Cinderella's Big Sky Groom (7 page)

She had liked it better when he dared her, she really, truly had.

He made a soothing sound. “Come on. Look at me.”

Reluctantly she let go of the doorknob and turned. His hand slid down to clasp with hers. “Look at me. And listen. Are you listening?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

“I'm a damn good lawyer,” he said.

She stifled a laugh, a laugh that felt a little too much like a sob. “What has that got to do with anything?”

“If you'll listen, I'll tell you.”

“I…all right.”

“I'm a damn good lawyer. But the truth is, I'm not a very good man.”

She had an instant and rather powerful urge to argue with him—and he knew it.

With the hand that wasn't holding hers, he touched a finger to her lips. “Shh. Listen. I'm not a very good man. But you're one hell of a woman. And not just because of an appointment at the Whitehorn Salon and a pretty new dress. You've got heart and you've got guts. A sense of humor—and a damn sharp tongue. You're going to do fine. You're going to find yourself that prince you're looking for.”

“But I—”

“Shh. Wait. Listen.”

She pressed her lips together, nodded.

“That prince is not me. That prince was never me. Do you understand?”

She should have nodded again then. But she didn't. She couldn't. Deep in her most secret heart, she simply did not believe him.

You
are
my prince, her heart cried—at the same time as she called herself ten thousand kinds of fool.

He said, “All I want from you, and I admit, I want it pretty damn bad, is one night. I'm not looking for anything more than that. I'm no
good
for anything more than that. And you…I don't think you realize yet all that you are. But you will. As time goes on. And you'll be glad you never gave yourself away to someone like me.” He paused, giving her a chance, she knew, to say something at last.

But she didn't say anything. She couldn't. She
only looked at him, all the reasons she had to leave now scrolling through her mind.

All the reasons that just didn't stack up against a night of magic. Against a lifetime of being the good girl, of saying and doing the right thing. Of wearing flat shoes and brown skirts, of having all the cowboys she'd gone to school with call her “Miss,” defining her utterly with that single syllable: Miss. An old maid at twenty-four.

He had said it himself:
Maybe there's a woman inside you that you need to let out.

Didn't he realize? That woman
was
out. She had been lured out, by her dear friend Danielle, by the tender ministrations of Gracie and Kim. By a silver-threaded red dress and two-inch red heels.

And by him. By Ross Garrison. By candlelight, over champagne and filet mignon, in a single bite of truffle cake delivered to her on the tip of his own fork.

That woman
was
out. And Lynn Taylor did not intend to hide her away again.

Not yet, anyway. Not until the night was over.

Not until she'd done all the forbidden things that the
dependable
one could never let herself do. Not until she'd squeezed every last drop of beauty and wonder out of all the moments until…when? Midnight. Yes. Of course. Midnight. She would stay until the clock struck twelve.

“Let's get that coat,” he said, releasing her hand and reaching for the closet door.

She backed up, blocking the door. “One night?” she asked. “That's all, right?”

He closed his eyes, shook his head. “Lynn. I'm trying to do the right thing here, damn it.”

She put her hand on the knob so he couldn't grab it. “One night,” she said again. “Tonight.”

He made a low, impatient and very put-upon sound. “Stop this.”

“No. Sorry. I'm not going to stop. I assume you have…whatever single men are supposed to have. So that their lady friends don't end up in trouble.”

He let out a harsh rush of air—like a man who'd been punched in the stomach. “You are not saying this.”

“Yes, I am. Just tell me. Can you make sure that I don't get pregnant?”

He swore.

“Well, can you?”

“Damn it, yes. But—”

She put up a hand—the one that wasn't keeping him from opening the closet door and taking out her boring brown coat. “Listen, please. It's my turn to talk. And what I'm trying to tell you is that I want this one night as much—no, more. Definitely more than you do. I want you to—” she had to pause, to swallow, but then she did get the words out “—make love to me.”

He swore again.

She hurried on before he could say more. “I want you to make love to me. I want you to show me…what it can be like. Because, you see, I really don't know. I want you to give me this one night, since that's all you say you're capable of. And then when it's over, I want you to keep your mouth shut about it. Do you think you can do that?”

“I don't believe you're saying this.”

“You're repeating yourself.”

“Damn it, Lynn. It's not right.”

She clucked her tongue. “Listen to yourself. You sound like the good man you just told me you weren't.”

“I am not a good man.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“If you say so. But you
do
want to make love with me?”

“What I want isn't the point.”

