Lover in the Rough (16 page)

With fingers that shook, she unfastened the few buttons on his shirt. Her breasts touched the tantalizing roughness of the hair curling across his chest. His hands moved powerfully down her back, cupping her hips, lifting her until she fit over him. The intimate contact sent heat racing through her. She made a small sound in the back of her throat, pleasure and demand and surrender at once.

Moonlight spun as Chance lowered Reba to the ground and buried himself in her softness. He found the wildness deep inside her, called to it, demanded it, and then drank her cries of fulfillment, giving himself to her as wildly as she had given herself to him.

When Chance could breathe evenly again, he caught Reba’s face between his hands, holding her motionless, looking at her as though he had never seen her before. With infinite care he bent over her lips, his kisses as delicate as moonlight. The liquid words he murmured had no translation and needed none. They were part of the night and his warmth and his arms cradling her. She stirred slowly, echoes of ecstasy shimmering through her.

“I love you,” she murmured, framing his face with her hands.

His answer was another kiss, a tightening of his arms around her. “I don’t know enough about love to use the word,” he said. “I only know there has never been another woman for me like you.”

Reba traced the sensual line of his mouth with her fingertip and fought the ache in her throat. She closed her eyes, hoping he wouldn’t see the tears caught at the base of her lashes. When she could trust her voice, she said quietly, “So I’m the best so far. Well, that’s something.”

“Chaton—”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Reba, covering his lips with her fingers, silencing whatever words he had been going to offer in place of the only ones she wanted to hear. “I’m a big girl, Chance. I don’t need empty words from you. We please each other greatly. That’s enough,” she said, brushing his lips with her own.

His hands clenched in her hair as though he sensed her retreating from him. He kissed her with a hunger that had nothing to do with passion. She smoothed his hair away from his forehead, unconsciously comforting him as though it had been he rather than she who had been hurt.

“Reba,” he said, his voice roughened by emotion, “we have to talk.”

“Don’t worry,” she said calmly. “Now that I understand, I won’t embarrass you again by talking about love.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I’m cold, Chance. I think it’s time we went back to camp.”

He looked down at her, frustration tightening his lips into a thin line. He was holding her naked in his arms, yet she had never been further away from him. For a second he was tempted to keep her there, to make love to her until she came apart in his arms again. The temptation showed in every line of his face, in the sudden tension of his powerful body.

“You’re very special to me,” he said, searching her eyes for the emotion that had blazed there so recently. He kissed her lips gently but sensed no softening. “Damn it, Reba, you’re a hell of a lot more to me than a good lay!”

“And a hell of a lot less than a good love,” she said, smiling crookedly. “It’s all right, Chance. I’ve had a lot of practice at not being loved. I’ll settle for being enjoyed. But not this instant, okay? There’s such a thing as recovery time.”

He knew that she didn’t mean recovery time from lovemaking; he also knew that if he pointed that out, she would retreat even further from him. With a last kiss, he moved away from her. When she held out her hand for the clothes he had gathered up, he hesitated before giving them to her, plainly telling her that he would rather dress her himself.

Reba pulled on her clothes quickly, fumbling over the buttons that had given Chance so much pleasure. She sat down and began lacing up her hiking boots, struggling with the unfamiliar fastenings. He was already dressed, standing silhouetted against the moon, flashlight in one hand and shotgun in the other, waiting for her.

A twig snapped loudly in the chaparral just down the ridge. As Chance spun toward the sound, he braced the shotgun against his hip and pumped a shell into the firing chamber. A cone of dazzling white blazed out from the flashlight. Caught in the unexpected brilliance, a young buck froze with one foot lifted. The flashlight winked out, freeing the deer. With a single clean leap the buck vanished back into the chaparral.

