Any Thursday (Donovans of the Delta) (4 page)

With the scientific mind that was accustomed to analysis, Dr. Hannah Donovan came to a startling conclusion. At the precise moment he’d blown the bubbles away and looked at her with raw passion in his eyes, she’d wanted him as she’d never wanted another man.

“Nothing but chemisty. The mating call of two healthy mammals. It’s totally meaningless.”

She reached for her book and jerked it open. But the words were a jumble. Throwing her book onto the cabinet, she turned the hot water faucet on full force. Her water had gotten cold. Her bubbles were deflating too. Dripping water all over the floor and not caring, she got out of the tub, opened the cabinet, and took out the bubble bath. She dumped half the bottle in and climbed back in. Then, repenting over the puddle she’d left on the floor, she got out again and wiped it up with a dry towel.

When she straightened back up, she noticed Jim’s shirt wadded onto the corner of the vanity. Against her better judgment she reached for it, clasped it in her hands, and brought it to her face. His scent clung there, the strong, masculine smells of sweat and spice and desire. She inhaled deeply. When her passion flared, she knew she was close to letting her emotions get out of hand.

“Hell’s bells.”

She tossed the shirt away, got back into the tub, leaned her head on the cool porcelain, and shut her eyes. For the first time in her life she was going to ignore a problem instead of trying to solve it.

 o0o

Jim leaned against the bathroom door. The sounds of Hannah’s fury filtered through.

All he’d meant to do was go into the bathroom to take a leak. What was it about Hannah that always brought out the West Coast Warrior? Jim Roman, dangerous and deadly, always gets his woman, any woman, no strings attached. It was an act that had kept him safe for years. Was he losing himself? Was he slowly becoming his false identity?

He stripped and walked to the window. There was nothing outside except a wide sweep of lawn guarded by one giant magnolia and a line of massive oaks. There was no neon, no concrete, no billboards, no skyscrapers. The silence made his skin crawl. He pressed his face to the glass, but the only sound he heard was the faint chirping of crickets.

He walked to his bed, an old-fashioned cherry four- poster, and lay down. He sank so far into the soft mattress he thought it would take a forklift to pull him out. The sheet he pulled over his chest smelled like April flowers in the rain. All the comforts of home. And yet, it wasn’t home to him.

He was bone tired—from the long trip, the change in hours, and his evening of mild debauchery—but he couldn’t sleep. He lay still, unconsciously listening for jets flying overhead, the far-off sound of freeway traffic, the drunken squabbling of the wharf bums, and the lapping of the Pacific Ocean against his houseboat.

CHAPTER THREE

Jim awoke to the smell of coffee and the sound of laughter.

Instantly alert, he walked to the window and looked down. The blonde caught his eye first. She possessed the beautiful serenity of an angel. She was laughing at something the tall dark haired man beside her was saying. As he watched, the man bent down and caught the angelic woman in an embrace. Suddenly three sturdy hellions catapulted themselves at the couple, tugging at their hands and the woman’s skirt, laughing and squealing. The man lifted the smallest child, a dark haired boy of about four, onto his shoulder, and the woman took the other two by the hands. All five of them raced toward the rope swing hanging from the fat limb of an oak tree.

A family, Jim thought. Probably the minister, Paul Donovan, and his wife and children. The description fit. He remembered the way Anna’s face had glowed when she’d talked about her children and grandchildren.

Jim turned from the window and reached for his pants. As he pulled them on, he thought of his own family, his mother, her hands gnarled from hard work and her face lined from worry, and his father— Brick Roman. A big, handsome sailor whose love for the sea finally outweighed whatever affection he’d had for his wife and son. When Jim had been eight, Brick had sailed off on the
The Black Rover
and had never come back. Over the years they got a few cards postmarked from exotic, faraway places such as Tahiti and Fiji and New Guinea and Indonesia. Some years they even got Christmas presents— coconut shells with carved faces, pink seashells strung together in a necklace, a bamboo wind chime—usually wrapped in wrinkled Santa Claus paper and arriving two months after Christmas had passed.

