Reckless Promise (18 page)

"It's not fair," he heard Alice say as he
went, her voice bitter. "They've never even wanted a baby."

Women. Thank goodness Poppy was here to
handle this one. Mac thought he'd hit bottom when he'd been a
nineteen-year-old man trying to explain tampons to his
twelve-year-old sister. The memory of that day of infamy could
still drive him to drink, and this might be worse.

Poppy came back, carrying two cups of coffee.
"I think the storm's over."

"Except that Moses is probably going to be
useless for the next whatever months."

"Heaven help you all if they have a girl."
She snickered. "I can just see him, leading around this tiny person
all done up in pink ruffles. He'll be a pushover."

"Speaking of pushover," Mac said, taking her
hand. "Every time you're near—" Her pulse jumped under his thumb,
and she looked up at him with parted lips . "—I'm a pushover."

"Are you?" She sounded breathless.

"Try me." He kissed her, intending only a
light brushing of mouths, and felt her heart—or his—jerk into a
trip-hammer rhythm. The soft lushness of her mouth seduced him. He
couldn't imagine anything better than the pleasure of her mouth.
When the chatter of the crowd began to fade from his consciousness,
he reluctantly raised his head. "I guess this isn't the time or the
place."

Poppy took a great, gulping breath and looked
around. A couple of kids giggled and crashed through the brush
toward the fire. "I guess not."

"You spilled your coffee."

"So I did." She sounded annoyed.

Mac grinned. "I'd hate to think I was the
only one affected by that kiss."

She grabbed her cup from the ground, marched
back to the chuck wagon, and started to help a radiant Chickie dish
up beans and potato salad. He watched every inch of her progress
with appreciation.

He got through dinner in a haze of
anticipation. By the time the music started and he could pull her
into his arms, every touch of her sent him nearer to flash point.
While the guests bounced around the makeshift dance floor to
classic country tunes, trading partners and mocking the more
outrageous lyrics, he drifted in a sensual haze with Poppy.

* * *

When Tom shut off the music, Poppy
reluctantly untangled herself from Mac. She wasn't ready to stop,
especially to climb on a cranky, sleepy horse for the ride
home.

She eyed the happy group of guests lounging
in the back of the hay wagon and scowled. Paired off. Two by happy
two. ,Those people had ridden horses on the trip out, and were
going back in romantic comfort with Moses driving the team of great
black horses that were his pride and joy. She knew what that
meant—Mac leading extra horses, and Poppy riding alone.

It could have been a memorable trip, with a
fat moon shedding silver magic across the sage, the soft jingle of
harness musical in the stillness, and Mac beside her. He might even
have pulled Poppy over onto his horse. Instead, she followed the
wagon and listened to the intimate murmurs of the couples in front,
and the subdued swearing of Mac and Tom, each leading three
riderless horses, behind.

This evening needed its romance quotient
raised. At least Mac had looked as disappointed as she had felt
when those couples had chosen to ride in the wagon. And the way he
had kissed her less than an hour ago promised all the romance she
could imagine. A little shiver ran up her arms. The horse's
swinging walk lulled her with its rocking chair rhythm, and she let
herself imagine what might happen.

Time for her fling. Her very un-Poppy-like,
very hot, very much overdue fling. All signs indicated that Mac
agreed, but if she had to seduce him, she'd do it. Seven ways from
Sunday, as Chickie said. So, tonight.

She thought about the plan and assured
herself it was a good one. Not, absolutely not, one of her
hare-brained run-away-from-the-problem-because-she'd-been-hurt
schemes—like not applying for a grant because her advisor insulted
her, or like being the other woman because she'd been fired.
Anyway, one little fling surely couldn't get her into trouble.

She'd never actually tried to seduce anyone.
She might feel just a little bit insecure, but she had candles and
wine and a revealing negligee she'd never worn. Pretty cliché, but
things became clichés because they worked.

Back at the stable, Moses left with Chickie
and without a second glance for the work. Remembering the look on
his face when he'd realized he and Chickie were going to have a
baby gave Poppy a funny warm glow somewhere in her middle.

