01 Do You Believe in Magic - The Children of Merlin (15 page)

She’d want love. The capital L
kind, not the sex-and-run kind. He was a realist, and capital L
love was so rare as to be nonexistent, no matter what his mother
believed. At least for a black sheep like Tristram Tremaine,
disappointment
extraordinaire
.

He didn’t want to disappoint
Maggie. Which he was bound to do if he bedded her.

So it wasn’t happening.
Regardless of how kissable her lips looked tonight. God, there was
another sloshing sound. She was getting up out of the tub. Bet the
water was sluicing over her body, between her breasts, over her
belly, through the curls between her thighs.

He heaved in a long breath. Let
it out.
Get hold of yourself. What’s wrong with you?

The drain gurgled as she pulled
the plug. He shifted, trying to ease himself. How long had it been
since he’d had a reaction to a woman like this? Since he was
twelve? Ever?

It probably had to do with his
fragile connection to the world. Yeah, a symptom of wanting to be
really alive again. It wouldn’t last. He’d go back to LA, go to his
mother’s birthday party, for God’s sake, check in at the shop, and
he’d be on his way again.

But what
was
this
feeling? Not just lust. It was a kind of longing for something he
couldn’t explain. He should never have had that last shot of
whiskey on top of the Vicodin.

The door to the bathroom opened.
His head snapped around like it was on a string.

She’d left the candle in the
bathroom. The doorway behind her glowed with a flickering light.
Her hair was down. He could tell by her silhouette. He swallowed.
Then he swallowed again. She was wearing a short cotton robe like a
kimono, black with white flowers on it, and one or two pink
splashes of a rose or something. Like the ones in the garden at The
Breakers. The robe wasn’t meant to be sexy. But it revealed skin
he’d never seen before: her chest in the vee where it wrapped
around her, her legs, slim but curvy with the muscles she used for
riding. The way it tied at her waist outlined her figure and the
way her breasts moved under it.… Dear God, could he be getting
harder? This erection was turning into a medical emergency.

She stood frozen for a long
minute. Finally she cleared her throat. “Uh, your turn.”

Tris panicked. He was going to
have to stand up. She’d see the massive erection in his jeans.
Just great.
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.” In a stroke of what he was
pretty sure was genius he pulled his shirttail out of his jeans
with his good hand. Like he was getting ready for a shower, right?
She’d never realize his real purpose. He pulled his crutch over and
pushed himself up.

“Can you … do you need help?”
she asked uncertainly.

Damn.
“I’m fine.” He
could probably, maybe, get by on his own.

She looked doubtful. “Maybe I
should just help with your sling.”

“That … that would be okay.” How
bad could it be?

She approached him, coming into
the lantern light. He stood very, very still. She reached for the
buckle at his chest that held the nylon straps around his neck and
unfastened it. The soap smell was stronger now, so much more
delicate and sexy than the exotic and overwhelming perfumes the
starlets always wore. Then there was the damp scent of her skin.
When had he caught scents so strongly? Her breasts were maybe six
inches from his chest.
Too far.

She worked at the other buckle
to the strap that went around his back, then pulled the sling away
gently and laid it on the table.

“Uh, thanks. I’ll … I’ll get it
from here.”

“And your shirt?” She didn’t
wait for an answer but began unbuttoning it. “You might be able to
unbutton it, but you can’t get it off.”

He tried to breathe normally. He
didn’t dare move. As she reached to unfasten the first button her
fingers brushed his chest. Electric shocks coursed through his
flesh, shooting straight to his groin. He almost groaned. But he
didn’t. That would frighten her. And he didn’t want to frighten
her. His damn cock was pulsing against the zipper of his jeans. All
he could think about was her knuckles brushing against the hair on
his chest. She got really intent, not looking up at him, not saying
anything.

She pulled his shirt apart.
Oh, God, she’ll see the hard-on.
How could he have
forgotten? She eased the shirt over his good shoulder and pulled
the sleeve down. She took his sling hand to hold it in place while
she brought the shirt over his bad shoulder. The feel of her small,
strong hand on his wrist was the most erotic sensation he’d ever
encountered, and that included having his cock buried and pulsing
in a hundred women. What was wrong with him?

