Against the Rules (13 page)

They tried to catch up on old gossip for a time, but the band was in full swing and they gave up the effort. Wanda grimaced at the whirling crowd. “Since the Texas swing has become popular it's gotten harder and harder to get the band to play nice, slow, dreamy numbers,” she complained. “And before that, it was disco!”

“You're showing your age,” Rick teased her. “We didn't dance nice, slow, dreamy numbers when we were in school.”

“I wasn't the mother of two monsters when we were in school, either!” she retorted. But regardless of what she thought of the current style of dancing, she took his hand and led him onto the dance floor. Within minutes the table was empty, and Cathryn was naturally still paired with Glenn Lacey. He was tall enough that she felt comfortable dancing with him. His technique was smooth and easy to follow and he didn't bother with any fancy steps. He simply held her firmly, but not so closely that she would have protested, and they moved in time with the music.

“Are you back to stay?” he asked.

She looked up into his friendly blue eyes and smiled. “I don't know yet,” she said, not wanting to go into the whole story.

“Any reason why you shouldn't stay? The ranch is yours, isn't it?”

He seemed to be the only one who realized that, and the smile she flashed him reflected her appreciation. “It's just that I've been away for such a long time. I have a life and friends in Chicago now.”

“I was away for a long time, too, but Texas was always home.”

She shrugged. “I haven't decided yet. But I don't have any immediate plans to return to Chicago.”

“That's good,” he said easily. “I'd like to give you a chance to break my heart again, if you don't mind.”

She threw back her head and laughed up at him. “That's a good line! When did I break your heart, anyway? You moved away before I was old enough to begin dating.”

He considered that and finally said, “I think it began when I was twelve and you were about ten. You were a shy little thing with huge dark eyes, and you aroused my protective instincts. By the time you were twelve I was hooked for good. I never was able to get away from those big eyes of yours.”

His eyes were twinkling as he told her of his youthful infatuation and they were able to laugh together, remembering the painful and awkward loves that everyone developed in adolescence.

“Wanda told me that you're a widow,” he said gently a moment later.

She never failed to feel a twinge of grief at the thought of David, and her dark lashes swept down to cover the sadness in her eyes. “Yes. My husband died over two years ago. Have you married?”

“Yes, while I was still in college. It didn't last through law school. Nothing very traumatic,” he said with his charmingly crooked smile. “It couldn't have been a lasting love because we just drifted apart and divorced without any of the bitter fights that seem almost mandatory. We had no children or property to fight over, so we just signed the papers, collected our clothing, and that was it.”

“And no special friends since then?”

“A couple,” he admitted. “Again, nothing lasting. I'm in no hurry. I'd like to get my practice established before I begin seriously looking for a wife, so it'll be another few years.”

“But you definitely want a wife?” she asked, a little amazed at such an attitude. Most single men she knew, especially those who had been through a divorce, had definite ideas about avoiding marriage again and living life in the fast lane instead.

“Sure. I want a wife, kids, the whole bit. I'm domesticated,” he admitted. “I'd probably take the plunge now if I met the woman who gave me that special zing, but so far I haven't found her.”

Cathryn was relieved to find out that he hadn't felt that special zing with her, and the knowledge left her totally relaxed in his presence. He looked on her as a friend, not a romantic interest, which was exactly what she wanted. Because of that she danced several dances with him and returned to the table in desperate need of something cold to drink.

“I'll do the honors,” said Kyle Vernon. “Any of you ladies want a beer?”

None of the women did, opting instead for soft drinks, and he pushed his way into the crowd. Despite the number of people there he returned in five minutes with a tray on which were crowded long-necked bottles of beer and the requested cans of cola. The time passed pleasantly as they talked and occasionally traded dance partners. Glenn asked Cathryn out to dinner for the following weekend and she accepted, certain that by then she would go crazy without the prospect of some time away from Rule's territory.

It was growing late and she was dancing with Glenn again, the crowd having thinned out because some people had started to leave, when she found herself staring straight across the room into Rule's dark eyes. He was standing well back, not talking with anyone, and she felt the heat of his gaze on her. Startled, she got the feeling that he had been standing there for some time, watching her as she danced with Glenn. His face wore that hard, expressionless mask. Casually she looked away from him and continued dancing. So he was here. So what? She had done nothing to feel guilty about.

Within fifteen minutes everyone was making preparations to call it a night. As she was saying good-night to her friends, she felt long fingers wrap themselves around her arm and she knew that touch, knew who held her arm before she turned to look at him.

“I need to beg a ride back to the ranch,” he said softly. “One of the men came with me and he's borrowed my truck.”

