Susan Amarillas (19 page)

He covered her mouth with a silencing kiss, letting himself give in to the desire that threatened to carry him over the brink of all control.

He felt her orgasm a second before he poured himself into her.

The world around them dissolved. There was only the two of them and this bliss, this rapture they found in each other’s arms.

T
he first rays of sunlight were cutting through the partially opened window when Luke awoke. There was a fog-laced dampness in the air that felt soft and good against his bare torso, the part that wasn’t covered by the quilt.

He stretched, flexing the muscles in his shoulders and back, and rolled over onto his side. His head cushioned on the down pillow, he caressed the empty place next to him. She was gone. She’d slipped silently from the bed as the morning doves cooed their wake-up call. He’d roused from his blissful sleep in time to see her closing the door.

They didn’t need to speak. They’d said it all last night. With touch and taste and words whispered in flame-hot passion, they’d said and done it all.

Well, maybe not all, he thought with a smile that didn’t come close to expressing his feelings. There were no words for this bliss, this contentment. He felt good, really good. He felt alive and right, as if he could conquer the world single-handed. He sure as hell was willing to try.

That smile turned into an all-out grin, and he chuckled to himself. He was in love. No ifs, ands or buts about it. Luke Scanlin was head over heels a goner. He didn’t mind at all. Nope. He liked the notion. Liked it a lot.

He turned, putting his head on her pillow. The barest trace of her rose scent lingered there, stirring lush, heated memories of their wild lovemaking last night. His heart eased down into a slow, steady rhythm, and he let the feeling, new and exciting, wash over him. Love. From the minute he’d walked in here two days ago, from the second he’d kissed her that night in the entryway, this had been inevitable. It was as sure and certain as his next breath—no, more so, he decided with a gentle smile. He could stop breathing more easily than he could stop loving her.

Luke pushed down the covers—the cotton was soft and smooth against his fingers—and swung his bare legs over the side of the bed, his body making the shifting feather bed sink. The house was quiet. It was barely sunup, and way too early for the family to be up and around. They’d be sleeping in, he figured, and Lord knew they deserved it. No one had had a minute’s sleep since this kidnapping mess started.

Sunlight caught his eye. He squinted, then rubbed the sleep from his face. He stood, relishing the way the cool air made goose bumps prickle over his body. He figured he’d get dressed and head on down to the kitchen, maybe get some coffee and wait for her.

He ambled over to the blue porcelain washbasin on the stand near the window and splashed some cold water on his face.

“Argh,” he muttered as the water trickled down his neck, and he grabbed for the white linen towel. Another ten minutes and he was shaved and his hair was brushed. He fished his best shirt out of the bureau, frowning at the wrinkles in the white cotton. Someday he had to learn how to fold things.

He tried hand-pressing it. The hand-pressing—cowboy for laying it on the bed and pushing it flat with his hand—wasn’t working any better now than it had any of the other times he’d made this same futile effort. Aw, hell, he thought, snatching up the shirt and putting it on anyway. He wanted to look good, special. Frowning, he pushed at the wrinkles where the shirt draped down his chest. He was behaving like some schoolboy on his first date.

He chuckled. They were long past the courting stage. Ah, yes, he thought with a sudden warming in his blood. He stilled the direction of his thoughts and made to button his shirt. Good Lord, his hands were actually trembling. He held his hand up. This was what she’d done to him. He’d faced the entire Johnson gang, all four of them, with steadier hands than these.

He really did have it bad. Ah, he thought, pulling on his black wool trousers and stuffing his shirt into the waistband, he didn’t mind being all hot and bothered, because after last night, he knew she was, too.

Yeah, she had come to him. He had given her a chance to leave, and she’d stayed. He’d told her in explicit detail what he was going to do to her, to every inch of her, if she stayed, and she had. Wild and wet and passionate beyond anything he ever imagined, she’d stayed with him until the early morning. They’d made love and dozed in each other’s arms, only to wake and make love again. She was insatiable, and he was exhausted, but blissfully content. He dragged in a long, slow breath and released it just as slowly.

