Redemption (28 page)

He chuckled, the sound more subdued than Matt’s laugh. “This time of year, the only certain thing is we’ll have some…weather,” he clarified. Then he glanced at her leather pumps. “Mel’s probably got some boots you could wear, if it comes to it.”

Claire smiled stiffly. “Thank you, but I don’t plan to be here long.” She glanced at Tripper, tagging along beside them, her carry-on bouncing against his legs. “Tripper brought his snow boots and pants, though. Matt did mention spring blizzards weren’t all that uncommon.”

Mark nodded. “That’s right. Out here, Mother Nature doesn’t pay much attention to the calendar.”

As they walked out of the airport, she noticed Mark’s eyes lingering on Tripper, but he didn’t comment. They stopped in front of a white pickup. Claire hesitated beside the door, daunted by the height of the seat. She could count on one hand the number of times she had ridden in a pickup truck.

But Mark was as gallant as his little brother. After throwing their bags in the rear, he held out his hand for Claire, assisting her into the cab after Tripper had scrambled into the backseat.

Any awkwardness Claire would have felt during the drive was dispelled by Tripper’s excited questions.

“How far is it to Matt’s ranch?” he asked, taking in the streets of Great Falls, as if expecting to see honest-to-god cowboys on every corner.

“It’s about an hour, but we’re stopping by our place. Matt called earlier; he’s catching a flight in this evening. Said for you guys to hang out with us until he gets in. He keeps his truck at our place when he’s out of town, and one of us ferries him from the airport.”

As they drove, Claire stared straight ahead, resisting the urge to bite her fingernails. Anxiety brewed in her stomach. Matt’s family would probably hate her on sight, though he had sworn they would accept Tripper, no questions asked.

She hoped that was true.

They pulled up in front of a spacious cedar-sided house. The driveway was loaded with testosterone, in the form of three mud-flecked four-wheel drives.

A barking retriever, a darker gold than Sadie, bounded up to greet the truck, followed by a trickle of children of various ages. Claire cut a worried glance toward Mark when he opened her door.

He correctly interpreted her concerns as he helped her down. “We told ’em Matt had invited a couple of friends out to the ranch,” he said casually, letting her know Tripper’s cousins had no idea of their relationship.

But it would be impossible to keep the secret much longer. Desperately she wished for Matt’s arrival, though at the same time, the thought almost made her stumble.

Introductions were surprisingly easy. “Hey, I’m Hannah. Who are you?” was the forthright greeting of the smallest, a girl of about six, with blond curls streaming down her back. Before Tripper could answer, a boy about his age—Ben, Claire remembered—sauntered toward them, an animal that looked suspiciously like a rat on his shoulder. “Hey. You want to see my pet rat? His name is Streaker—see, ’cause he’s got that stripe on his back,” he pointed out, breaking the ice with the efficiency of a ten-year-old.

“Oh, that’s cool,” Tripper replied nonchalantly, casting an interested look at Streaker—and at Ben. Claire detected just a hint of nervousness in his voice. These children were, after all, Matt’s family. For the first time, Tripper would be forced to share his hero’s affections. Claire took a deep breath. One more lie, this time a lie of omission: These children were her son’s cousins, this man his uncle. And his mother had kept them from him all his life.

Melinda was drying her hands on a towel when they walked in. “Hi, I’m Melinda—Mel, to most folks. Just hang your coats there.” She continued to issue orders with an authority Claire couldn’t help but admire. “Hannah, wash your hands; you’ve been playing with the dog. Ben, let Tripper get his shoes off before you drag him upstairs to play with that rat. Mark, your brother called. He wanted you to call him as soon as you got in.” The last request was accompanied by a none-too-subtle look.

Thirteen-year-old Stacy helped them hang up their coats, darting a shy smile at Claire. After Melinda had sent her off to practice piano, she introduced her last child in absentia.

