Delilah's Weakness (5 page)

"If you ever do that again," she said with a gasp, boiling mad and fighting tears of confusion and rage, "I swear I’ll… I will pull out your stitches!"

She stalked from the room, trying to pretend nothing out of the ordinary had happened to her. As she slammed cupboard doors, banged pots, measured rolled oats and water—remembering in the nick of time to double the usual amounts—she kept telling herself, as if reciting a mantra:
He was asleep. He didn’t know what he was doing. It meant absolutely nothing.

But she was left with the lingering essence of both the man and the kiss, more vivid in a way than the real thing. At the time she’d been too surprised, too embarrassed, too angry, to be aware of the assault on her senses. Now she felt the tingle of her skin where his beard had rasped against it, the moisture on her lips from his mouth, no matter how hard she tried to rub it away. And no amount of rubbing could dispose of the tactile memory of his hand on the curve of her skull, his lips, firm and warm, fitting themselves so perfectly over hers, his tongue sliding over her teeth, surprising her so that she opened her mouth to him––

Her stomach churned audibly, and she pressed her hand against it. Hunger, that’s all it is, she told herself, furiously stirring the bubbling oatmeal, not even thinking about the fact that there was more than one kind of hunger.

There was a sound—or maybe just a subtle alteration in the room’s vibrations sensed on another level entirely. Delilah turned to find her houseguest standing in the bedroom doorway, tucking in the shirttail of his blue pullover and watching her quizzically.

"I wish I could say I’m sorry about that." His husky voice touched the back of her neck as she hastily returned to the steaming pot. "But I’m not. That’s just about the best way I can think of to start a new day." His voice gave away his smile. "In fact, I think I’d like to try to arrange it as often as possible."

"Like room service?" Delilah said brightly, removing the pot from the stove and clapping a lid on it with unnecessary force.

"Why not?" He was smiling—not that sweet, beautiful smile that had the power to knock her silly, but a crooked grin holding more than a touch of Puckish mischief. "What’s the matter—never tried it? Or didn’t like it?"

"Both," she said firmly if irrationally, "with strangers."

"Ah, but I’m not a stranger." His eyes twinkled at her through a fringe of black. Delilah had an idea those eyes were probably registered somewhere as lethal weapons. "You saved my life. Well, sewed up my head, anyway." His voice softened. "I just spent the night in your bed. And––" he paused to look around the room and back to her "––someone undressed me." He came toward her, and she eyed him the way a rabbit watches a fox. "And you know my name. I heard you."

"You
heard
me? I thought you were asleep!"

His only answer was a soft chuckle.

Glowering furiously, deliberately avoiding both him and his gaze, Delilah fetched and bustled and slammed, moving back and forth from counter and stove to table, setting out bowls, cups, spoons, milk, sugar, instant coffee, and last, on a hot plate to protect the oilcloth, the pot of oatmeal.

"Breakfast," she announced, wondering why she felt so surly and ungracious this morning. "If you want it."

He lifted the lid of the pot and sniffed as if intrigued. "Oatmeal. Haven’t had that since I was a kid. Used to eat it with raisins," he added hopefully.

"Raisins are expensive." He was standing close to her, blocking her way to the table. Her breath was short and her stomach was growling. Hungry again, she thought. "Please," she said, almost desperately, "sit down."

"You don’t like to kiss a stranger; I don’t like to eat with one," he said softly. "Tell me who you are."

"What?" She stared at him, unaccountably confused. That simple question, in that curiously husky murmur, seemed to carry a much, much more complex command. A command to strip herself naked for him, figuratively speaking; to bare her very soul.
Tell me who you are.
Instinctively she drew her natural reserve around her like a cloak.
A cloak of invisibility.

He laughed. "Your name. Tell me your name. It’s only fair—you know mine."

"Um, sure. It’s Delilah. Delilah Beaumont."

"Delilah…" He rolled the name around on his tongue, and then seemed to do a double take on her last name. "Beaumont?" he asked sharply, and when she nodded he muttered something under his breath and shook his head, then added in a new and guarded tone, "How did you know my name, by the way? Run through my pockets while I was out cold?"