Nothing could be any better than this. Okay, well, one thing. Waking up leisurely with her curled and naked in his arms.

With a confident smile, he headed for the kitchen.

* * *

Lost in thought, Rebecca sat in the window seat in her bedroom, watching pink and yellow streaks of sunlight chase away the night. The cooing of mourning doves caught her attention, and she pushed back the lace curtain to look out more easily.

The world looked perfectly normal, the way it did every morning. Except it wasn’t normal. Nothing was as it had been. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Fear fluttered through her, and she drew up her legs, her chin resting lightly on her knees. Her silk dressing gown fell away, and she tucked it securely around her body. Beneath it, she was still naked from a night of lovemaking.

Two hours. Two hours she’d been sitting here. At least she thought it was two hours. The time, like the night spent with Luke, was a blur in her mind.

She remembered quite clearly seeing the light on in his room, remembered going in with the intention of thanking him for saving her son. That was the polite, reasonable thing to do, wasn’t it?

He’d looked so helpless there, trying to pull those splinters from his fingers. More like a little boy than the harsh, cold man who had accompanied her into that alley. Maybe it was his helplessness that had gotten past her wall of defenses. Maybe it was simply exhaustion from the days and nights of worrying. Whatever it was, it had seemed that one moment she was sitting on the edge of the bed, helping him with the splinters that laced the tips of his fingers, and then...then she was in his arms. He was kissing her with a passion that inflamed her senses; holding her with a strength she was powerless to overcome; touching her with an intimacy that ignited an all-consuming desire.

Oh, God, how could this have happened? Heat and guilt and shame washed over her like a tidal wave, leaving her breathless and frightened. This
could not
have happened. It was too awful, too terrifying, even to contemplate. A shaking started inside, the subtle beginnings of an earthquake. Her muscles cramped.

Rebecca Tinsdale did not—repeat, did not—give herself wantonly to men, and certainly not to this man...never to this man.

Her arms encircled her knees, pulling them tighter against her, and her head lolled back against the smooth, cool plaster wall, trapping her hair tightly behind her. Annoyed, she shifted and pulled it over one shoulder.

As she glanced down at her hair where it covered one breast, she remembered Luke arranging her hair in just such a way, his knuckles brushing enticingly over her breast, and her nipples puckering into hard, aching nubs.

She swallowed hard against the sudden memories.

This was awful, and getting worse by the second. It had seemed so innocent when she went to his room. A simple conversation, nothing more, had been intended. An expression of thanks, and a goodbye—most importantly, a goodbye. How could it have gotten so out of control? How could
she
have gotten so out of control?

All she had to do was close her eyes, and the images of them together flashed hot and erotic in her mind, making her pulse quicken. Like a series of mind-searing photographs, they flashed one after another; naked and writhing under him, her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth sucking on her nipples, while she moaned and pleaded and demanded more.

Heat seared her mind and body. Her breathing got a little more intense, a little more unsteady. Oh, this was worse than she’d thought.

In all the years of her marriage to Nathan, their times together had been nothing,
nothing,
like this. There had been quick kisses, an occasional coupling under the covers in the dark. Over the years she’d convinced herself that that was married life, that her memories of lovemaking with Luke were merely exaggerated daydreams.

Now...oh, now she knew, with a heart-pounding certainty, that they were real—wonderfully, deliciously, luxuriously real. Last night he had done things, said things, made her feel things that, in her most vivid dreams, she’d never imagined. How could she? How could she possibly know that a man and woman could give and take and please each other in ways such as that?

It was wrong. It had to be wrong. Everything about it was wrong, and yet...yet it felt so right. She’d never felt so alive in her life.

That earthquake inside was racing toward her soul, threatening to destroy her in the process.

How would she face her family, her friends? They would know what a wanton she had been. Surely no one could do the things she’d done with this man and survive intact.

Abruptly she stood and paced toward the closet, pausing to gauge her reflection in the mirror. Could it be? She looked exactly the same. There was no scarlet brand, no mark to indicate what she’d done. Perhaps it would be all right. She would simply go on as before, she thought with a confident tilt of her chin.

