I do, I do, I do (33 page)

"You are so beautiful," Tom said in a husky voice.

"I'm too thin, and I'm tough as an old boot, remember?"

"But I happen to like tough, thin women, remember?" He smiled and patted the blanket next to him.

Suddenly Zoe was nervous. There was no more privacy in a prospector's camp than there had been in the home where she grew up. Being alone with a man—absolutely alone and with a man who made her nerves zing and her skin tingle—was an experience that was exciting and unnerving at the same time.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked in a low, challenging voice.

She wet her lips and decided this was not the time for bravado. "You scare me to death."

"Good. That means I'm getting under your skin." Since she wouldn't come to him, he moved across the blankets to sit next to her. And suddenly the lean-to seemed hotter than the heated rocks could account for.

Zoe smoothed her skirt to cover a glimpse of woolen stockings. "There's going to be talk about us spending a night together."

"Do you care?" he asked, tucking a wisp of dark hair behind her ear.

She held her breath as his fingertips brushed her cheek. This was going to be a very long night. "A little," she whispered, thinking of Clara and Juliette.

"Nothing is going to happen unless you want it to," he murmured, turning her to face him. Lantern light glowed in his eyes, softening the color to a reminder of spring grass.

"Then you won't kiss me." Their breath mingled, and a tiny gasp caught in her throat. He smelled like snow and wood smoke, leather and soap.

"I wouldn't kiss you if you were the last woman on earth," he said, his lips grazing her forehead as he guided her into his arms.

There was nothing soft about this man. His arms were like iron bands closing around her, pressing her against the tight muscles of his chest. He pulled her onto his lap and beneath her skirt and petticoat, she felt thighs like cordwood.

"Oh, Tom," she said, closing her eyes on a moan. "I can't do this."

"You aren't doing anything. I'm the one who's doing something." His lips moved on her temples, kissed her eyelids.

"You said you wouldn't kiss me." She couldn't believe it. Her arms went around his neck, and she adjusted herself in his lap to make her lips more accessible.

"I'm not kissing you." Light kisses covered her face, the corners of her lips, the tip of her nose.

"Yes, you are."

"You must be dreaming."

If so, she had dreamed this dream before. Spreading her fingers on his cheeks, she gazed into his eyes, the lashes still damp with melting snow. Then she parted her lips and let him take her mouth.

Instantly she felt his arousal and the deep heat of her response. Her arms tightened around his neck, and she gave herself to a kiss that began almost chastely and ripened into a give-and-take that shook her to her core—where she had never been touched.

When they pulled apart, gasping and holding each other, Tom whispered, "Oh, God, Zoe. You don't know what you do to me."

He kissed her again, this time passionately, not holding back, kissing her as if he found heaven in her mouth and in her touch. She knew this because heaven was what she found in his arms. When his hand slid up to her breast, she gasped and rocked back on a wave of sensation.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, easing away to look into her eyes. "I only wanted to kiss you. I didn't intend to offend or take advantage."

A strangled sound midway between a laugh and a sob constricted her throat. "Oh, Tom." For a minute she couldn't say anything else.

It was possible they would never again have the luxury of hours of privacy together. Very likely, tonight would be her only chance to lie in his arms. And he loved her. Tears sparkled in her eyes. He had always loved her. If her circumstance had been different, if she had never met that bastard Jean Jacques Villette, she would have returned his love with all of her heart and soul.

And there was the answer to the question that had been circling her mind since she understood they would share the blankets she had spread over the boughs. She made her decision while gazing into his apologetic eyes. He had nothing to apologize for. She wanted him, needed him.

Lifting his hand, she placed a kiss in his palm, then gently curved his fingers around her breast, hearing his sharp intake of breath. Then her own shaking fingers rose to the row of tiny buttons running from her throat to her waist, and she opened them one by one.

"Zoe." His voice was hoarse with desire. "You don't know what you're doing." Swallowing hard, he dropped his gaze to the cleavage appearing beneath her fingers and a sound rumbled in his chest. "I was teasing earlier. I didn't mean things to go this far. Zoe, please." He caught her hand and looked into her eyes. "I would take a bullet in the heart rather than dishonor you."

"I know," she whispered, her eyes wet. "Tomorrow we both may regret this, but tonight… tonight I need you, Tom." She needed to know love from an honest man, a man whose words were true and whose body belonged to her alone. She wanted to know his touch as well as she knew his heart.

His arms went around her, and he crushed her so tightly to his chest that she felt his heart pounding against the accelerating rhythm of her own. His mouth claimed hers with hard, possessive passion, and she surrendered to the sunburst in her mind. Yes. Yes.

His trembling fingers finished opening her shirtwaist, and her fingers fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Another time she might have laughed when they were both stripped to shapeless woolly long Johns. But all she could think about now was the splendor of his long, hard body as he peeled away the last barrier.