Hot desire swamped the glow when Trigger
stopped at the hitching rack and she looked down into Mac's eyes.
Everything she had been thinking probably was written on her face
for him to read, and she felt herself flush.

His mouth quirked up at one corner. "I've
been thinking the same thing, honey," he said. "Oh, yeah."

She stared into his eyes, mesmerized by what
she saw there. He took the reins and tied the patiently waiting
horse. "Let me help," he said, setting his hands on her waist. He
lifted her and let her slide to the ground, a long, slow slide down
his body that turned her brain hot and bubbly and her knees
soft.

"Why don't you come over for a glass of
wine," she said, using her best, most seductive purr.

"Soon as I help Tom with the horses."

Her confidence soared at the flare of lust in
his eyes. She strolled toward her cabin, putting a lot of swivel in
her walk. Everything was sliding into place as though ordained by
the stars.

Once inside her cabin, she went into action,
planning furiously to keep from having second thoughts. She set out
candles and made an impromptu ice bucket to chill champagne. All
the movies and books emphasized leisurely preparation for
seduction, but she didn't have time to linger in a scented bubble
bath. Instead, she whipped through the shower and raced to put on
the one seductive garment she had with her, the one Jase must have
shoved into her suitcase when her back had been turned.

Finally she was living up—or down—to her
reputation, and she loved it. She started a fire in the field-stone
fireplace and touched cinnamon oil to all the spots she could
imagine a man might kiss. She lit a dozen candles around the living
room and opened the bottle of wine. She checked the bedroom for any
stray naked men.

Ten minutes later, she poured herself a glass
of champagne and twirled it in her fingers. Nerves. She set the
glass down, poked the fire, and turned on the radio to soft music.
Country western, but that had worked just fine at the barbeque.

What an idiot she had been, with all that
dithering over should she or shouldn't she. Of course she should.
And tonight...tonight she hadn't had too much wine, hadn't been in
an accident, wasn't so sore she flinched every time he touched her.
Maybe this time she'd get to live out her fantasies. It would be
her reward for keeping her promise to Tom. And then she'd go back
to her real world. She took a sip of wine to cover up her sudden
lack of enthusiasm for the prospect.

Peeking out the window would be too gauche
for words. She wouldn't do it. She. Would. Not. After thirty
interminable minutes, she pulled back the curtain and peered toward
the stables. Dark and quiet. Her fingers curled into the edge of
the curtain. No, he couldn't have...he wouldn't... She looked the
other way and saw Mac and Tom striding together toward the lodge. A
burst of laughter chimed through the stillness and she turned away
from the window, feeling sick.

He wasn't coming. He'd forgotten her
invitation. Numbly she picked up the untouched glass of wine and
took a mouthful. She crossed the room to sit on the couch, stare
into the fire, and indulge in feeling unloved and sorry for
herself. The story of her life. She'd spent years fighting off
unwanted advances from men who only wanted a quick romp, and now,
when she finally decided to go for it, to get some hot sex because
she just plain wanted it...here she was, stood up. And by some jerk
pretend cowboy at that.

A half dozen songs moaned from the radio,
each one more lugubrious that the last, while she stared blankly at
the flames. Footsteps on the porch pulled her out of her black
thoughts and she scowled. So he'd finally decided to show up. Well,
if he thought that she'd be waiting for him anytime he chose to
give her his attention, that he could just stroll in any time of
the night he wanted, well, he could just think again.

She crossed the room and opened the door.

Chapter
11

Mac's heart skipped a beat at the sight of
her. His hands shook and he almost dropped the bottle of wine he
carried.

She wore something cut low at the neck, a
gown that swirled around her ankles like flame-shot smoke, all the
colors of fire. Her creamy shoulders rose from the swirl of scarlet
and orange and gold like paradise glimpsed through the blazes of
hell. She held a glass of wine, sipping from it and looking at him
through lowered lashes. Mysterious. Witchy and knowledgeable.
Tempting. Bare, elemental need shocked through him like a bolt of
electricity.