“Certainly,” Cathryn agreed. What else could she do? She didn't doubt that he had loaned his pickup out, though she did wonder how long he'd had to hunt to find someone to loan it to. None of that really mattered, though. Within seconds she was walking down the long expanse of the parking lot with him by her side, his hand still warm on her elbow.

“I'll drive,” he said, taking the keys from her hand as she started to unlock the door. Without protest she got in and slid over to the passenger side of the car.

He drove in silence, his hard-planed features revealing nothing in the dim lights glowing from the dash. Cathryn looked up at the thin sliver of moon in its last quarter now, and she remembered the full silvery light that had bathed the bed when he had made love to her. The memory ignited a slow-burning flame in her body and she moved in involuntary response. If only she wasn't so aware of him sitting beside her! She could smell the warm, excitingly delicious male scent of him, and she recalled in frustrating detail just how it felt to be clasped against him in the timeless movements of lovemaking.

“Stay away from Glenn Lacey.”

The low, raspy growl startled her, tore her from her sensual dreams, and she stared at him. “What?” she demanded, though she knew that she had understood him perfectly.

“I said I don't want you going out with Glenn Lacey,” he obliged her by explaining more fully. “Or any other man, for that matter. Don't think that just because I agreed to stay out of your bed I'll stand by and watch you let someone else into it.”

“If I want to go out with him, I will!” she said defiantly. “Who do you think you are, talking to me as if I'm in the habit of jumping into bed with any man who asks me? We're not engaged, Rule Jackson, and you have no right to tell me who I can see.”

She saw his jaw tighten, and he snapped, “You may not have my ring on your finger, but you're a fool if you think I'll pretend there's nothing between us. You're mine, Cathryn Donahue, and I don't let anyone trespass on what's mine.”

CHAPTER 7

Cathryn was almost paralyzed by a confusing surge of mingled pleasure and rage. She was delighted that he might be jealous, but then her inevitable response to his arrogant manner overwhelmed her sense of pleasure and she lashed back at him. “You don't own me, and you never will!”

“Do you feel secure in that little dream world you've built?” he asked with silky menace, and the tone of his voice was a warning. She fell silent, and nothing more was said during the drive to the ranch.

Despite, or perhaps because of, the silence, the atmosphere between them became heavy with hostility and a growing sensual awareness. Just that afternoon she had thought herself so angry and disillusioned with him that he couldn't tempt her any longer but already she was discovering how deeply in error that assumption had been. She couldn't even glance at him now without being reminded of the moonlight on his face as he had made love to her, without tasting his mouth in memory or reliving the strong rhythm of his movements.

When he pulled the car up by the steps to the house, she was out of the vehicle before the tires had stopped rolling. She hurried up the steps and through the kitchen almost at a run, hearing the thudding of his bootheels echoing behind her as he followed. The house was dark, but she knew her home and moved swiftly through the darkness, wanting to reach the safety of her room and shut him out. But it was his home, too, and she was only halfway up the stairs when the force of his body knocked her off-balance and she was swept entirely off her feet by a hard arm that passed around her waist and lifted her like a child.

“Put me down!” she whispered, kicking backward in an effort to trip him as she disregarded their precarious position on the stairs. He grunted as she made painful contact with his shin, just above his boot top. Shifting his hold on her, he slid his other arm under her knees and lifted her up against his chest. She could see only the shadowy form of his face as it came closer and she demanded once more, “Rule! Put me down!” There was no answer, and when she tried to protest again he cut her off by clamping his mouth on hers in a hot, rough kiss that bruised her lips and set drums to thundering in her veins.

The darkness and his movements confused her, left her feeling disoriented as he removed his arm from beneath her knees and let her body slide downward against his, all the while keeping his hungry, bruising mouth fused to hers. Cathryn shivered as she felt the burgeoning proof of his virility brush against her; then his hand cupped her bottom and pulled her firmly in to him, branding her through the layers of their clothing with the heat and power of his desire.

It took a supreme effort of will, but she pulled her mouth away from his and protested in a fierce whisper, “Stop it! You promised! Monica—”

“Damn Monica,” he growled, the sound rumbling up from deep in his chest. His hard hand cupped her chin and lifted it. “Damn Ricky, and damn everyone else. I'm not some tame gelding you can prance in front of without expecting to be taken up on what you're offering, and I'll be damned if I'll watch you waltz off with some other man.”

“There's nothing like that between Glenn and me!” she almost yelled at him.

“And I'm going to make damned sure there never is,” he said roughly.

