Sleepless in Montana (24 page)

“Cutthroats. Nice try, though.” He lifted an
eyebrow, glancing at her as his right hand worked the line. “What
do you know about starring in a weekly television show?”

“What have I ever known how to do? I’m a
learner, Hogan. I do what I have to do.” She caught his scent— He’d
bathed in the stream, and the soapy scent blended with another
sweeter, fresh one, like that of grass. She wanted to brush that
strand of hair away from his forehead, to feel those rugged
contours warm and smooth beneath her hands.

“From the looks of that van, you’re using
yourself as bait. Sooner or later, he’s bound to discover that you
are about as much sportswoman as I am. Doesn’t that worry you, just
a little bit?”

“Of course not. I know the pros usually do
those shows, but I can pitch the how-to on a beginner’s level. We
watched those shows and sometimes they explain way over the average
person’s head. I’m into supply and demand, and fly-fishing is a top
sport— and by the time he comes in July, you’ll have taught me how
to fish. I need enough skill to make the sale, Hogan. Then I can
pick up more as I go along. I’ve pulled off deals like this before,
though not quite as big. All I need is my foot in the door, and I
usually come through.”

“That’s confidence.”

“It’s the truth.”

Hogan cast again, and she watched fascinated
as the fly lure whipped above the water and a trout leaped to take
it— just as she had risen to Hogan’s kiss, his touch, that light
trapping of her breast.

The trout fought the hook, but with patience,
Hogan slowly drew it toward him. He let it fight the length of
line, then wound a bit onto his reel, and repeated the process,
working the fish closer. When close enough, he lifted the line and
the fish, grinning at her. She could have killed him for that
boyish grin, the pleasure easing his harsh features.

“Supper,” he said, crouching to slide the
trout onto a line in the water with other fish.

“They’re so small, Hogan. I can’t make an
impression with those. I need a giant one that looks great on a
board over a fireplace.” Jemma’s stomach contracted— she liked to
eat fish, but didn’t like to meet them when they were alive.

Her throat dried, just watching his graceful
movements, the flex of his muscles, the smooth skin shifting
sleekly over them. She nudged his bottom with her boot. “What do
you say, Hogan? Now’s just as good a time as any to start lessons,
don’t you think?”

“I thought you needed my office, to fax the
world and check on your millions.”

“You can be so difficult. You’re here now,
and so am I. There are fish out there, and they’re biting— you just
caught one.” She looked down at the long, flexible rod he’d placed
in her hand. “But this is old. I’ll just go get mine—”

“Yes, go get yours,” he said too easily.

She studied Hogan and knew he’d get away if
she took time to get her equipment. Hogan knew how to fade into the
countryside when he wanted. “Okay, okay. Show me. I’ll catch a few
of the little ones first. And I need a few good shots of me holding
a champion fish and some trophy or other in my other hand.”

There was just that darkening of his eyes,
that tilt of his head as he rose to tower over her. She fought to
keep her gaze from lowering to his smooth, gleaming chest, the
muscles of his stomach, and the neat indentation of his navel.

“Let’s start by dropping the orders, shall
we?” Hogan asked too softly.

The challenge was there, a man setting down
his rules. If she wanted to learn from him, she’d have to note his
limits.

Jemma resented anyone’s rules but her own.
“You’re the natural candidate, Hogan. An artist usually has that
inner eye for the best camera shot. I saw the photos that you sent
to Dinah and Carley through the years. But I don’t want to actually
touch fish, or clean them. They can just hang at the end of the
line and we can fake whatever.”

His lifted eyebrows said she would have to do
both.

“Fine,” she said unwilling to let him set up
barriers to her goals. “I’ve shucked oysters, I can touch fish.
Let’s get started. We don’t have much time, and the light is
dying.”

He took the rod and flicked the line over the
stream. “It’s a seduction, Jemma. You can’t ramrod and bully a
trout to take your lure.”

“They’re hungry, aren’t they?” she asked,
standing closer, peering into the smooth-running stream as he
flicked the line and played it with his left hand, letting the
current gently take the fly lure.

“Here,” Hogan said, stepping back and drawing
her in front of him. “Hold the rod like this, and center on where
you want the lure to go.”