Was … was she blushing? She was.
He absolutely felt like he was twelve.

No. That wasn’t true. He felt like a man
for the first time in a long time. And all over a girl who rode
rodeo. Who would ever have guessed?

*****

Maggie hadn’t taken a breath in
what seemed like forever. If she did, she might faint from what
touching this man was doing to her. The sight of him without his
shirt was disturbing to say the least. His shoulders were wide and
bulky with muscle, one still bandaged. His skin was fair, except
for the technicolor bruises and the scrapes here and there. The
dark hair curling over his chest stood out in contrast. Even as she
watched, his nipples tightened in the evening air from the open
kitchen window. His muscled torso could have served as a model for
some statue. His oblique abdominals disappeared into jeans slung
low across his hips, where they would cradle … she shouldn’t think
about that. But she did. Oh, yeah, she did. And, and what was that
bulge in his jeans? Was he…? He definitely was.

She jerked her gaze up and was
grateful it was caught by his tattoo. It covered his good shoulder
with intricate knots of blue and green. Her fingers strayed over
it, not touching because that would be rude, but
wanting
to
touch. “It, uh, it looks sort of Celtic,” she whispered.

“Tremaine,” he said, his voice
husky. “Celtic name.”

He’d had a symbol of his
heritage tattooed on his skin, when he felt like he didn’t belong
in his family? Whoa. He must want to belong pretty badly, somewhere
underneath his disdain. “It’s beautiful.”
You’re beautiful
is what she meant, of course. But he didn’t need her to tell him
that. A thousand women had told him that with their eyes. Maybe ten
thousand. As her gaze strayed over his body again, she saw more
knot patterns, in red, solid blue, on his abs, low by his hip, and
his pectoral. And scars. Lots of them. How had he gotten those?
Maybe the same place he got those scabs he had the first time she
saw him at Jake’s. “You look like you get into pretty frequent
scrapes,” she said, just to say something.

“Yeah.”

That was it? That was all he was
going to say? Couldn’t he do his share to break the tension that
was so thick she was having trouble breathing? Evidently not. She
was going to have to step away from him, out of touching range,
before she did something she’d really regret. Like put her palm on
his chest and rub it across his nipple.
No, no, no, no.
She
shouldn’t even be
thinking
about that. Elroy was right.
Maybe she was a tramp at heart. Okay. Then her only choice was to
control herself. That was all there was to it.

She wrenched away and turned her
back. “Sit down. I’ll take off your boot.” Her voice was as rough
as his had been.

She heard him sit before she
turned back. She pulled his one boot off unceremoniously, looking
anywhere but at the zipper of his jeans, but acutely aware of what
must be beneath it all the same. “You’re on your own for the rest,”
she managed. No way she was taking off his pants. “I left a clean
washcloth and towel in there for you.”

He got himself up. Did his
muscles have to move under his skin like that?

“You got some clean clothes in
your bag?”

“Should be some boxers and some
sweats I can get on over the cast.”

“I’ll get them for you.”

“Thanks.” He limped on his
crutch over to the little bathroom and shut the door.

Whew. That was better. She took
a deep breath and went out to the porch to get his bags. Fumbling
through his clothes felt intimate. Her fingers were still shocked
from the touch of his skin.
Maggie-girl, you better get hold of
yourself.
She found the boxers and the sweatpants and marched
over to the bathroom door. Big girls don’t blush just because they
know a man is in there getting naked so he can run a soapy
washcloth over his chest and belly and down to his genitals. He’d
be erect, she was sure, his balls tight and high...

Her strategy of being in total
control wasn’t exactly working out. She opened the door a crack and
shoved his clothes in as far as she could. “I’ll just toss these
over by the sink, okay?” Without looking of course.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Fine. She shut the door. It was
fine. Now she could make up the couch with some sheets and be in
bed by the time he got out. That way he couldn’t protest about
taking her bed.

She fumbled through his hospital
discharge pack and found a bottle of antibiotics. Holding the
bottle to the lantern she read the instructions and shook out two
pills. With the bottle of Vicodin and a glass of water, she stalked
into her room. She’d only slept in the sheets once since she’d
changed them. He’d just have to deal. She didn’t have time to
change them again
and
make up the couch. She plumped up the
pillows and pulled back the covers. Then she lighted a candle on
the nightstand and left the door open so he could see his way.