“All that’s left is Andy—he’s got a job out at our neighbor’s place after school. He’s sixteen,” she explained, ushering Claire toward the kitchen where she could smell coffee. “And Harold and Joyce—Matt’s mom and dad—live in town. He’ll probably want to take you by there later.”

Claire didn’t respond to that. She wasn’t ready to meet Matt’s parents—Tripper’s grandparents.

“Sit down. I’ll pour you some coffee.” But Claire, recognizing a protective instinct when she saw one, knew the coffee would be served with questions along with the cream.

“Actually, I was hoping I could rest—it’s been a long day.” She met the frankly curious gaze of her hostess head on.

Mel set the coffee pot back on the burner. Sharp blue eyes seemed to take quick measure. Claire imagined she looked like hell, a fact that was confirmed when Mel’s face turned sympathetic.

“There’s an apartment downstairs you can use to freshen up. Matt uses it when he stays here, though he usually just heads on out to his place. As you can see, it’s a madhouse around here,” she told her. “I’ll tell them to keep it down. We usually eat around six thirty. If you’re asleep—”

“I’m sure I won’t be; I just need…” Claire paused. Sleep was exactly what she needed. She felt as though she had just survived a battle—a narrow escape into territory she was beginning to think was controlled by the enemy.

And tomorrow’s skirmish was still to come.

In the room downstairs, Claire couldn’t rest. A thousand thoughts ransacked her brain. What if Tripper became suspicious? What if the reporters tracked them down? What if Melinda, who obviously knew the whole story, let something slip?

She rose from the too soft bed. Traces of Matt were everywhere. A photo on the dresser, of Matt and a flaxen-haired cowboy—Mel’s brother? she wondered, remembering Matt’s tales of his adolescent exploits with Jay. A pair of creased boots, neatly placed in the opened closet—probably by Melinda, she thought, remembering the casually kicked-off boots Matt used to leave on her own floor.

And hanging from a rack on the closet door, a denim jacket, with the smell of hard-working male clinging to it.

Just for a moment she closed her eyes and pictured Matt. If only he were here now—here to ward off the curiosity of his well-meaning family; here to reassure Tripper he was still his best bud.
Here to hold her
, she thought longingly, feeling a sting of tears against her eyelids.

And then, spurred by the imminent emotional breakdown, her defenses kicked in. She had gotten this far, hadn’t she, without Matt’s help? It had been a momentary weakness that had made her agree to accept his protection, like some medieval wimp.

The thing to do was to face the threat herself.

Now, with plenty of time to stop and think about her situation, she realized she had acted precipitously. She should have stayed and fought her battle on her own turf. Holed up here like some Wild West bandit, she had given up control of the situation.

Unaccustomed to the feeling, her breathing came quicker as panic threatened to overload her sensory circuits. Her hands knotted on the sleeves of the jacket, and it slipped from the hook, into her arms.

She hugged it around her body, grateful for its fleece-lined warmth, then lowered herself into a stuffed chair. She tucked her legs under her, and minutes later, her mind slipped into exhausted sleep.

When Matt found her three hours later—tucked into the chair, wearing Jay’s jacket—he stopped and stared. For one moment, he had an urge to pick her up and carry her away to his stone fortress, where she would never have to be frightened again. It might be corny as hell, but still he couldn’t resist the old-fashioned thrill it gave him to come to her rescue.

He had spent the day marshaling forces. With a carefully worded statement, he had confirmed the identity of the woman he had been seeing for the past few months as the same woman he had been briefly involved with early in his career. And he had made clear the fact that he was also the father of her son. He had given few details, knowing from past experience the more you told them, the more they slobbered for information. But he had, in no uncertain terms, let it be known that Claire Porter had his utmost admiration and support.

And anyone who wanted to mess with her could come through him first.

She sighed in her sleep, looking oddly vulnerable. So unlike the image she presented to the world—a carefully maintained façade, he now knew. He’d seen her soft spot, for her son, and even for him—her fierce objections to his upcoming “imprisonment,” the tender way she’d provided him with the DVD of their son’s early years, the portfolio of photographs she’d sent him the next day.

