Lover in the Rough (5 page)

“Both.”

Reba went into her office. The first thing she saw when she opened her office door was the eighteen-inch piece of crocidolite that had been mined in Cape Province, South Africa. A German carver had taken the exquisite specimen of tiger’s-eye and transformed it into the likeness of a man.

The Tiger God stood in an attitude of lithe relaxation, naked but for the solid gold longbow slung over his shoulder. He held a golden arrow loosely in his hand; the triangular arrowhead contrasted with the muscular curve of the thigh it rested on. His eyes were narrowed, slightly slanted, pure gold. The statue had been carved so that the mineral’s subtle bands of color ran diagonally, giving the man an arresting appearance of being poised between stillness and rippling strength. Light shimmered across the surface of the Tiger God’s masculine body, a seamless blending of every tone between rich gold and luminous brown.

But she had not chosen the statue merely for its power and extraordinary beauty. She had chosen it because the Tiger God’s magnificent physical self-confidence reminded her of a stranger and a sable night and a kiss that had told her how much of a woman she might be in the right man’s arms.

Reba heard the distinctive buzzer that sounded in her office every time the front door of Objet d’Art opened. Her office door had a one-way mirror in it that allowed her to see out into the shop while retaining complete privacy. She looked out and saw Todd’s broad figure coming toward her. With a muttered curse she put the Tiger God on her desk, sat down, and released the electronic lock on her office door. Automatically, the door swung open a few inches. She would see that it stayed that way the whole time loverboy was in her office.

“I’m sick of this jerkaround, Farrall,” said Todd, throwing himself into the chair opposite her desk. “Start selling the damned collection. The rest of the old goat’s estate isn’t worth the lawyer’s fees to straighten it out. I need the money and I need it now.”

Reba folded her hands and leaned back in her chair, giving Todd a cool look from beneath long lashes. She studied him in silence until he shifted and swore harshly. The smell of alcohol and long nights washed over her.

“Slow horses and bad cards?” she asked indifferently.

Todd flushed, telling how accurate her observation was. “Shut up!” he said thickly.

Reba watched Todd with eyes as hard as the diamond in her ring. Experience had taught her that Todd handled liquor as badly as he did cards. It had been Jeremy’s standing order that his bodyguards refuse to admit his grandson if Todd had been drinking. A year ago Todd had attacked his grandfather in a drunken rage. The thought did nothing to calm the anger that had turned Reba’s usually feminine mouth into a hard line of distaste.

“Don’t sit there looking so proud and perfect,” Todd snarled. “You’re nothing but a cheap trick the old bastard picked up off the street.”

The buzzer sounded again, telling Reba that someone had come in the front door. She couldn’t see who it was. Todd’s bulky shoulders cut off her view into the store. Probably Gina, back from her appointment.

“Say something, damn you!”

“Make up your mind,” Reba said in a flat voice. “ ‘Shut up. Say something.’ Take your pick. I can’t do both.”

“Why, you snotty little bitch!” he shouted, lunging to his feet and reaching across her desk, trying to grab her.

Reba slipped through his fingers with a grace that only enraged him further. He shoved the desk hard, trapping her against the wall. The Tiger God swayed. She grabbed it. Even as she realized that the statue could be a weapon, she regretted having to use its polished beauty on something as sleazy as Todd Sinclair.

Tim burst into the room, a blackjack in his right hand. “If you touch her I’ll break your neck!”

“You’ll have to stand in line,” said a voice from behind Tim, a voice that was quiet and cold.

Both Tim and the drunken Todd froze, pinned by the promise of violence in the voice. Reba felt like laughing and crying at the same time. She wanted to call out to the man but she still didn’t know his name.

The stranger entered the room with a silent, predatory stride. He grabbed Todd, pivoted smoothly, and slammed the larger man against a wall. Todd swore and shook his head, suddenly sober and more than a little afraid.

“I won’t break your neck right away,” continued the stranger in his soft, deadly voice. His hands were a steel vise clamped on Todd’s throat. “First I’ll break your fingers. Then your thumbs. Then every bone all the way up to your shoulders. One by one. By the time I get around to breaking your neck you’ll thank me for it. Hear me, loverboy?”

Todd made a strangled sound that could have been yes.