Breath held, Reba listened to the retreating sounds. The image of Chance was burned into her mind. His speed, his skill, the flashlight held on top of the shotgun’s barrel to ensure that whatever came within the cone of light would literally be under his gun. Yet he had not pulled the trigger. She doubted that she would have been as discriminating under similar pressure. The sudden sound out of the darkness had sent her pulse into overdrive as she imagined being surrounded by dope smugglers bent on vengeance. Even now, her hands were shaking.

Chance knelt in front of Reba and laced up her boots. When he was finished, he pulled her to her feet and held her close. She hesitated, then put her arms around him, returning his hug. Whatever Chance was or wasn’t, whatever he said or didn’t say, he was gentle with her. It was enough.

It had to be.

R
eba sat up, her heart pounding wildly. All around her was night, not even a pale shimmer of moon to outline the ridge-lines. A billion stars blazed coldly overhead, emphasizing rather than lighting the darkness. She shivered, wondering what had awakened her.

“Go back to sleep,
chaton
,” said a deep voice from beside her. “There’s nothing to worry about. It was just a twitch of the dragon’s tail.”

“What?” she said. Then, “Oh. An earthquake.”

She sensed Chance’s smile in his voice. “Yes. A few more fractures in the tourmaline buried beneath us.”

With a yawn, she lay down again. He reached out, pulling her into the curve of his body. Last night he had zipped their two sleeping bags together, over her protests. Now she was glad for the intimate nest. She put her head on his shoulder, her arm across his chest, and felt very safe. She yawned again.

He laughed softly and nuzzled her hair.

“What’s so funny?” she asked sleepily.

“You. Only someone from Los Angeles would be frightened by a deer and yawn at an earthquake.”

“It was just a tiny shaker,” she murmured sleepily.

“The deer wasn’t very big, either.”

Reba fell asleep before she thought of a suitable answer. She stirred restlessly during the minute aftershocks of the earthquake, but she didn’t wake again until dawn.

The first thing she was aware of as she drifted slowly up from the depths of sleep was Chance’s warmth, his hands moving over her, bringing a pleasure that made her body melt in liquid waves. His mouth caressed her from her temple to her navel, a sliding heat that sealed the breath in her throat. Half awake, half asleep, wholly vulnerable to his touch, she could only twist languidly, helplessly, consumed by her Tiger God.

When he finally came to her, she was crying his name, suspended in a sweet agony that only he could end. He moved slowly, powerfully, claiming her more deeply with each wave of pleasure that shook her until she came apart, giving herself to him without reservation. Only then did he succumb to her softness and heat, the siren call of ecstasy deep within her.

For a long time afterward, Chance simply held Reba, caressing her with gentle lips and hands. She lay without speaking, holding onto his solid warmth, slowly becoming aware of her own identity again. She knew she had been taken without warning, without even the smallest opportunity to say no. He hadn’t given her a chance, but in the aftermath of sharing such extraordinary pleasure, she couldn’t be angry with him.

“Forgive me,” he whispered against her cheek. “I had to know if I had driven you away last night. I had to know that from the core of you, not from whatever civilized expectations have been pasted on you by people who don’t know better or don’t care. Now I know. No matter what is said or isn’t said, you want me as deeply as I want you.”

Reba wondered if love could be one of the “civilized expectations” Chance was referring to. She didn’t ask, however. She had promised him she wouldn’t speak of love again. It was a promise she would keep as long as she could. The day she broke it would be the day she would walk away from him and never look back no matter what it cost her.

“Reba?” he asked, holding her face between his hands, looking at the cinnamon brilliance of her eyes. “Are you still angry about last night,
chaton
?”

“No,” she said, kissing Chance before he could see the sadness beneath her honesty. “How could I be? You give me . . . beauty.”

With a hoarse sound he held her painfully close. She returned the fierce hug without protest. This morning she knew the simple, devastating truth: She would rather be wanted by Chance Walker than loved by any other man.

“Just for that,” he said after a long moment, loosening his arms reluctantly, “you get breakfast in bed.”

“I didn’t see the bell for room service.”

“No bell. Magic.”

“I believe it.”

“You do?”