His feelings for her had turned into something protective, he realized, something permanent. He didn’t know when it had happened—maybe the first time he’d seen her, looking so sweet, so out of place on the movie set—but now he wanted to spend the rest of his life taking care of her. He wanted to sleep with her; wake with her; show her God’s greatest work of art, the state of Montana.

But first they had to get through the next few weeks, which, for her at least, were sure to be hell. She wasn’t used to the cameras, the notoriety, to seeing her face featured in gossip columns.

He leaned down, placed a light kiss on her pale forehead. She didn’t stir. Giving in to the urge to hold her, he picked her up, moving slowly so as not to wake her. She curled into his arms. He savored the feel of it for a second, then laid her gently on the bed, stretching out next to her, his shoulder pillowing her head. Dark hair fanned over his chest, the scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils, and his thoughts took a salacious leap. For just a moment, he envisioned her naked, writhing underneath him.

He let out a sigh of disgust. God, if he felt this way after a whiff of her shampoo, what on earth would he do at the sight of her in those lace-edged panties he’d once caught a glimpse of, before she’d slid them under a pile of folded laundry?

He tensed involuntarily, his hold tightening. Next to him, she gave a start.

“Matt?” Her voice sounded strained, unsure.

He rubbed his hand against her shoulder. “Yeah, it’s me. How you doing?”

Her heart quickened against his chest, like a yearling foal faced with a saddle the first time.
Take it slow
, he told himself. The last thing Claire wanted—needed—was a quick shag in the sheets.

He swallowed his lust. Superman could keep his cape on, at least until the girl was properly rescued.

Claire felt his voice through his shirt, a reassuring thrum deep in his chest. She stretched, intending to move away, but his arm clasped her firm around her waist. She stopped breathing, mid-stretch. All thoughts fled her mind like a wind gust—her body suddenly, urgently, without preamble, aroused.

She strained for composure, willing her breathing to slow, her heart to stop racing. If she held herself very still, surely this would pass. Surely sanity would return, and this warmth that was flooding her body would go away…

“Claire?”

“Hmmm?” It came out a high-pitched squeak.

“We should talk about—”

Her hand covered his mouth, stopping the words. She didn’t want to talk. For once, she just wanted to feel.

Her fingers moved of their own accord, exploring his lips, his face. The stubble of his beard tingled like an electric charge against her fingertips, bringing alive dormant nerve endings. Desire, denied for so long, now reared up with a vengeance.
I want this man
, she thought wonderingly.
I want to be a part of him
! Stunned by the force of her body’s hunger, she stretched against his length and heard him groan.

With a little twist, she flipped on top of him, her legs moving sinuously against him.

She was throbbing all over. Places she had forgotten existed heated up deliciously as she stared down at this most wonderful example of the species. God, what had she been thinking, pushing him away all these weeks, keeping him at arms’ length, depriving herself of this wonderful warmth?

She kissed his neck, tasting the saltiness, wanting more, wanting all of him. She curved against his hard angles, wanting nothing more than to be closer to this man who made her
feel
—so alive, so desired, so loved.

For the first time in ten years, Claire lost herself to passion, the thought of consequences shadowed by primeval need.

Matt’s heartbeat quickened beneath her. His body responded, hardened at the feel of her. Not a single thought clouded his head as he brought his hands up under the jacket, holding her close, sliding against the silk of her shirt, near those enticing curves…

She moaned. An honest-to-god moan, from deep in her throat, that almost sent him over the edge. But gamely he held on, deciding the best way to answer her was to cover her mouth with his.

She latched on like he was manna from heaven and she was a starving Israelite. And, bless Moses, he was mighty tired of being lost in the desert himself.

Passion soared, there on his brother’s bed. He pried the jacket from her arms, arms that wanted to scale his chest, jerking the sleeves over hands that were busy unbuttoning his shirt.