The stranger turned his head and looked at Reba. The harsh lines of his face changed. “Did he touch you,
chaton?
”

She shook her head, unable to speak for the emotions seething through her, emotions triggered by the deadly stranger and the soft French word that meant both kitten and a set stone, things small and precious and vibrant with life.
Chaton
.

The stranger turned back to Todd. “Keep pushing, loverboy. You’ll get there.”

Fingers dug into flesh with cruel skill. The stranger pivoted again, then released Todd with a force that sent him staggering through the open office door. The man watched in silence until Todd blundered through the shop and out the front door. Then, with his back still toward Tim, the stranger said coolly, “Unless you’re planning to use that blackjack, put it in your pocket.”

Tim looked at Reba.

“It’s all right, Tim,” she said quickly, not looking away from the stranger, as though she were afraid he would disappear as unexpectedly as he had appeared.

The stranger turned around to face Tim, waiting for the younger man to decide. Tim gave the man a long, assessing glance, then slipped the blackjack into his back pocket with an easy gesture that suggested the weapon could reappear very quickly.

As the blackjack disappeared, the stranger’s posture shifted subtly, relaxing the disciplined readiness of his body. “Why don’t you introduce us, Tim?” he said, gesturing to Reba. An odd smile curved lips that were no longer thin and hard.

Startled, Tim looked at the stranger. “Hey, you told me she knew you!”

“She does,” said the man, laughing softly. “She just doesn’t know my name.”

Tim looked at Reba in disbelief.

“I’m afraid he’s right,” she said. “It’s a long story. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Tim made an exasperated noise. “Reba Farrall, meet Chance Walker. Chance, Reba. Now would one of you two kindly tell me what the hell is going on?”

Chance smiled, ignoring Tim. “Hello, Reba Farrall,” said Chance in his deep, intriguingly accented voice. He pulled Reba’s desk back into place with an easy motion, then plucked the Tiger God from her grasp. He turned the statue over in his hands, admiring the play of light across its surface. “Would have been a shame to bend this over loverboy’s thick skull.”

Reba laughed a bit wildly. “I thought the same thing when I grabbed it.”

Chance looked at her, missing nothing from the shimmer of dark blond hair to the sensual curves lying beneath black silk. “You’re like the night,” he said quietly, “made to wear black. Beautiful
chaton.
”

Reba felt the compliment radiate through her, changing her. She had never considered herself pretty, much less beautiful, but when Chance looked at her, she felt she was the most exquisite woman ever born. Tiger God smiled at her with sensual fire in his eyes.

Tim cleared his throat. Reba realized that she had been staring at Chance. Reluctantly, she turned to Tim. “Chance—that is, Mr. Walker—”

“Chance,” corrected the Tiger God firmly.

“Chance,” she murmured, savoring the unusual name.

Tim cleared his throat again.

“Chance discouraged Todd once in Death Valley,” said Reba quickly. “Afterwards, Chance let me . . .” Reba looked helplessly at Tim, not knowing how to explain that she had wept out her grief for Jeremy in a total stranger’s arms. “I was missing Jeremy. Chance . . . understood. Oh, damn,” she said suddenly, impatient with evasions. “I crawled into his arms and cried like a baby! He was very patient and gentle about it, more so than I deserved.”

Tim looked dubiously at the man who had efficiently, ruthlessly reduced a large meaty drunk to a sober mound of hamburger. “ ‘Gentle,’ you say. ‘Patient.’ Yeah, sure. Glad I didn’t meet anyone as gentle and patient as Chance while I was working my way through school tending bars.”

“That where you learned about blackjacks?” asked Chance.

“Yeah.”

“Some bartenders prefer a gun.”

“A blackjack is more selective,” said Tim dryly.

Chance nodded, approving of the younger man. He glanced at Reba. “Is he yours,
chaton
?”

The question was so soft, so unexpected, that it took a moment for Reba to realize its meaning. “Tim? Mine? Good God, no! He has a wonderful wife.”

Chance turned and held out his hand to Tim. “Glad to meet you, Tim. And bloody glad you’re married.”

Tim laughed abruptly. “So am I. I’d hate to get between you and something you want.”

“Tim!” said Reba, shocked at Tim’s blunt assessment of Chance Walker.

“That’s all right,” said Chance. “I like a man who’s smart enough to come in out of the rain.”