"How beautiful you are," she whispered, staring at him in the lantern light. An arrow-shaped wedge of dark hair curled on his chest. Wide shoulders tapered to a narrow waist; his thighs were roped with hard muscle and sinew. She had never thought of men in terms of beauty, but he was so hard against her softness. So angular in contrast to curves. Only a master sculptor could have created a being so rawly magnificent.

He helped her out of her long Johns and then stared at her with the same awe. "You're exquisitely perfect."

She had never seen a naked man in the light and had never let Jean Jacques see her naked with the light on. But she stood before Tom with no embarrassment and made no effort to cover herself from his gaze. There was nothing uncomfortable about nakedness between a man with love in his eyes and a woman who returned that love.

Gently, he guided her to her knees on the blankets and slowly withdrew the pins from her hair, catching long curls in his hands as they tumbled down her back and over her breasts. "I've wanted to draw out the pins since I first saw you." Closing his eyes, he rubbed a curl across his cheek and mouth.

Easing herself down on the blankets, Zoe held out her arms to him, and he came to her with a groan, covering her. The cold snowy night lay ahead of them—there was no need to rush. He kissed her again and again, his callused hands excitingly rough on her smooth body, exploring, caressing, bringing her up and up and up to a level of urgency and need that shook her body and left her panting and gasping his name. Her thighs were wet with readiness when he finally came to her, filling a deep emptiness she had not known she felt.

She knew he battled an urgency of desire as great as hers. She saw it in his eyes, saw that he wanted to be gentle with her. But their hunger was too powerful for quiet pleasures. They moved together in a tangle of fevered kisses and deep strong thrusts, gasped and whispered and clutched with flying hands.

Afterward, they collapsed in each other's arms, sated and happily quiet. Tom smoked, and Zoe lay nestled against his shoulder, listening to the odd silence of falling snow.

"Right now there is no place else I'd rather be," she murmured, her lips against his bare chest. It was snug and warm in the lean-to. The clean fragrance of pine mingled with the scents of their bodies and their lovemaking. Never again would she sniff a pinecone or step into a forest without remembering the joy of this night.

"I love you, Zoe." He stroked her hair, his touch so tender it was almost reverential. "And your secret doesn't matter."

She stiffened. Jean Jacques was the last person she wanted to think about right now. "You're wrong. It matters. Besides, you don't know what my secret is."

"I think I've put it together. I think you cared for a man you met in Seattle. Something happened, and you didn't get married. He went to Dawson City, and you're here looking for him."

Zoe sat up. His guess struck so close to the truth that goose bumps rose on her naked skin.

"There are two things I want to say." His green eyes were clear and steady. "I know you well enough to know that you decided a lot of things when you came to me tonight. You decided it's me you care about and not the other man. Your search for him is finished."

She couldn't speak, couldn't lie to him again. She knew she loved Tom, but her search for Jean Jacques had not ended.

"As for your secret—Zoe, it doesn't matter that I wasn't the first. People make mistakes. I know you're an honorable woman, and you must have believed you loved him. I don't want to know about him, don't want to know what happened between you. But I want you to understand that none of it matters. We start fresh from here. You and me."

He thought her secret was that she was not a virgin. Oh, Lord. And he believed she was an honorable woman.

Stricken, she lay down again and hid her face against his shoulder, blinking hard against the tears swimming in her eyes. She would have given ten years of her life if there had been no Jean Jacques Villette. She would have given another ten years if she were truly the honorable person he thought she was.

After a length of silence, Tom lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. Then he studied her wedding ring.

"This is an unusual ring. I've noticed that Clara and Juliette wear one like it. Is it club jewelry?"

"What?" Her voice was dulled and faint.

"I've wondered if you all belong to the same women's club."

"You could say that," she said bitterly, withdrawing her hand.

Long after Tom slept and the temperature began to drop in the lean-to, Zoe lay awake in the warmth of his arms, mentally flogging herself for the mess she had made of her life.

Tom believed they had made a commitment to each other tonight. And it should have been that way. It would have, if she hadn't been married. They would have found rapture in each other's arms, joy in declaring their love, and pleasure and excitement in planning a future that both their families would have heartily approved.

Instead, she had dishonored him, because she would have staked her life that Tom Price would never make love to a married woman. Just as he would stake his life that Zoe Wilder would never betray marriage vows.

And Tom would know what she had done when they reached Dawson City and ran into Jean Jacques, damn him.

Near morning, she reached for him and kissed him hungrily, needing him desperately for the brief time she could have him. Her selfishness dismayed her, but she needed this moment of happiness.

He touched her cheek in the darkness. "You're crying!"

"Just love me, Tom. Just for tonight." While they could. Before shooting Jean Jacques completed the ruin of her life.

This time they made love slowly, tenderly, their caresses lingering and long. They drank deep of each other, not knowing if there would be another chance for privacy.

She couldn't say the words aloud, but she said them silently. I love you. Oh, Tom, I love you with all of my heart.

Chapter 16