“It's not?” Boldly she let her gaze travel downward, over his autumn-gold sweater and his fine leather belt. She could see the hard ridge that tented the fabric of his slacks—and she knew her biology, even lacking as she was in firsthand experience. She could see very clearly that her proposal had interested him.

He let out another low sound, this one more like a groan than anything else, and he muttered, “I should have had sense enough to keep my damn jacket on.”

She looked into his face again—and her cool pose fell away. “I mean this,” she said honestly. “I do want this. So much. And I give you my word, I won't ask you for anything more. After tonight, if we meet on the street, I promise to smile politely, say hello…and walk on by.”

His eyes bored into her. “Walk on by?”

“Yes. Do you believe me?”

“Hell.” It was all Ross could think of to say. He did believe her. And he should have been content. It was only everything he wanted, wasn't it? One night with her—and nothing more? Their little secret that neither would ever be so foolish as to share with anyone else.

She said very seriously, “I hope you believe me. Because I'm telling the truth.”

A silence fell. A weighty one. She looked at him and he looked at her. The air seemed almost too thick for breathing.

Finally she asked in a thready voice, “Is this the part where I have to start begging?”

There was less than a foot between their bodies. He eliminated that distance, reaching for her as she reached for him.

He pulled her close, muttered into her hair, “Are you sure?”

She nodded against his shoulder, all doubts banished by the mere feel of his body pressed to hers, by the way his arms held her, contradicting utterly what he'd told her he wanted—one night and no more. Those arms really felt as if they'd never let her go.

“I'm sure,” she whispered, not letting herself think of the lies she would have to tell, or of who she was: Jewel Hollis Taylor's dependable stepdaughter who would never, ever do such a shocking, wild thing.

Tonight. For this one night. She was someone else. Tonight, dependable Lynn Taylor didn't exist.

Tonight she was Cinderella. Sleeping Beauty. Ugly duckling turned swan.

And more.

Tonight she was…the lady in red.

She was the woman she'd seen in the mirror at the Whitehorn Salon. The woman who took her chances when they came along. The woman who dared to live
dangerously. The woman who boldly said what she wanted and then went after it.

Tonight, just for this one night, a fairy-tale princess had nothing on her.

H
e kissed her, right there in the front hall, pressing her up against the closet door. At first tenderly, gently, as if he feared hurting her.

And then she felt his tongue, questing for entry, at the seam of her closed lips. Slowly, only a little reluctantly, she opened for him. His tongue slipped inside.

Oh, my!

She could hardly believe it. A man's tongue,
Ross Garrison's tongue,
was inside her mouth.

And she…why, she
liked
it. It felt…slick and rough at the same time. And it was stroking her, caressing her, tasting faintly of brandy, of coffee and chocolate….

She opened her mouth a little more. And she moaned.

An answering sound, very male and very hungry,
came from deep in his chest. She could feel that sound. It made her shiver, made her breasts ache with a pleasant heaviness as it rumbled right through them, seeming to find its way straight to her heart.

His hand was sliding down to the small of her back, tucking her tightly into him. He…he was rubbing himself against her. Down there, she felt so warm. Like something solid held to flame and turning slowly liquid.

Omigoodness.
Nothing in her life had ever felt quite like this. She'd read more than a few lush and lovely romances, curled up in her easy chair with a nice cup of tea. And sometimes, in the juicy parts, she'd let herself imagine that those passionate love scenes were happening to her.

But in real life? No way. Nothing had even come close. Certainly not that single quick peck on the lips she'd received at the door from one of those sweet, shy boys at Montana State.

She had definitely been missing out.

He kissed her harder, and his tongue delved deeper. Her legs went weak. She clutched at his broad shoulders, another moan escaping her, pressing her hips harder against him, wishing she could just melt right up into him, have her body be part of his body, softness and hardness blending together into one.

But then he lifted his mouth from hers. She stared up at him, wide-eyed. “I…you can keep going. It's all right, really….”

He frowned. “Are you
sure
that you're sure?”

“I said I was, didn't I?”

He chuckled, the sound low and seductively rough.
“You're right. You did say you were sure. But it still seemed like a good idea to check one more time.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “Okay, then. You checked. You don't have to check again.”

“Whatever you say, Ms. Taylor.”

She touched his mouth. It looked so soft and warm—and also a little bit swollen from the pressure of that kiss they'd just shared. His lips moved in a wordless caress against the tips of her fingers. She felt his breath flow down her palm.

He was tracing a slow, lazy circle at the small of her back. But then his hand strayed up. He touched her hair, capturing a curl, coiling it around his index finger.

She gave him a smile that quivered only a little. “So. What do we do now?”

He pulled his finger free of the curl he'd created. “We go upstairs.”

