Dark Paradise (25 page)

and was stronger for it. "Since the war," he added.

He said it as if there had been only one in the last hundred fifty

years, as if this corner of Montana had somehow existed out of time with

the rest of the modern world. Sitting there in the ranch yard, the wild

country all around them and no sign of civilization in sight, Marilee

was almost tempted to believe that could be true.

"The Civil War," she clarified.

"Yes, ma'am."

"And the Raffertys were Southerners?"

"Yes, ma'am. From Georgia."

His answer made her think of his manners. When he chose to display any,

they were quaintly formal, the courtly manners of the old Deep South,

polished Southern chivalry that had grown a little rough around the

edges out in the wilderness. The thought that those customs had survived

at all over four generations suggested they had been very carefully

handed down, like cherished heirlooms, like his pride in his land and

his fierce distrust of outsiders.

She turned sideways on the buggy seat and leaned a shoulder against the

rough wall of the barn. "You're very lucky," she murmured, "to have that

kind of sense of who you are and where you belong. I come from a place

where almost no one is a native, where tradition is something we get out

of Emily Post."

"It'll be that way around here soon enough."

"Only if all the natives leave."

"Plenty already have. Most can't afford not to."

"Because of people like Lucy buying land?"

"Nothing's sacred to people with money."

"You say that like they're evil. Maybe they love it here as much as you

do. Take it from me," she said dryly, "belonging doesn't necessarily

have anything to do with birthright."

J.D. said nothing. His feelings were too strong for words. No one could

love this land more than he did. It was as much a part of him as his

heart, his hands. He couldn't imagine an outsider feeling that. He

didn't want to.

He cut a sideways glance at Marilee. She seemed lost in thought,

pensive, her plump lower lip caught between her teeth while she fiddled

with the frayed ends of a tear in the leg of her jeans. Stray strands of

blond hair fell against her cheek. He had to admit, she didn't look much

like any of her fellow newcomers. She didn't dress to impress in

designer western wear. She didn't even wear makeup - not that she needed

any. She certainly didn't bear much resemblance to Lucy with her

expensive clothes and long, lacquered fingernails. There was no choking

cloud of perfume hanging around her. He pulled in a deep breath and

shifted positions, detecting a hint of lemon oil.

"You worked on the house all day?" he said, trying his best to sound

nonchalant.

"Mmm."

"Why?"

"Why?
 
Because it needed to be done."

"You fixing to move in, Marilee?"

"No. I-"

She heaved a sigh and looked across the yard to the house and the valley

that lay beyond. It was hers. She still couldn't get that into her head.

This place was hers and she couldn't accept it, yet she had pulled the

plug on the life she'd led before coming here.
 
Where did that leave

her?

In limbo. What a curious place to be. A fog, where contact to the past

had been severed and the future lay beyond the thick white mist. What

else was there to do but float along in it, let it take her wherever?

That was what her vacation to Montana was supposed to be about anyway - to

shut down for a time, to live in the moment.

"I don't know. I didn't come here with the intention of staying. I only

wanted some time to decompress. I just dumped my career, and then there

was this guy-" She cut herself off, sending Rafferty a rueful look.

"Well, that's another story. Anyway, I actually got some poor

unsuspecting innocent to buy all my stenographer's equipment. I was

coming here to celebrate. Lucy would have loved it - the ultimate

nose-thumbing of convention and all that . . . I sure as hell didn't

bargain for any of this."

A shiver ran through her, and she pulled her old jacket a little closer

around her, the appalling state of her fingernails catching her

attention. The ones she hadn't bitten off had broken off during her

cleaning marathon. Her fingers were chapped and raw from countless

cycles of wet and dry. Lucy would have hustled her off for an emergency

manicure.

"Should have worn gloves," J.D. murmured. He turned her hand over and

studied her palm and the callused tips of her fingers. Rubbing those

pads of hard flesh, he could still remember the sound of her guitar and

her low, husky voice, the sweetness, the poignancy of the music made by

these fine-boned hands.

Marilee's breath went thin in her lungs as he examined and explored her

hand. Currents of something warm and intoxicating traveled up her arm

and spread through her body in waves. She stared at him, wondering

exactly what it was, wondering if he felt it too. His hand was warm and

rough and huge, swallowing hers up as if she were a child. The latent

strength in it set off a fluttering in the base of her throat.

"You'll end up with rancher's hands," he said.

Instantly, she thought of his rancher's hands touching her, dark skin

against light, calluses caressing the softest parts of her - and a flash

fire swept through her.

This is weird, Marilee. Chemistry - that was the explanation. Too bad she

didn't understand chemistry any better now than she had in high school.

J.D. raised his eyes to meet hers and felt as if he had been lulled into

some kind of trance. He wasn't the kind of man to lose control, to act

the fool over some pretty blonde. That had been his father's role in

life. And Will's.