Why the hell did he have a
hard-on? He was jacked up on Vicodin and three shots of whiskey (at
least. Who knew how many he’d had while she was in the bath?). He
had broken bones, for God’s sake. And her robe was decent. Came
almost to her knees. She wasn’t beautiful, like the women he would
normally take to his bed.

He must be one highly sexed dude
who hadn’t had any in a while. He was desperate.

Her reaction was much more
understandable. After all, he was only the most attractive man in
the state of Nevada right now, bruises or not. She made up the
couch briskly, trying not to listen for sounds in the bathroom,
trying not to wonder how he was getting his jeans down.

Fail-ing.

She doused the lantern, pulled
off her robe in the dark, got into bed, pulled the sheet up to her
chin, and … waited. The bathroom door finally opened. Tris filled
the doorway, chest still bare, the light of the candle flickering
over his body. It lighted his green and blue tattoo. His bruises
were mere shadows. She closed her eyes to slits so he’d think she
was asleep. He hobbled on his crutch over to where she’d left his
sling. Darn. She forgot he’d need it to secure his arm before he
slept.

But he buckled the strap that
went around his neck, slipped it over his head, and slid his arm
into it. Well, that would probably do, even though the back strap
wasn’t buckled. He stilled, looking over at her for a long moment,
then limped into her bedroom. She breathed a sigh of relief. Crisis
averted. For now. She was going to spend all day tomorrow with him
in the cab of his truck. She had absolutely no faith in her ability
to continue averting crises.

CHAPTER TEN

He was sleeping in her bed. Or
not sleeping. She’d been thoughtful. A candle. A glass of water and
his meds. The wind-up clock had a dial that glowed in the dark. And
the sheets were pulled back. Now his nose was filled with the scent
of her in the pillows, the sheets. His erection wasn’t exactly
soothed by the aroma. And tomorrow he was going to spend the day
sitting two feet away from her in her truck?

Gods give him strength.

Strength. But wasn’t strength
what he’d found since he met her? He’d pulled back, painful as it
was, from the abyss. Or maybe it was Maggie O’Brian who had dragged
him from the edge.

That made her important. Too
important to take lightly.

He pulled the coverlet up to his chest.
The Vicodin (
and tell it true—the shots of whiskey
) kept the
pain in his leg, his shoulder and collarbone, his ribs in check.
But the pain was lurking, ready to pounce if he let the drugs lapse
for even an instant. He’d find what sleep he could tonight. And by
tomorrow night he’d be back at The Breakers. Great.

*****

“Rise and shine.”

Tris blinked his eyes open,
feeling like he’d finally fallen asleep only minutes ago. The sight
of Maggie, fully dressed and holding a candle in an old-fashioned
holder, jerked him up on his good elbow, wincing. It was still
dark. “What time is it?” he muttered. He’d turned the clock away so
he couldn’t see the hours tick by.

“Five. I let you sleep in.
Horses are loaded and ready to go.”

He smelled coffee. Best coffee
he’d ever smelled. “You got something against the sun?”

“I want to be well into the city
before the traffic gets really bad.”

He sighed. He wasn’t going to be
the one to hold her up. “Let me do my business and I’ll be out in a
sec.” He grabbed for his crutch and pushed himself up.

“Okay,” she said, her voice
sunny. “I’ll come back to get you into your shirt.” She turned at
the door. “Don’t take pills on an empty stomach. I got breakfast
and some coffee in the truck.”

Wasn’t she just a busy little
bee? He resolved that he was not going to need her help with his
boot. Or his shirt.

He was wrong about the shirt.
When she returned he was struggling to pull it over his bad
shoulder.

“Let me,” she said. She looked
serious now, her cheeriness evaporated. This close he could see the
bruise on her cheekbone even in the dim light from the candle. It
made his stomach clench. He could choke Elroy. She pulled his shirt
over his shoulder, and damned if her knuckles didn’t brush his back
even as her thumb touched his chest.
Not again.
Thank God
he’d managed to put on his jeans. Sweatpants didn’t hide an
erection for shit. She took his good hand and helped him find the
sleeve.
Jesus.