He wanted to grab her right there in the
doorway. If he had his way, she'd be naked and under him before
they even hit the floor.

She stepped back and held the door for him.
"I thought you weren't coming."

"You have to be kidding. No way. I had to
unsaddle the horses, and I went up to the house for a shower, some
wine, and flowers." He held out the bunch of pansies he'd been
hiding behind his back.

Her mouth curved in delight. "Oh, lovely. You
didn't have to do that. But I'm glad you did."

"As long as you didn't give up on me."

"I almost did."

"That would have been bad." So bad he didn't
even want to think about it.

"Let me find something to put those in." She
bent to rummage in the cabinet under the sink. "I'm sure I saw a
vase under here the other day."

He eyed her upturned rear, swathed in the
floating, flame-colored panels of her outrageous robe thing. Just
looking at her made his palms itch. He stepped closer and flattened
his palms over the lush curves of her bottom. Pure pleasure poured
through him like warm honey. For about half a second. She started
at his touch, and he said, "Don't forget the—"

The distinctive whap of a closing mouse trap
cut off his warning. She yelped and he heard her head hit the sink
with a bang.

Uh-oh. "Poppy? Are you all right?" He didn't
even want to think about what might be caught in that trap.

Very slowly she backed out from under the
sink, straightened, and faced him. "Why did you do that?"

If he knew anything about women, that too
quiet, too controlled voice meant she'd be bouncing off the walls
and screaming in about two seconds. If he couldn't distract her.
"Because I can't keep my hands off you, and that's the truth. What
did that trap catch?"

She turned her head. "My hair." The trap
dangled from the side of her head like an outrageous earring.
Peanut butter matted the hair squashed in the trap, and oozed into
the surrounding curls.

The longer he stared at the mess, the more he
wanted to laugh. He didn't dare. She'd brain him with the heavy
glass vase she'd managed to hold on to. He swallowed hard and
stared into her eyes.

"Oh, God." She doubled over with great whoops
of laughter. "If you could see the look on your face."

His lucky stars were out tonight. He held out
his arms and she collapsed into them. Gratefully he wrapped himself
around her lush warmth. "Hold still. Let me get rid of this—" He
set the vase on the counter. "—and the trap."

She turned her head so that he could pry it
loose. He flung it in the sink and pulled her back into his
arms.

There couldn't be a woman in the world more
fun to be with. No wonder he lo—lo—liked her. Alarm bells clanged
in the distant reaches of his brain when he heard what he'd almost
said, but she gasped with laughter against him, each breath
imprinting the soft weight of her breasts against him until he
couldn't breathe and his brain wasn't open for business.

"You're squashing my flowers," she said after
a while.

"Never. I worked too hard to get them."

"You stole them from Alice's garden."

"I came up a little short on the things you
deserve, like the moon and stars on a silver platter. So—" He
gestured at the pansies.

"Very good." She filled the vase and bent her
head to draw in the scent of the massed blooms before she took them
into the living room.

He went still, transfixed by the feast of
color before him—soft lavender and deep purple flowers and glowing
sapphire glass, brilliant against the backdrop of Poppy's creamy
skin, fire-colored hair, and sunset gown. "Lord, woman," he said,
feeling his breath go. "A man could heat a Montana winter just
looking at you."

Her hands jerked as she set the vase on the
table in front of the sofa. "Very, very good. Did you take
lessons?" she said, but he saw underneath the flip rejoinder a
trembling softness in her golden eyes.

"You think I took Seduction 101?"

She went still. "That is what you're doing,
isn't it?"

The tentative look in her eyes pierced his
heart and made him take refuge in humor. "Not until we get the
peanut butter out of your hair." He didn't get it. She had to be
the most gorgeous woman he'd ever had his hands on, yet that
vulnerability aroused all his protective instincts. She always made
him feel that he needed to protect her. From himself, and if that
wasn't unfair, he didn't know what was.

"Good idea. Make yourself comfortable while I
go wash my hair."

He shook his head. "Huh-unh. You don't think
I'm going to pass up a free chance to get my hands on you, do
you?"