.
Her legs were jerky, but she managed not to spill the coffee as she walked into the room. Her voice was only slightly strained. “Congratulations. All the gossip doesn’t give you due credit. My, my, you’re really something when you decide to score; I didn’t even think of saying no. Now you can go home and put another notch in your bedpost.”
His eyes narrowed even more. He sat up, ignoring the way the sheet fell below his waist, and held out his hand for the coffee mug. When she gave it to him, he turned it and drank from the place where she’d been sipping, then returned it to her, his eyes never leaving hers.
“Sit down.”
She flinched a little at his hard, raspy, early-morning voice. He saw the small movement and reached out to take her wrist, making coffee lap alarmingly close to the rim of the mug. Gently but inexorably he drew her down to sit facing him on the edge of the bed.
He kept his hand on her wrist, his callused thumb rubbing over the fine bones and delicate tracery of veins. “Just for the record, I don’t notch bedposts. Is that what’s got your back up this morning?”
She gave a small defensive shrug, not meeting his eyes.
She’d withdrawn from him again; his face was grim as he watched her, trying to read her expression. He remembered the fear in her last night, and he wondered who’d put it there. White-hot embers of rage began to flicker to life at the thought of some bastard abusing her in bed, hurting her. Women were vulnerable when they made love, and Michelle especially wouldn’t have the strength to protect herself. He had to get her to talk, or she’d close up on him completely. “It had been a long time for you, hadn’t it?”
Again she gave that little shrug, as if hiding behind the movement. Again he probed, watching her face. “You didn’t enjoy sex before.” He made it a statement, not a question.
Finally her eyes darted to his, wary and resentful. “What do you want, a recommendation? You know that was the first time I’d…enjoyed it.”
“Why didn’t you like it before?”
“Maybe I just needed to go to bed with a stud,” she said flippantly.
“Hell, don’t give me that,” he snapped, disgusted. “Who hurt you? Who made you afraid of sex?”
“I’m not afraid,” she denied, disturbed by the idea that she might have let Roger warp her to such an extent. “It was just…well, it had been so long, and you’re a big man… .” Her voice trailed off, and abruptly she flushed, her gaze sliding away from him.
He watched her thoughtfully; considering what he’d learned about her last night and this morning, it was nothing short of a miracle that she hadn’t knocked his proposal and half his teeth down his throat when he’d suggested she become his mistress as payment of the debt. It also made him wonder if her part in the breakup of Mike Webster’s marriage hadn’t been blown out of all proportion; after all, a woman who didn’t enjoy making love wasn’t likely to be fast and easy.
It was pure possessiveness, but he was glad no other man had pleased her the way he had; it gave him a hold on her, a means of keeping her by his side. He would use any weapon he had, because during the night he had realized that there was no way he could let her go. She could be haughty, bad-tempered and stubborn; she could too easily be spoiled and accept it as her due, though he’d be damned if he hadn’t almost decided it was her due. She was proud and difficult, trying to build a stone wall around herself to keep him at a distance, like a princess holding herself aloof from the peasants, but he couldn’t get enough of her. When they were making love, it wasn’t the princess and the peasant any longer; they were a man and his woman, writhing and straining together, moaning with ecstasy. He’d never been so hungry for a woman before, so hot that he’d felt nothing and no one could have kept him away from her.
She seemed to think last night had been a casual thing on his part, that sunrise had somehow ended it. She was in for a surprise. Now that she’d given herself to him, he wasn’t going to let her go. He’d learned how to fight for and keep what was his, but his single-minded striving over the years to build the ranch into one of the biggest cattle ranches in Florida was nothing compared to the intense possessiveness he felt for Michelle.
Finally he released her wrist, and she stood immediately, moving away from him. She sipped at the coffee she still held, and her eyes went to the window. “Your men got a big kick out of seeing your car still here this morning. I didn’t realize they’d be back, since they put up the fencing yesterday.”
Indifferent to his nakedness, he threw the sheet back and got out of bed. “They didn’t finish. They’ll do the rest of the job today, then move the herd to the east pasture tomorrow.” He waited, then said evenly, “It bothers you that they know?”
“Being snickered about over a beer bothers me. It polishes up your image a little more, but all I’ll be is the most recent in a long line of one-nighters for you.”
“Well, everyone will know differently when you move in with me, won’t they?” he asked arrogantly, walking into the bathroom. “How long will it take you to pack?”