His mother displayed the useless gifts on their sagging mantel and went about the business of scrubbing other people’s floors, while he sewed another patch on his pants and went into the streets to see if he could hustle up a few dimes by being somebody’s errand boy.

All that had changed now, of course. The gifts and cards had stopped coming many years before, and Mary Roman lived in a neat white frame house in a neighborhood with parks and playgrounds and schools and law-abiding citizens. He provided for her. Just as he would someday provide for a wife.

That was his secret dream—to find a sweet, old-fashioned girl, someone he could take care of, someone he could provide for. He’d give up his houseboat and build a small white cottage with a picket fence and rambling roses, somewhere near the water, close enough to smell the sea but within hearing distance of a brash, brawling, neon-and-concrete city.

He smiled at his own simple fantasy. The American dream. He’d have it someday. He’d have the same sort of healthy, happy, well-loved, cared-for family he’d glimpsed out the window. Someday. But not yet.

For now he’d content himself with covering the Donovan wedding and trying to stay out of trouble with the Donovan wildcat.

He had one arm in his shirt sleeve when he heard the laughter, deep and throaty and sexy. Hannah’s laughter, he thought. It had to be. No other woman had a voice quite like hers, a husky musical voice that made him think of a slow, sexy blues song.

He hurried to the window. Hannah was there, leaning down from a white stallion, laughing at something her brother was saying. Jim’s shirt dangled in his hand, forgotten. The beauty of woman and horse twisted his gut. Hannah leaned low in the saddle, her hair a bolt of black silk against the pristine white of the horse’s neck. Her expression was soft and gentle and loving.

Jim had a sudden vision of Hannah in his bed, her midnight hair piled against the pillows, her soft expression aimed exclusively at him.

“Fool,” he chided himself. “She’s not the fireside, homemaking type.” He turned from the window, vowing to think of her only as an amusement, something to help pass his time in Greenville. But that vision of her, leaning low in the saddle, woman-soft and laughing, wouldn’t go away.

As he headed down the stairs, he knew what he was going to do, what he had to do. He was going riding.

 o0o

Hannah was in the pasture behind the barn, just as he’d hoped. He stood beside the barn for a moment, drinking in the sight of her. She rode hard and fast, thundering over the ground on the white stallion. Her exultant, throaty laughter carried to him on the morning breeze. Animal and woman seemed to be one, their bodies flowing with the movement of the horse’s hooves. There was a grace in the horse and rider that complemented the morning.

Jim lingered a moment longer, silently appreciating the scene, then he went inside the barn and led out a chestnut filly. He arranged the saddle blanket and was hefting the saddle upward when he heard the stallion whinny. It was a high-pitched sound of alarm that sent shivers up his spine.

He whirled around and saw them across the pasture fence—Hannah’s white stallion rearing on its hind legs, its forelegs beating the air, and Hannah, bent low over its neck, fighting to keep her seat.

Jim dropped the saddle and vaulted onto the filly’s back. Praying that Tanner had been right about the chestnut’s jumping abilities, Jim urged the filly on, racing toward the fence and calculating the exact moment when he would jump.

A burst of adrenaline pumped through him; his senses became knife-edge sharp. In the distance he could see Hannah’s spooked horse, rearing and plunging back down.

“Hold him, Hannah.” Jim scarcely was aware that he’d cried out to her. His own horse rose in the air. For a breathless moment it seemed to be suspended over the fence. Time stood still for Jim. He was committed. There was no pulling back. His horse would either clear the fence or come crashing down, possibly killing them both.

Suddenly he felt the ground under him. The chestnut filly had landed smoothly and was racing across the pasture without a break in its stride. Exultant, Jim yelled once more, “Hold him, Hannah.”

Her stallion bolted, but at least her seat was sure now, Jim thought as he galloped after her. He leaned over his filly’s neck, urging her forward in Apache language he’d learned from his friend Colter Gray Wolf.

The filly was smaller than the stallion, but she used her size to her advantage. She flew across the pasture, rapidly closing the distance between herself and the stallion. Big chunks of earth flew up from the pounding hooves; dust swirled around them.