But not even that bitter reminder could make him pull his hand away from

Marilee's or make him look away from her. She stared up at him, her

deep, dark, clear blue eyes awash in wonder, her lips parted slightly in

surprise. The taste of those lips lingered in his memory, teasing him,

tempting him.

It's just sex, he assured himself. Nothing more complicated than a rush

of hormones.

He leaned down and settled his mouth over hers. She opened to him

readily, a symbolic gesture that shot molten heat through the pit of his

belly. He slid his tongue into her mouth, completing the symbol, taking

them to the threshold of the next level in the age-old game.

He kissed her deeply, possessively, sliding his free hand into the

tangle of her hair to cup the back of her head and hold her at the angle

he liked best. His other hand was still twined with hers between them.

As desire pooled and throbbed in his groin, he drew her hand to him,

bent her small fingers around his erection, and groaned at the heady

combination of pleasure and pain.

"That's how much I want you, Marilee," he whispered roughly, dragging

his mouth from her lips to her jaw to the shell of her ear. He pulled

the lobe between his teeth, biting gently, then sucking.

"That's saying a lot." Marilee's voice was as thin as gauze. Her brain

felt wrapped in gauze, logic trapped between the layers of mindless

need, overwhelmed by Rafferty's masculinity and sexuality.

"Let me give it to you, Marilee," he breathed urgently. "I want to be

inside you. I want to feel you around me. Hot. Wet." He wedged a hand

between her legs and rubbed her through her jeans. "Are you hot for me,

Marilee?"

A moan was the only response she could manage. The heat was incredible.

She felt as if she were melting, her whole being liquefying and flowing

into Rafferty's hand.

She stroked her palm down the length of him and imagined too easily how

he would feel entering her, filling her, stretching her.

He kissed her again, roughly, wildly, thrusting his tongue deep into her

mouth. His fingers fumbled for the tab of her zipper.

"Let me," he growled, his breath rasping, his lungs working like

bellows. He nipped the side of her neck, then kissed where he'd bitten.

"Let me fuck you, Marilee."

His blunt language shot a jolt of excitement through her. At the same

time, it struck a tender nerve. This would mean nothing to him but

slaking a need. He had been very plain about that from the start. He

didn't have to love her. He didn't even have to like her.

She wasn't a prude. She had gone to bed with men she didn't love. But

there had always been a mutual respect and friendship, if nothing else.

Here there was nothing else.

And still she wanted him.

The conflicting emotions swirled through her head, making her dizzy,

making her feel as if she were falling.

Then her backside hit the ground so hard, her teeth snapped together and

her eyes popped open. She had managed to fall off the bench.

"Wow." She struggled to her feet, knees wobbling, and dusted off the

seat of her jeans. "I've heard of kisses knocking a girl on her butt,"

she joked weakly, "but I never took it literally."

Embarrassment burned in her cheeks, and she turned slightly away from

him, rubbing the sensation with her fingertips as if she could erase any

telltale sign of it. Her hands were trembling. God, her whole body was

shaking. Amazing. When was the last time a man had made her tremble with

the power of his kiss?
 
Never. And when was the last time a man had made

her want so badly, her brain shut down and primal instincts took over?

Never.

You're in big trouble here, Marilee.

J.D. took her by the arm and turned her toward him.

"Let's go up to the house and finish this in a bed."

Marilee stepped away from him, shaking her head. Her hair tumbled down

around her face, partially hiding her.

"No."

"No?" he said, incredulous. Anger and sexual frustration pounded inside

him. "I didn't hear you saying no when you had your hand wrapped around

my dick."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, nearly choking on the tension within her. "I

can't do this."

"The hell you can't, Marilee," J.D. growled. "You drop your panties,

spread your legs, and I make us both happy. It's as simple as that."

"Not for me, it isn't. I don't have sex with a man just because I happen

to be handy when he needs it."

"Lucy did," he said cruelly.

Marilee lifted her chin and stared at him through a thin sheen of tears

as hurt coursed through her. "I'm not Lucy."

Her pride kicked him square and hard in the chest. She wasn't being coy.

She wasn't playing games. She was standing up to him. Again. And damned

if she wasn't pretty, standing there with those big, jewel-blue eyes

glaring at him through her tears and her tangled blond hair.

The hard throb of need ebbed a bit. J.D. reached into his hip pocket and

pulled out a handkerchief. Scowling, he swiped the tears that had

spilled over her lashes, leaving them spiky and dark. He gave her the

handkerchief and ordered her to blow her nose. Then he combed her hair

back with his fingers and tilted her face up.

"This isn't finished, Marilee," he said, his voice quiet, his expression

stern. "Not by a long way. It might not happen tonight or tomorrow, but

it's damn well gonna happen. That's a promise."

It sounded more like a threat, but Marilee said nothing as he turned and

went into the barn.

Twilight was fading fast. Night crept down the mountainside in long,

cool, black fingers that carried the scent of pine and damp earth.

Somewhere along the valley a bull elk called to his harem, a

high-pitched, whistling squeal that looped into a trumpet blast. Eerie

and beautiful.