His hands fitted hers to the rod and to the
line and remained, his body moving behind hers, framing hers.

“Patience, Jemma,” he murmured against her
ear. “Not too fast and hard. Slowly. Enjoy the feel of the rod in
your hand. Flick it.”

His lips moved across her cheek, just a brush
of heat but enough to stun her. While she caught her breath,
decided whether to edge aside or to stay within the circle of his
arms, Hogan’s dark gaze traced her body against his, igniting a
heat within her own body.

Unprepared for the tremble, for the awakening
she hadn’t expected, Jemma studied his rugged face, the harsh
planes and shadows, the small scar on his cheek. “How did you get
that scar?”

“I fell,” he said simply, his expression
darkening, closing into the shadows that were so much a part of
Hogan. “No more questions. Keep that wrist straight. Use your
elbow. Get the line wet first.”

His hand moved her arm, the motion sensual
and slow, his hand hard and warm upon her skin. There was that
caress of his thumb on her inner wrist, the smooth stroke of his
cheek lying next to hers.

Against her back, Hogan’s body moved, almost
caressing hers as he showed her how to move her wrist in casting.
His breath swept across Jemma’s cheek, tangled in her hair, and
moved the tendrils against her cheek.

There on the stream bank, Hogan held her
forearm with one hand and curved her close against his body with
his other, his hand opening and spanning her lower stomach as she
cast. She couldn’t catch her breath, couldn’t move away from him,
or set rules— she simply enjoyed the flow of his body around hers,
a natural graceful movement that captivated.

“Feel the drag of the line in the water, pull
it slow— feel it give as it leaves the water— use that energy to
let it snap back and then cast—”

The lure hit a tree branch, the line draped
over it and Hogan took the rod, flicking it expertly, until the
lure dropped into the water. “Do it again,” he said. “And not as
though you’re zipping a baseball across home plate.”

After forty-five minutes, Jemma turned to
Hogan, who was fitting three large trout onto sticks, bracing them
over the small fire. He’d stopped talking to her in that low soft
way and at one point had glared at her before walking off. “My arm
is tired. The line just goes out there and plops into the water.
Why aren’t they biting? Aren’t they hungry? Should we go somewhere
else? Where are the big ones?”

In the evening shade, Hogan crouched by the
fire, dressed in his T-shirt and unbuttoned flannel shirt. He
spread the horse’s saddle blanket on the grass and settled down,
his back against a log, long legs extended in front of him. With a
stalk of grass in his mouth, he appeared to be relaxed. “You’ve
fouled the line. It can only go so far before it’s hung up on the
reel. You didn’t listen, you never do. You don’t know how to relax.
Bring the rod over here.”

Jemma walked to him, and watched him begin to
patiently unravel the line looped around the reel. “My new reel
isn’t supposed to get tangled. The sports guy said so.”

“Uh-huh. Next time, when you’re reeling in,
try to make the line run across your finger like I showed you.”
Hogan’s long graceful fingers continued to work on the line. He
handed her a length of straightened line. “Hold this.”

She sat on a rock, watching him rewind and
straighten the line, working the series of small loops out of it,
his head bent over the task. “You’re always so careful, so precise.
I think I got the hang of it, don’t you? I mean those last few
casts— I’ve been thinking that there really is no need to cast out
that three or four yards of line— that just tangles it. Why not
just cast it out there without all that getting the line wet, ‘feel
the energy’ stuff?”

Hogan plucked away the willow leaves tangled
within the line. “Do you ever relax?”

“Sure.” She pressed the dial that lit her
wristwatch and knew that the first refrigerator she got to had
better be full of food. “I really need to contact my sales manager
and see if she managed to get a deal on that lot of dolls. You’ll
have to take me back, Hogan. It’s dark now.”

He placed the pole aside and checked the
fish, sizzling now over the fire. “Aaron and Ben will tell them
you’re with me. They were up on the ridge about a half hour ago,
checking on you.”

“Oh. We need to hurry, so we can get back to
your place before that supplier closes shop in California. I need
to—”

“Eat. We’re going to relax and have dinner.
Or I am. You’re invited. Or you can run away. Moon Shadow will take
you to Ben’s.”