Abruptly he reached out and snapped on the light, and Cathryn saw with astonishment that she was in her own bedroom. She had been so confused by the darkness that she had thought they were still in the hallway. Swiftly she stepped back from him, wondering uneasily if she could talk him out of his dangerous mood. He looked more than dangerous; with his eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, he reminded her for all the world of one of those blooded stallions in the paddocks. He began unbuttoning his shirt with silent intent and she rushed into speech. “All right,” she gave in shakily. “I won't see Glenn if that's what you want—”

“It's too late for that,” he cut in with that soft, almost soundless tone that told her he meant business.

She had never seen a man undress so fast. He shed his clothing with a few economical movements and tossed the garments aside. If anything, he was even more menacing naked than he was clothed, and the sight of his hard, muscle-corded body stifled any further arguments in her throat. She put out a slim, useless hand to hold him off and he caught it, turning it palm up and bringing it to his mouth. His lips seared her skin; his tongue danced an ancient message against her sensitive palm. Then he pressed her hand to his hair-roughened chest. Cathryn moaned at the heady sensations aroused by touching him, unaware that she had even made the sound. Already the rising heat of desire was making her forget that she hadn't wanted this to happen again. He was so beautiful, so dangerous. She wanted to stroke the panther just one more time, feel his sleek muscles flex under her fingertips. She moved closer and put her other hand on his chest, spreading her fingers out and flexing them against his hard, warm flesh. His chest was rising and falling with increasing speed as his breath began to race out of his lungs, and his heart was thudding wildly against her palm, slamming against the strong rib cage that protected it.

“Yes,” he moaned. “Yes. Touch me.”

It was a sensually loaded invitation that she would never be able to resist. She sought out his small, flat male nipples with her sensitive fingertips and teased the tiny points of flesh into rigidity. He made a sound deep in his throat that was half purr, half snarl, and reached behind her to find the zipper of her dress. In half a minute she stood before him wearing only the bracelets on her wrists and the blossom in her hair. The sight of her soft, womanly body broke his control and he snatched her hard against him, crushing the soft fullness of her breasts to the hard planes of his body. His lips were on hers and his tongue penetrated her mouth and conquered a foe that didn't resist. The panther was no longer lying down to be stroked.

“Gardenias are my favorite,” he muttered, releasing her long enough to pluck the flower from her hair. Her breasts were still pressed against him by the hard circle of his right arm around her, and he tucked the creamy flower into her cleavage, trapping it between their bodies. Then he was moving her backward and the bed touched the back of her knees; she fell onto it and he fell with her, never letting their bodies separate.

“I want you so much,” he said on a groan, sliding down to bury his face in the sweet valley of her breasts, laden with the rich perfume of the crushed gardenia. His lips and tongue roamed over the rich mounds, sucking the pink nipples into taut buds; and wild shivers began to race through her body. Why did it have to be like this with him? Not even David had been able to persuade her to make love with him before their marriage, but with Rule it seemed that she had no will, no morals. She was his for the taking, whenever he wanted. The bitter self-knowledge in no way diluted the strength of her response to him. Heavy need was throbbing in her loins, making her entire body ache with an intimate pain that only he could assuage. She arched against him and he left her breasts to come fully over her, his hairy legs rough and heavy on the graceful length of hers. “Say you want me,” he demanded harshly.

There was no use in denying it when her own body would make her a liar. Cathryn ran her palms down his muscled sides and felt his entire body tense with desire. “I want you,” she said freely. “But this doesn't solve anything!”

“On the contrary, it solves a major problem of mine,” he said, nudging her thighs apart. He fit himself solidly against her and Cathryn closed her eyes on a spiral of delight. Instantly he was shaking her, making her open her eyes again. “Look at me,” he directed from between clenched teeth. “Don't close your eyes when I'm making love to you! Look at me; watch my face while I enter you.”

It was so erotic that she couldn't bear it. She slowly took him inside her while she watched his face mirror the same sensations that were swamping her. His eyes were dilated; waves almost of pain washed again and again over his features as he initiated the rhythm of lovemaking. Tears flooded her eyes as she felt herself arching helplessly closer to fulfillment. “Stop it!” she wept, begging, digging her nails into his side. “Rule, please!”