Tim grinned and shook Chance’s hand. “Glad to meet you, Chance. You’re the first man I’ve seen who might give my hardheaded boss a run for her money.
Bonne chance
,” he said, mangling the French words almost beyond recognition. At the pained look on Reba’s face, Tim translated quickly, “Good luck.” He hesitated. “Did I just make a bilingual pun?”

“No. My brother was the one called Luck.” Chance’s face was serious, his silver-green eyes narrowed against memories that didn’t please him.

“Was?” asked Tim.

Chance said no more. Tim didn’t ask again. There was something about Chance Walker that flatly discouraged questions.

The buzzer sounded. Tim looked through the shop and saw a petite, red-haired woman waiting patiently at the front door. He hurried forward, grinning like a kid.

“His wife?” asked Chance as Tim left.

“Yes. Gina’s a gem,” said Reba. “She only has one failing,” added Reba wryly. “She makes every other woman around her look like a three-legged giraffe.”

In two gliding strides, Chance was so close to Reba that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “Not every woman,” he said, smiling.

Reba looked up at him, remembering the moment she had been wrapped in his arms and his male heat had made her want to melt and run like gold in a jeweler’s crucible. The feeling had haunted her at unexpected moments, sending sensations through her that made her quiver invisibly, as though fine wires were tightening deep inside her body.

She had never felt like that in a man’s arms before. She had married a man interested only in virginal responses. After the first few weeks of marriage, her husband’s embraces had become infrequent, almost indifferent. Since her divorce she had dated many men but found none whom she trusted enough to respond to physically. She had begun to wonder if there were something wrong with her . . . until a single kiss from a stranger taught her more about being a woman than years of marriage had.

And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why she responded so intensely to Chance Walker. She’d dated more handsome men, men with more wealth, more social grace and position, but it was only this rough stranger whose kiss had gone beyond her polished exterior to tap the molten core of woman beneath.

“What are you thinking?” Chance asked, watching the play of expressions across her face as he gently eased his fingers into her hair, caressing her cheeks with his hard palms.

Sensations shivered through her, making her breath catch. She considered evading his question with half-truths or simple silence. Then she decided that Chance Walker would hardly be shocked by anything she said or did. He was obviously a man who had seen and done it all. Several times.

“I was wondering why you’re so attractive to me,” she said simply.

His thick moustache shifted and gleamed in the office light as he smiled. “And you to me,
chaton
.”

She stared into the green-silver depths of his eyes, then his black lashes swept down. He took her lips with a devastating blend of hunger and gentleness. She felt the comb holding her coiled hair loosen and slide away, giving his fingers free access to the silky warmth of her unbound hair. The tip of his tongue traced her mouth, teasing her until she sighed and opened her lips.

He buried his fingers in her hair, his hands gentle but so strong that she could not turn her head aside. Half in protest, half in response, she put her hands on his upper arms. Hard, powerful, as inflexible as stone beneath her hands, his arms told her much about the hunger and strength and restraint of the man holding her. He could have crushed the breath out of her, forcing from her the kiss he so plainly wanted.

But he didn’t. He held her as though she were infinitely fragile. He coaxed rather than demanded that she share his pleasure in being close to her. She had never been held like that, with absolute strength and safety.

When she felt the velvet roughness of his tongue against her own, her hands tightened on his arms. Tentatively, then with greater assurance, she responded, touching the smoothness of his lips, the serrations of his teeth, the sweet warmth of his tongue, all the fascinating textures of his kiss. She felt his body shift and tighten as one hand clenched in her hair and the other moved down her back beneath the heavy silk of her hair, molding her body against his for a long moment.

With tangible reluctance, Chance lifted his head. His arms shifted, cradling rather than caging.

“I’m too hungry to be teased,” he said in a husky voice.

“I wasn’t—” she began breathlessly.

“I know. But I was. I thought I’d kiss you once, just to see if it was as good as I remembered.” His eyes followed the soft line of her lips. “It was better. So much better that I want more.” He bent swiftly, taking her mouth in a fierce, penetrating kiss that made her cling to him for balance. “And then I want much more. I want to take off your clothes and shred them into pieces so small they would never be able to cover you again. I want to kiss you and feel you change beneath my mouth until you can’t breathe for needing me. And then I want to cover you, all of you, with your hair like hot silk between my fingers.”