His black gaze rested upon her, challenging
her. “You shouldn’t be shy of me, Jemma. We’re both adults now, and
we’ve known each other for years. Surely we can have a meal
together and share a glass of good wine.”

“You’re not a relaxing sort of guy,” Jemma
stated warily, and Hogan grinned again, one of those flashing,
boyish grins that could make her heart leap and race. “What
wine?”

He lifted a bottle of very expensive white
wine and two plastic cups from his saddlebags. “Do you still like
lots of butter on your baked potato and sour cream?”

Jemma sipped the wine he’d given her and
watched him prod the coals of the small fire to extract two
foil-wrapped baked potatoes. He expertly slit and filled them with
butter and sour cream.

“What is this, Hogan?” she asked, aware that
they were very alone and that Hogan wasn’t allowing himself to be
hurried into leaving.

“This,” he said simply, and leaned down to
brush his lips against hers. His hand curled around her nape, his
thumb caressing the side of her jaw.

She hadn’t been touched like that ever— that
slow sensual sweep of his hand on hers, his dark eyes asking her a
question she didn’t want to explore. This was Hogan, and she’d
known him for most of her life. Alarm and heat mixed in her senses.
“I think we should be going.”

“Do you?” His deep voice slid over her like
warm butter, and her heart hitched up double time.

“I suppose we could eat that first. Since
you’ve gone to so much trouble,” she whispered against his lips.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Not quite. But I intend to find out.” Then
he framed her face with his hands and drew her lips close to his
warm smooth ones. “You’re shivering, Jemma. Cold?”

His expression mocked her, because he could
feel the heat of her cheeks on his callused palms. She dug her
fingers into the hard, rangy line of his shoulders, anchoring her
senses from drifting away into the night. “You’re playing games,
Hogan.”

“I thought you liked games. But then, maybe
you just like being in control. That’s right, isn’t it? You like
controlling the relationship— getting what you want, setting the
terms, and never letting your carefully selected partner come too
close.... You’re running too hard, Jemma. You’re afraid what you’ll
find when you stop, and you’ll have to stop someday. But you don’t
want to think about that now, do you? You want to think about
getting money and making the Kodiaks’ lives your own personal
playground. You’re a woman who needs life and warmth and most
likely a good amount of very physical sex.”

For a moment, Jemma stared blankly at him.
He’d skipped the usual friendly chitchat and homed right in on
“very physical sex.”

“I’m not repressed sexually, Hogan. You’re
worse than Mitch, spouting psychology. You like to observe, to take
people apart, see their components... but you’re not taking me
apart, Hogan.”

“Aren’t I?” he whispered, and gently bit her
lip. He eased a space away and watched her. His expression was as
dark and sultry as when he’d rested over her in the camper van.
“Shall we eat?”

*** ***

“Stop it. You’re wearing out yourself and the
animal.”

Using one hand as a pivot, Mitch launched
himself over the corral gate. He strode to the center of the corral
and grabbed the reins of the horse that Carley had been riding.

“Reining,” the short stop, change position,
stop, change directions riding was competition rodeo riding.
Originally used as “cutting horses,” horses that separated cattle
from the herd, reining competition no longer needed cattle to
demonstrate their agility and obedience.

Carley was good— too good to hide her talent.
Tonight, she was using the horse to relieve her tension, sweat
gleaming on her moonlit face and the animal’s rump. She frowned
down at him. “Sue is a great reiner. She responds perfectly to
directions.”

Mitch gripped Carley’s waist and pulled her
from the saddle. She tugged up the sweatpants that were now too
loose on her and glared up at him. “You’re in an evil mood. Don’t
ever pull me off a horse again.”

With the air of an older brother used to
attending his sister’s needs, he reached down to find the inner
loop of her sweatpants. In jerky motions, he retied the knot
tighter. “If you want to kill yourself, that’s one thing. But don’t
abuse that animal.”

She hit his chest with both fists, tears
streaming down her cheeks, each one like a painful lash in Mitch’s
heart.

“I’ve never abused an animal in my life.”