“I'm trying to please you. Cat—oh,
Cat!
”

She heard the cry that was wrenched out of him, then it was all too much. Dying had to be like that, the utter loss of self, the gathering intensity, then the explosion of senses, followed by a drifting, a growing weaker, a falling away from reality. It was the most frightening experience of her life, yet she embraced it completely and let herself be conquered by it. She was aware, on the fringes of perception, of the demands his powerful body was making on hers as he also reached completion, and for a moment that physical perception was her only link with consciousness. Her full range of senses returned gradually and she opened her eyes to find him above her, stroking her hair away from her face while he softly crooned to her and enticed her back to him. His entire body was glistening with perspiration, his dark hair plastered to his skull, his dark eyes gleaming. He was the quintessential male, primal and triumphant in his renewed victory over the mystery of woman.

But his first words were tenderly concerned. “Are you all right?” he asked, disentangling their bodies and cradling her close to his side.

She wanted to shout that she couldn't possibly be all right, but instead she nodded and turned her face into the damp hollow of his shoulder, still too stricken to attempt speech. What could she tell him, anyway? That she needed him with a need that went beyond rational thought, beyond the control of a will that had held her proudly upright even during her husband's death? She couldn't understand it herself, so how could she explain it to him?

His palm gently cupped her chin and tilted it up. She didn't open her eyes, but she felt the kiss that he placed on her soft, bruised lips with a touch as delicate as a whisper. Then he wrapped his arms around her and settled her more closely against him, his breath stirring the hair at her temple. “Go to sleep,” he ordered in a soft growl.

She did, exhausted by the night of dancing, the late hour, and his steamy, demanding lovemaking. It felt so perfect to sleep in his arms, as if she belonged there.

Yet she woke with the certain knowledge that something was wrong. She was no longer in his arms, though her hand was lying on his chest, the fingers buried in the curly hair that decorated it. The room was dark, the moon no longer lending its meager light. There were no unusual sounds, nothing was stirring, yet something had awakened her. What?

Then, as she came more fully awake, Cathryn became aware of the unnatural rigidity of Rule's body beneath her hand, the fast and shallow breathing that made his chest rise and fall. She could feel the perspiration forming on his skin.

Alarmed, she started to shake him, wanting to make certain that he was all right, but before she could move he bolted upright in the bed, silently, not a sound coming from him. His right hand was clenched around the sheet. With obvious effort, every movement as slow as death, he opened his hand and released the sheet. A curiously soft sigh eased from his lungs; then he swung his long legs off the bed and got up, moving to the window, where he stood staring out at the night-darkened land.

Cathryn sat up in the bed. “Rule?” she asked in a puzzled voice.

He didn't answer, though she thought she saw the outline of his body stiffen at the sound of her voice. She remembered what Ricky had said, that he sometimes had nightmares and would spend the night walking around the ranch. Had this been a nightmare? What sort of dream was it, that he suffered it in such taut silence?

“Rule,” she said again, getting out of bed and going to him. He was stiff and silent as she put her arms around him and rested her cheek on his broad back. “Did you have a dream?”

“Yes.” His voice was guttural, wrenched out of him.

“What happened?” He didn't answer, and she prodded, “Was it about Vietnam?”

For a long moment he didn't answer; then another “Yes” was forced past his stiff lips.

She wanted him to tell her about it, but as the silence lengthened she realized that he wouldn't. He had never talked about Vietnam, never told anyone what had happened that had sent him back to Texas as wild and dangerous as a wounded animal. Suddenly it was important to her that he tell her what had haunted him in his dreams; she wanted to be important to
him,
wanted him to trust her and let her share the burden that still rode his shoulders.

She moved around to face him, sliding her body between him and the window. Her hands moved in a soft caress on his hard form, giving him the comfort of her touch. “Tell me,” she demanded in a whisper.

If anything, he went even stiffer. “No,” he said harshly.

“Yes!” she insisted. “Rule, listen to me! You've never talked about it, never tried to put it in perspective. You've kept it all locked inside, and it can't be that way, don't you see? You're letting it eat you alive—”

“I don't need an amateur psychiatrist,” he snapped, thrusting her away from him.

“Don't you? Look at how hostile—”

“God damn you,” he snarled thickly. “What do you know about hostility? What do you know about perspective? I learned one thing pretty damned fast: there's no perspective about death. The dead don't care one way or the other. It's the ones who are left alive who have to worry about it. They want it clean. They don't want to be blown into a thousand bloody little pieces in somebody else's face. They don't want to be burned alive. They don't want to be tortured until they're not even human anymore. But do you know something, honey? You're just as dead from one neat bullet as you are if you're scattered over a solid acre. That's perspective.”

His raw anger, the bitterness in his voice, slammed into her like a body blow. Involuntarily she reached out for him again, but he stepped back, evading her touch as if he couldn't bear the closeness of another human being. Her hands fell uselessly to her sides. “If you would talk about it...” she began.