She studied him with distaste. "Your wallet and the other contents of your jacket are over there." She pointed to the counter. "I washed the blood out of your jacket. I didn’t think you’d want it ruined. It looked expensive. For your information," she went on, rather enjoying the mild chagrin that flickered across his face, "the sheriff came by last night, looking for you. He has notified your next of kin, Mr. MacGregor."

Luke puffed out his cheeks and blew a gust of self– reproach. Shaking his head and hooking his hand on the back of his neck, he murmured, "Sorry, that was uncalled–for. Thank you. Belatedly, wholeheartedly…thank you. For everything. For having your pasture in just the right place, for your strong shoulder, your silken fingers, your needle and thread, your bed, and for getting the word out on my probable survival." He paused. "And thank you for having the most incredible pair of eyes a man ever woke up to."

There it was again, that angel’s smile, that voice with those crazy suspensions that tingled through her auditory canals and right on down her spine. He could turn them both on and mesmerize her without even trying. Or was he trying? Was he so used to charming people that he considered he owned right of conquest to everyone he met?

The man is dangerous, she decided.
He shouldn’t be allowed out in public unless properly shielded.

Because somehow there he was, standing too close to her, one hand on the back of her neck, and she couldn’t for the life of her think how he had gotten there. She licked her lips. His fingertips were skimming lightly over the fine dusting of hair on the back of her neck.

"With your hair, your skin, your cheekbones," he said thoughtfully, "you ought to have midnight eyes. Instead they’re like a winter morning—ice blue, with a nice warm fire inside. Have you always worn your hair short like this?" His fingers brushed at the feathers of hair on her forehead, touched her cheekbones, and then slid down to join his other hand at the back of her neck.

"No," Delilah said hoarsely. "It’s a form of rebellion. Men prefer long hair."

"But I don’t. This suits you perfectly. And it frames your eyes."

"What are you, a fashion critic? I’m planning to grow it out first thing tomorrow." She dove under his arm and surfaced outside the perimeter of his spell. "I always thought it was supposed to be the Irish who were masters of blarney, not the Scots," she said, speaking lightly, rapidly. "Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do, and I’ve been up for hours already." She hitched in a breath. "I’m hungry. I’m going to eat my breakfast. After which I still have a few things to do before I can take you down the mountain. So if you mean to get back to civilization today, you’d better get out of my way and let me eat my breakfast."

She pulled back a chair and dropped shakily into it, surprised to discover her legs were weak. As she helped herself to a dollop of now–congealed oatmeal, poured milk over it, and poked doggedly at it, she heard a whisper of laughter and the bathroom door clicking shut. She dropped the spoon and collapsed back in her chair, expelling a long–held breath. She felt as if she had just pushed a loaded wheelbarrow the entire length of the pasture. Uphill.

** ** **

"Brr," Luke said awhile later, rubbing his hands together as he emerged from the bathroom. "Do you keep it that cold in there for a reason?"

"Several, actually," Delilah said, deadpan, her sense of humor returning with her self–control. "Discourages loitering, and puts roses in your, uh, cheeks." Ignoring his surprised and appreciative hoot, she went on. "You see, this house started out as a line shack. No plumbing or electricity. Someone added that bathroom by simply partitioning off a part of a storage lean–to and pouring a concrete floor. Period. There’s no insulation in there at all."

"How do you bathe in that icehouse? I ask out of a genuine thirst for knowledge, you understand. Nothing prurient intended."

"Quickly," she said shortly, standing up and collecting her dishes.

"You’re always in a hurry, aren’t you?" Luke sat down and peered doubtfully at the oatmeal, fixed himself a cup of coffee with milk, and reached automatically for his cigarettes. He then grimaced and put them back. "What’s on your busy schedule for today?"

"Fence mending," Delilah told him. She was already reaching for her windbreaker. She wouldn’t need the cap and vest this morning. The sun was shining, and although the icy wind off the snowy upper slopes would make her face and ears ache, she knew she would be exercising hard enough to keep warm. "Before lambing starts I want to be sure there aren’t any holes in my pasture fences that coyotes can get through. Last year I lost several of my best lambs, and I can’t afford to let that happen again."

Luke drained his coffee cup and stood up. "Mind if I come along? I need to take a look at my plane anyway."