Stunned, Michelle whirled to stare at him, but he’d already disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of the shower came on. Move in with him? If there was any limit to his gall, she hadn’t seen it yet! She sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the bathroom door and waiting for him to emerge as she fought the uneasy feeling of sliding further and further down a precipitous slope. Control of her own life was slipping from her hands, and she didn’t know if she could stop it. It wasn’t just that John was so domineering, though he was; the problem was that, despite how much she wished it were different, she was weak where he was concerned. She wanted to be able to simply walk into his arms and let them lock around her, to rest against him and let him handle everything. She was so tired, physically and mentally. But if she let him take over completely, what would happen when he became bored with her? She would be right back where she’d started, but with a broken heart added to her problems.
The shower stopped running. An image of him formed in her mind, powerfully muscled, naked, dripping wet. Drying himself with her towels. Filling her bathroom with his male scent and presence. He wouldn’t look diminished or foolish in her very feminine rose-and-white bathroom, nor would it bother him that he’d bathed with perfumed soap. He was so intensely masculine that female surroundings merely accentuated that masculinity.
She began to tremble, thinking of the things he’d done during the night, the way he’d made her feel. She hadn’t known her body could take over like that, that she could revel in being possessed, and despite the outdated notion that a man could physically “possess” a woman, that was what had happened. She felt it, instinctively and deeply, the sensation sinking into her bones.
He sauntered from the bathroom wearing only a towel hitched low on his hips, the thick velvety fabric contrasting whitely with the bronzed darkness of his abdomen. His hair and mustache still gleamed wetly; a few drops of moisture glistened on his wide shoul
ders and in the curls that darkened his broad chest. Her mouth went dry. His body hair followed the tree of life pattern, with the tufts under his arms and curls across his chest, then the narrowing line that ran down his abdomen before spreading again at his groin. He was as superbly built as a triathlete, and she actually ached to touch him, to run her palms all over him.
He gave her a hard, level look. “Stop stalling and get packed.”
“I’m not going.” She tried to sound strong about it; if her voice lacked the volume she’d wanted, at least it was even.
“You’ll be embarrassed if you don’t have anything on besides that robe when I carry you into my house,” he warned quietly.
“John—” She stopped, then made a frustrated motion with her hand. “I don’t want to get involved with you.”
“It’s a little late to worry about that now,” he pointed out.
“I know,” she whispered. “Last night shouldn’t have happened.”
“Damn it to hell, woman, it should’ve happened a long time ago.” Irritated, he dropped the towel to the floor and picked up his briefs. “Moving in with me is the only sensible thing to do. I normally work twelve hours a day, sometimes more. Sometimes I’m up all night. Then there’s the paperwork to do in the evenings; hell, you know what it takes to run a ranch. When would I get over to see you? Once a week? I’ll be damned if I’ll settle for an occasional quickie.”
“What about my ranch? Who’ll take care of it while I make myself convenient to you whenever you get the urge?”
He gave a short bark of laughter. “Baby, if you lay down every time I got the urge, you’d spend the next year on your back. I get hard every time I look at you.”
Involuntarily her eyes dropped down his body, and a wave of heat washed over her when she saw the proof of his words swelling against the white fabric of his underwear. She jerked her gaze away, swallowing to relieve the dry tightness of her throat. “I have to take care of my ranch,” she repeated stubbornly, as if they were magic words that would keep him at bay.
He pulled on his pants, impatience deepening the lines that bracketed his mouth. “I’ll take care of both ranches. Face facts, Michelle. You need help. You can’t do it on your own.”
“Maybe not, but I need to try. Don’t you understand?” Desperation edged into her tone. “I’ve never had a job, never done anything to support myself, but I’m trying to learn. You’re stepping right into Dad’s shoes and taking over, handling everything yourself, but what happens to me when you get bored and move on to the next woman? I still won’t know how to support myself!”
John paused in the act of zipping his pants, glaring at her. Damn it, what did she think he’d do, toss her out the door with a casual, “It’s been fun, but I’m tired of you now?” He’d make certain she was on her feet, that the ranch was functioning on a profitable basis, if the day ever came when he looked at her and didn’t want her. He couldn’t imagine it. The desire for her consumed him like white-burning fire, sometimes banked, but never extinguished, heating his body and mind. He’d wanted her when she was eighteen and too young to handle him, and he wanted her now.
He controlled his anger and merely said, “I’ll take care of you.”
She gave him a tight little smile. “Sure.” In her experience, people looked after themselves. Roger’s parents had protected him to keep his slipping sanity from casting scandal on their family name. Her own father, as loving as he’d been, had ignored her plea for help because he didn’t like to think his daughter was unhappy; it was more comfortable for him to decide she’d been exaggerating. The complaint she’d filed had disappeared because some judge had thought it would be advantageous to make friends with the powerful Beckmans. Roger’s housekeeper had looked the other way because she liked her cushy well-paid job. Michelle didn’t blame them, but she’d learned not to expect help, or to trust her life to others.