“Sure,” she said, laughter just beneath her words. “I went to bed wearing clothes and woke up wearing you. What other explanation could there be but magic?”

Chance smiled like a tiger. “I’ll explain it to you sometime, in intimate detail. Very intimate.”

He unzipped the sleeping bag and stood beside her, as naked as the mountains and as unconcerned. The thick gold light of dawn poured over him like honey, flowing over his skin, underlining the power of his body with velvet shadows.

“I was wrong,” she said softly.

He turned toward her with the grace of fire, his eyes transparent green, watching her.

“You’re more beautiful than the Tiger God.”

For an instant he changed, emotion rippling through him. When he spoke, his voice was husky. “Close your eyes, my woman, or the only breakfast you get will be me.”

Slowly, dark lashes swept down, concealing Reba’s radiant cinnamon eyes. She drifted into a half-sleep until she heard the sound of a hatchet splitting wood. She opened her eyes and saw Chance. He was a few feet away, dressed in jeans, a black flannel shirt and a leather jacket that had seen much use in rough country. His back was turned to her as he worked. She admired the easy skill that reduced stovewood to kindling. He looked over his shoulder suddenly, sensing her attention.

“Coffee in a few minutes,” he said. “How do you feel about steak and eggs?”

“Predatory,” she said, stretching like a cat and then hurriedly bringing her arms back inside the sleeping bag. “Brrr! I’ve heard of hotels conserving energy, but this is ridiculous.” With a disgruntled sound she pulled the sleeping bag all the way up to her eyes.

“I’ll speak to the management about it,” Chance promised, smiling to himself.

“Do that. And while you’re at it, ask the laundry service what happened to my clothes.”

“Try my side of the sleeping bag.”

Reba groped around and found her clothes. She held them in the light and looked at them. “Your clothes are clean,” she said accusingly. “Mine aren’t.”

“I had to walk to the Toyota.”

She smiled winningly. “I knew you’d understand.”

Laughing, Chance went to the Toyota and pulled out a change of clothes for Reba. He handed them to her and waited. He wasn’t disappointed. As soon as the cold clothes touched her, she yelped.

“Warm them up in the sleeping bag while I shave,” he said, smothering a smile.

Muttering to herself, Reba did just that. When she could touch the clothes without shivering, she pulled them on. The second pair of jeans he had bought for her fit as well as the first pair had. The shirt was a bit more practical than the many-buttoned blouse had been. Long-sleeved, flannel, in shades of orange and russet, the shirt warmed her immediately. She rubbed her cheek approvingly over the soft material.

The fire crackled, sending heat and a pale silvery smoke into the dawn. When Chance finished shaving, he looked over in time to see Reba smoothing her cheek against the soft shirt he had bought for her. Smiling, he walked over to her.

“Warm enough now?”

She nodded. “There’s just one thing,” she said, pushing her heavy hair away from her face.

“Yes?”

“I can’t figure out where the maid put my brush when she cleaned the room.”

“This brush?” asked Chance, pulling a beautiful ivory hairbrush out of his jacket pocket.

“How did you guess?” she said dryly.

“The amber inlay matched this,” he said, pulling an ivory-and-amber comb out of another pocket.

“I was wondering what happened to that. Have you noticed that my combs have a habit of sticking to your fingers?”

Chance examined his hands with interest. “Now that you mention it, I am getting quite a collection of your combs.” He knelt behind her. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Reba smiled as his hands caressed her hair. “There goes breakfast.”

Chance lifted her hair and gave a lingering kiss to the nape of her neck. His moustache brushed softly over her skin, sending shivers visibly through her. With a soft curse, he let her hair sift out of his hands and began brushing the honey-colored waves. She made a sound of pure sensual pleasure and closed her eyes. He brushed her hair until it was a gleaming mass swirling down the center of her back. Even when the last tangle was smoothed, he continued brushing with firm, gentle strokes, enjoying the shimmer and feel of her hair.