She paused. "Are you sure you’re up to it? Shouldn’t you… eat something?"

He glanced at the cold oatmeal and smiled slightly. "Maybe later."

She shrugged. "Well, suit yourself. Would you please put that oatmeal in the refrigerator if you’re not going to eat it?"

"Glad to," he said cheerfully. "Mind if I ask what you intend to do with it?"

"Eat it," she replied succinctly, glancing at him in surprise.

He repressed a shudder. "You don’t eat—you refuel."

"I do what I have to do," she retorted, bristling instantly at the implied criticism. "And I get along just fine."

"Um–hmm. Obviously a strong, independent woman of few words and simple tastes." His voice was teasing. It prodded the embers of her anger in ways she couldn’t understand. She only knew that every time his voice took on that certain timbre, every time his eyes smiled at her with that certain warmth, she felt besieged.

"That’s me," she said staunchly, with an involuntary lift of her chin, "strong and independent."

Luke chuckled. "Hardy pioneer stock."

"My ancestors," Delilah retorted haughtily, "were more likely to be attacking covered wagons than riding in them."

"Really?" His eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"Well, some of them," she admitted, smiling wryly. It was odd, she mused, the way her anger evaporated the minute he turned off those magnetic charms of his. "My mother’s grandmother was full–blooded Navajo."

"Ah, I see." Luke was studying her with keen interest. "Are your folks in the sheep business too?"

"You mean, am I carrying on an old Navajo tradition?"

"I noticed the loom. Did you make the rugs yourself?"

"Some of them. My grandmother taught me to weave." She followed his gaze as it swept over the richly patterned rugs that made her home so cozy, warming almost against her will to the genuine interest in his eyes. "My mother died when I was very small," she offered. "My father is a judge."

"A judge." A peculiar look crossed Luke MacGregor’s expressive face. "I don’t believe it," he muttered, and Delilah hastened to assure him that her father had trouble believing it himself, at times.

Luke looked at her without comprehension and mumbled, "What?" It seemed to Delilah that they had diverged at some point in this conversation and were now headed in completely different directions.

"Yes, well…" she murmured in confusion, frowning at the soft pullover that molded to his slender body like a second skin. "Your jacket is still damp, and I don’t have anything—"

"I’ll find something in the plane. Don’t worry about it," he said briskly, sounding like a different person entirely. For the first time, he seemed like someone who might have founded a corporation. "I’m ready—let’s go."

After a brief stop at the haystack to collect wire cutters and an armload of baling twine, they walked together up the slope to the pasture, following the same path they’d come down the evening before. Now, though, the sun was shining, the sky was a brilliant blue filled with scudding, windblown clouds, and there was no trace of the snow that had fallen steadily the day before. Even the moisture had evaporated in the dry, desert air or soaked into the porous, gravelly soil. The air was clean and sweet, with a bite that suggested not–too–distant peaks where the snows never melted.

They separated at the gate, Luke angling across the middle of the pasture to where the orange plane sat giddily askew, a giant, broken dragonfly. Delilah began her slow circumnavigation, kneeling now and then to check the soundness of the fence fabric and pausing to watch Luke’s progress.

Last night he’d leaned heavily on her, his knees weakened by shock, but even then she’d guessed he’d be graceful. His was a natural, unconscious grace. He had the symmetry of a wild animal and was completely comfortable with his body, aware of its limitations as well as its capabilities. He walked easily, head up, hands tucked in his hip pockets, the wind catching at his longish hair and lifting it away from the sculptured bones of his face. He didn’t seem to feel the cold wind that must have penetrated the thin pullover like needles. Delilah watched him stop and study the crippled plane, run a hand along the sloping wing, and then pull himself into the cockpit with one easy, fluid motion.

She pressed her lips firmly together, shifted her armload of wire, and plodded on, following the fence.

** ** **

The cockpit was eerily quiet. Luke eased himself into the pilot’s seat, bracing himself against the cant of it and waited for a cold chill to slither along the length of his spine. He reached for the cigarettes he kept behind the seat, lit one, and inhaled deeply and luxuriously. Close, Mac, he told himself with a mental whistle.
Too damn close.