Jim planned his move, judged his distance, and closed in. When the horses were side by side, he reached out and lifted Hannah from the saddle. With his arm firmly around her small waist, he held her, suspended, for a small eternity while he maneuvered the chestnut away from the stallion. Then, with split-second timing, he swung her up behind him. Her arms instantly circled his waist, and he could feel her heart thudding against his back.

He reined the filly to a stop beside a small creek. Hannah still clung to him. He closed his hands over hers. They felt soft and small and exceedingly vulnerable.

“Hannah,” he said, turning slightly so he could see her over his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” He loved the breathless quality of her voice and the flush on her face. She didn’t look like a woman who had just been rescued from a runaway horse; she looked like a woman who’d been thoroughly loved. “Yes,” she said again. Her voice was stronger this time, and she smiled. “It was magnificent.”

“Magnificent?”

“Absolutely magnificent. Where did you learn to ride like that?”

Jim chuckled. “You’re quite a woman. Do you know that, Hannah Donovan? Any other woman in your position would be shaking and probably crying— and you’re asking where I learned to ride.”

“Well? Are you going to tell me?”

Instead of answering, he swung off the horse, then he reached up and helped her down. Even when her feet touched the ground, his hands lingered on her waist. Gazing at her, he forgot all about her question. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d held such a tempting bundle in his arms. She was soft and flushed and laughing, very much a woman. Looking into her bright face, he thought how easy it would be to make love to her. Right there. On the grass. Her guard was down; she was feeling grateful. He almost lowered her to the ground, but an untimely attack of honor held him back.

Instead, his hands tightened on her waist. Stepping in so close their thighs touched, he studied her. He saw the tip of her pink tongue flick out and slowly circle her lips. A small trickle of sweat rolled down the side of her face.

“You’re hot.”

“Yes. It’s the excitement of the ride.”

His eyes searched her face, then swung downward to the tiny pulse spot at the base of her throat. It was fluttering like a captive hummingbird. “No. It’s us, Hannah.”

She grew very still. “I won’t let it be.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, she changed the subject with a question of her own. “Who taught you to ride?”

“My friend. Colter Gray Wolf.”

“Native American?”

“Apache.”

“Awww.” The way she said it, in a long-drawn-out sigh, made him think of love sounds. His right hand slid downward, slowly tracing the curve of her hips, and slipped over her blue-jean-clad thigh until it was resting on the fullest part of her buttocks. With a subtle shifting he brought her hips into his. They were a perfect fit.

She made the small sound again. “Awww.” He didn’t know if it was a sound of wonder or satisfaction or need. All he knew was that it wrapped around him like velvet. His passion blossomed.

Her eyes widened, the blue deeper than ever. “An exotic man,” she whispered. “I once knew an exotic man. How did you meet Colter Gray Wolf?”

Jim didn’t want to talk about Colter Gray Wolf; he wanted to ask about her exotic man. Who in the hell was he, and why did her voice go soft and dreamy when she spoke of him? The vehemence of his feelings surprised him. That was no way to get through this damned Delta wedding with his manners and most of his honor intact.

He firmly squashed his maverick jealousy and answered her question.

“Several years ago he dragged me out of a waterfront bar and patched me up. He’s a doctor.”

She reached up and touched the faint scar on his forehead. “This?” Her hand gently followed the scar line across his forehead to his eyebrow.

“Yes.” He covered her hand with his, pressing it against his face.

“I’m glad.”

Jim smiled. “Glad he patched me up or glad he taught me to ride?”

“Both.” Her tongue flicked over her lips again. He leaned forward, imagining the feel of that tongue on his flesh. “I would have been all right, you know.”

“Would you?”

“Yes. I ride well.”

She made a small move to free her hand. Reluctantly he let it go.

“I’ve known that from the beginning.”

His free hand circled the back of her neck. She didn’t try to pull out of his embrace. Ever so slowly, he inched his hand upward, lifting her hair. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying the sensations of soft, downy skin and soft, silky hair. Of all the places on a woman’s body, the back of the neck was one of his favorites, probably because it was such a vulnerable spot. If he’d cared to delve into the psychology of it, he’d most likely come up with something regarding his need to control. But psychology was as far from his mind as San Francisco. Right now he had the moment, and he had a curiously gentle Hannah in his arms.