“To…your bedroom?”

He nodded. And then, with a swiftness that stunned her, he put one arm at her back and one beneath her knees and lifted her high into his arms.

“Ross!” A wild laugh escaped her. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like? I'm carrying you to my bed.”

He turned without another word and started for the great room—and the wide, rough-hewn stairs. He strode up them purposefully, holding her close against his chest.

Halfway up, she lost one of her red shoes. The right one. It slipped off her heel. She tried to catch it on the end of her toe, but it got away from her. She heard it bouncing down behind them.

“Oh, wait!” she cried. “My shoe…”

“Leave it for now.”

“But—”

“You can get it later. It's not going anywhere.”

 

In his bedroom he set her gently on the bed, then knelt at her feet. She gazed dreamily down at his dark head as he removed her remaining shoe. “Ah,” she said. “My prince.”

Still kneeling there, cradling her left foot in his hands, he looked up at her. “I told you. I'm no prince.”

She laughed. The sound was very naughty. She could do that tonight—give a naughty laugh, live dangerously. After all, for tonight, she was the lady in red.

Boldly she told him again, “You are my prince.”

“No. I'm not.”

“Yes, you are. But don't get nervous. No commitment required. Remember that old TV show,
Queen for a Day?
”

He lifted an eyebrow—and stroked the arch of her foot. “You're not old enough to remember
Queen for a Day.
”

She wiggled her toes at him. “There are such things as reruns, Ross.”

He grunted. “Come on. They never reran
Queen for a Day
—not by the time you were growing up.”

“Sure they did. I saw it when I was a little girl. It was a great show. Nice, middle-class housewives got to wear a crown and a fur cape with a long train. For a whole day, they were royalty. And there were prizes. Things like shopping sprees and brand-new washer/dryer combinations.”

“And you're trying to tell me that this is the same thing?”

“It is. Very much the same. Only instead of a queen, you're a prince.
My
prince. For a night.” She lifted her shoulders in a teasing shrug. “Sorry, I'm fresh out of washer/dryer combinations. All you get is me.”

The news that he wouldn't get more didn't seem to worry him. He went right on stroking her foot, sending little heated shivers beneath her nylon stockings, little shivers that ran from her toes, along her arch, over the curve of her heel and right on up the back of her leg.

She hitched in a pleasured breath, then whispered, “Face it. You're the one. My Prince for a Night.”

He raised her foot and lightly nipped her toe between his white teeth. A delicious weakness shivered through her. She had to rest back on her hands.

His palm cupped her heel. And then traveled, warm and encompassing, up the back of her calf to the tender spot behind her knee.

“All right.” He said the words low, like a growl, from the back of his throat. A growl that sent her senses shimmering. “I'll be your Prince for a Night.”

“Did I mention you don't get the cape or the crown, either?”

“No. But you did say the cape had fur trim—and a train, right?”

“Um-hmm.”

“I think I can get by without that. And the crown…?”

“A diamond tiara, if I remember correctly.”

“Do I look like a man who'd wear a diamond tiara?”

She tipped her head to the side, studying him. “Not your style, huh?”

“No, not my style.”

“Well, good, then. It's settled. You get no crown, no cape, no prizes—except me. Temporarily.”

“Do you hear me complaining?”

“Well, of course not. A prince
never
complains.”

He didn't reply to that. Not in words. But his hand moved on, stroking beneath the silvered cashmere of her skirt, running up her thigh, eliciting a sharp gasp from her, and then sliding over, moving down the other thigh, appearing once more at her knee.

His head was bent again, watching what he touched. And then it came up. His eyes burned now, with a feral light.

He rose from a crouch to his knees. And then fully to his feet.

Still leaning back on her hands, she stared at him. He began to undress.

First he took off that platinum watch of his and set it on the stand by the bed. Then he pulled off his sweater and tossed it toward a chair, where it landed with a soft rustling sound. Next came the shirt he wore underneath it. He unbuttoned the sleeves with quick, almost brutal efficiency, then dispensed with the buttons that ran down the front. He shrugged out of the shirt and threw it toward the chair where his sweater lay.

He was naked from the waist up.

Without his shirt he seemed somehow too real.

Not her dream prince at all. But a man. A man she
didn't really know. A man who was going to do things to her that had never been done to her before.

Lynn realized that she didn't feel quite so naughty and free as she had a few seconds earlier.

His chest was…so broad and powerful, patterned lightly with dark hair that lay in a midnight shadow across his pectorals, then went down in a trail over his hard belly. Her gaze wandered lower. She saw that his…interest in this activity remained acute.