John snatched his shirt from the floor, his face dark with fury. “Do you want a written agreement?”
Tiredly she rubbed her forehead. He wasn’t used to anyone refusing to obey him whenever he barked out an order. If she said yes, she would be confirming what he’d thought of her in the beginning, that her body could be bought. Maybe he even wanted her to say yes; then she’d be firmly under his control, bought and paid for. But all she said was, “No, that isn’t what I want.”
“Then what, damn it?”
Just his love. To spend the rest of her life with him. That was all.
She might as well wish for the moon.
“I want to do it on my own.”
The harshness faded from his face. “You can’t.” Knowledge gave the words a finality that lashed at her.
“I can try.”
The hell of it was, he had to respect the need to try, even though nature and logic said she wouldn’t succeed. She wasn’t physically strong enough to do what had to be done, and she didn’t have the financial resources; she’d started out in a hole so deep that she’d been doomed to fail from the beginning. She would wear herself to the bone, maybe even get hurt, but in the end it would come full circle and she would need someone to take care of her. All he could do was wait, try to watch out for her, and be there to step in when everything caved in around her. By then she’d be glad to lean on a strong shoulder, to take the place in life she’d been born to occupy.
But he wasn’t going to step back and let her pretend nothing had happened between them the night before. She was his now, and she had to understand that before he left. The knowledge had to be burned into her flesh the way it was burned into his, and maybe it would take a lesson in broad daylight for her to believe it. He dropped his shirt and slowly unzipped his pants, watching her. When he left, he’d leave his touch on her body and his taste in her mouth, and she’d feel him, taste him, think of him every time she climbed into this bed without him.
Her green eyes widened, and color bloomed on her cheekbones. Nervously she glanced at the bed, then back at him.
His heart began slamming heavily against his rib cage. He wanted to feel the firmness of her breasts in his hands again, feel her nipples harden in his mouth. She whispered his name as he dropped his pants and came toward her, putting his hands on her waist, which was so slender that he felt he might break her in two if he wasn’t careful.
As he bent toward her, Michelle’s head fell back as if it were too heavy for her neck to support. He instantly took advantage of her vulnerable throat, his mouth burning a path down its length. She had wanted to deny the force of what had happened, but her body was responding feverishly to him, straining against him in search of the mindless ecstasy he’d given her before. She no longer had the protection of ignorance. He was addictive, and she’d already become hooked. As he took her down to the bed, covering her with his heated nakedness, she didn’t even think of denying him, or herself.
ARE YOU ON the pill?
No.
Damn. Then, How long until your next period?
Soon. Don’t worry. The timing isn’t right.
Famous last words. You’d better get a prescription.
I can’t take the pill. I’ve tried; it makes me throw up all day long. Just like being pregnant.
Then we’ll do something else. Do you want to take care of it, or do you want me to?
The remembered conversation kept replaying in her mind; he couldn’t have made it plainer that he considered the relationship to be an ongoing one. He had been so matter-of-fact that it hadn’t registered on her until later, but now she realized her acquiescent “I will” had acknowledged and accepted his right to make love to her. It hadn’t hit her until he’d kissed her and had driven away that his eyes had been gleaming with satisfaction that had nothing to do with being physically sated.
She had some paperwork to do and forced herself to concentrate on it, but that only brought more problems to mind. The stack of unpaid bi
lls was growing, and she didn’t know how much longer she could hold her creditors off. They needed their money, too. She needed to fatten the cattle before selling them, but she didn’t have the money for grain. Over and over she tried to estimate how much feed would cost, balanced against how much extra she could expect from the sale of heavier cattle. An experienced rancher would have known, but all she had to go on were the records her father had kept, and she didn’t know how accurate they were. Her father had been wildly enthusiastic about his ranch, but he’d relied on his foreman’s advice to run it.
She could ask John, but he’d use it as another chance to tell her that she couldn’t do it on her own.
The telephone rang, and she answered it absently.
“Michelle, darling.”
The hot rush of nausea hit her stomach, and she jabbed the button, disconnecting the call. Her hands were shaking as she replaced the receiver. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? It had been two years! Surely he’d had time to get over his sick obsession; surely his parents had gotten him some sort of treatment!
The telephone rang again, the shrill tone filling her ears over and over. She counted the rings in a kind of frozen agony, wondering when he’d give up, or if her nerves would give out first. What if he just let it keep ringing? She’d have to leave the house or go screaming mad. On the eighteenth ring, she answered.
“Darling, don’t hang up on me again, please,” Roger whispered. “I love you so much. I have to talk to you or go crazy.”