Her lips felt dry. She rubbed them together, dared to touch them with the moisture of her tongue.

He said one word low; she couldn't quite make it out, but it had a savage sound to it. A sound that matched the look in his eyes.

He held out his hand, palm out. A careful, controlled movement.

Lynn was a town girl, but she had grown up around men who worked with animals. She'd visited a few of the local ranches, gone to stock shows and rodeos. The way Ross reached for her now reminded her of the way a good cowhand will approach a skittish horse, every move cautious and deliberate, in order not to send it whinnying and wheeling away.

“Take my hand.” It was a command, but couched in velvet.

Was she afraid of him right then?

Yes. Definitely. Afraid of the male power in him. Afraid of what she was about to do with him, which
could
bring great pleasure.

But which also could hurt her. Probably
would
hurt her, no matter how much care he exercised.

“Take it,” he said.

Too late to back out now, she thought, sitting up straight again, extending her arm.

His fingers closed over hers. He pulled her slowly to her feet and then laid her hand on his chest. On that hardness, that heat. She felt the silky, slightly wiry hair, the expansion and contraction as he drew breath. And also the beating of his heart.

The beating of his heart.

The same as she'd felt it downstairs, when he'd kissed her, and even before that, when he'd dared her to let the woman inside her get free.

Well, here she was. Getting free.

She was also feeling more than a bit skittish.

And downstairs, the clock was chiming. The sound reached them. Neither spoke until all nine chimes had rung out.

Then he said, “We can still call a halt to this.”

His eyes said something else altogether.

She didn't really know, at that moment, what he would do if she said, All right. Take me home. I've changed my mind.

And she would never know anyway, what he might have done.

Because she was not going to back out.

She closed her eyes, shook her head. “No. I want to stay, I do.”

Beneath her hand, his chest contracted again as he released a long breath. “Good.” He bent forward, nuzzled her mouth, then her cheek, then her temple, catching a few strands of hair between his lips and tugging on them gently.

She let out a long, shuddery sigh, her hand fisting of its own accord against his chest.

His naked chest.

Naked. The word got stuck in her mind, so scary and raw.

Naked.

In a few minutes, more than likely, he would expect her to start undressing, too. He would actually see her without her clothes on.

Would he like what he saw?

Lord, she hoped so.

After all, she
was
now slimmer than she used to be. Her stomach didn't pooch out—at least, not too much. And her breasts were…okay. There was really nothing wrong with them. Was there?

And her legs were long. That was one good thing about being tall. Long legs.

But still. Would she be…pretty enough?

Without her magical red dress?

Underneath, she was wearing a plain cotton slip. And her bra and panties…they were white. Boring and ordinary, as were her drugstore panty hose. Beneath the dress, everything belonged to the woman in brown.

Would he look at her and wonder why he'd wanted her to stay?

“Turn around,” he whispered, his lips brushing her temple.

“I…what?”

“Just do it. Turn around.”

“Oh. Oh, I don't know….”

“Do it. Turn around.” He took her shoulders and slowly guided her so that she faced away from him. She found herself staring at the broad expanse of his bed. His hands slid down over her arms, then under them, to rest at the curve of her hips. “Better?”

Somehow, it was. Now, whatever he was looking at, she didn't have to know. She felt his hands move
again—to the top of the zipper, beneath her hair, at her nape.

He smoothed her hair aside. And then he took that zipper down in an endless, nerve-flaying sizzle of sound. She felt the air against her back, and then his lips, at her nape, his breath against her skin.

She closed her eyes, suppressed a moan as he peeled the cashmere fully open, guided it over her shoulders and down. The top of the dress dropped away and he pushed it over her hips until it fell to the floor. She stepped free of it and he bent to pick it up.

She didn't dare look, but she knew that he turned. She heard him, felt the loss of his body heat as he moved away from her enough to lay the dress over a chair.

He came back. His hands were at her shoulders again, warm on her bare skin, lifting the straps of her slip and then dropping them, so they fell in twin loops down her arms.

His lips were at her ear. “Help me, Lynn. Just a little.”

She responded to the tender command, sliding her arms free of the straps, then pushing the slip off her hips and shimmying it down, catching it in her hand, rising to her full height again—and tossing it toward where he'd laid her dress.

He made a sound of approval, low in his throat. And she felt his touch again, just a finger, at the base of her neck. He traced that finger downward, a slow glide along each of the bumps of her spine, pausing briefly at the back hooks of her bra. She held her breath. And then let it out as that finger continued
on its way, stopping when it reached the elastic band at the top of her panty hose.