The terror inside her began to subside—for about thirty seconds, until she realized that this was not over. She would have to see him, at least, this morning. Maybe not. Maybe she’d take her breakfast in her room and hope that he would be gone by the time she went downstairs.

She sighed at the absurdity of that idea. She was going to have to face him sooner or later. The question was, what was she going to say?

Ah, so now we’re down to it, Rebecca. How do you feel? What do you want?

How did she feel? She felt glorious. What did she want? She wanted him to leave, to go away and never, ever come back, because he was too tempting, too dangerous, and she had responsibilities to others that had to supersede all her personal feelings, no matter how heavenly.

She frowned. Logic and guilt merged in her mind, and her joy was replaced by hostility. It galled her, how willingly she had surrendered to him, despite all her fine words and pledges.

Well, all was most certainly not lost, not yet—and she intended to keep it that way. There would be no repeat of eight years ago.

She was not the naive girl of eighteen he had seduced and left shattered and disillusioned. No, dammit! She was a woman now, assured and in control of her life and her emotions, she told herself fiercely. After all, she had made the choice to stay with him last night. She conveniently ignored her guilt-ridden thoughts of moments ago.

Feeling more confident, she strode for the wardrobe cabinet. She yanked open the door and grabbed a blouse, forest green, and a skirt, straight and black, to suit her ever-darkening mood.

She shrugged out of her dressing gown and washed up in the basin next to the wardrobe, scrubbing her face and arms hard, wishing she could wash him out of her mind as easily.

She put on her undergarments and reached for the corset she’d worn the night before. As she picked it up, the laces slipped to the floor, and she snatched them up. She started the arduous task of threading the laces through the dozen or so sets of eyelets, her resentment building.

A shiver passed through her as she remembered his expert fingers loosening the laces with exquisite slowness, freeing her breasts and body to his masterful touch, his mouth teasing the valley between her breasts.

Her eyes slammed shut against the sensual images.

“No,” she said out loud to the empty bedroom. “No,” she repeated more firmly, her hands curling into fists.

Would it always be like this? Whenever she saw him, would she remember every touch as though it were happening again?

With every speck of will she had, she would resist the temptation of Luke Scanlin, and all that he stirred within her. Not just for herself, but for the others, and for the secrets she guarded. Oh, yes, for those secrets most of all.

What was done was done. The past could not be changed, but the present could.

She would face Luke straight on, the same way she’d faced most things in her life. She would handle this calmly, firmly, and with dispatch. Now that she’d given herself to him, there was nothing to keep him here...once again, she thought with a tinge of sadness, he would go. She was certain. Only this time it was the best thing—the only thing for all their sakes.

* * *

The distinctive aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted Rebecca as she pushed through the kitchen door. It was too early for the staff to be up, she was thinking, when she heard, “Good morning, darlin’.”

Luke. His tone was cheerful. He was perched on the edge of the kitchen table, acting like he owned the place. “I made coffee.” He gestured with his cup. “Want some?” He wore a white shirt and black wool trousers, and his hair was damp and finger-combed back from his face. It ought to be illegal for a man to be that handsome this early.

For the span of two heartbeats, all she could do was look at him.

His smile was warmer than sunshine, and his eyes were soft and familiar; his expression was like an unspoken invitation. She fought the impulse to walk to him, to touch him, to ask him to take her in his arms again.

Her gaze flicked to his hand, curved around the white porcelain cup, and she remembered that same hand curved over the sensitive flesh of her breast. She was flooded with memories, and she couldn’t speak or tear her gaze away.

Erotic thoughts, flashes of their naked bodies writhing and moving together, the moaning sounds of pleasure, the pleading demands, all seemed to engulf her in an instant. Swift and crystal-clear, they heated her body with anticipation and flushed her cheeks with shame.

It was the shame and fear that she hung on to like a lifeline, in a desperate attempt to strengthen her crumbling resolve.

Pulling herself up to her full height, she faced him squarely. “I expected you to be gone this morning.”

He stilled, his coffee cup stopped in midmotion. His eyes widened in open surprise, and she saw him straighten slightly. He raked her with an assessing stare. It took every bit of willpower she had to stand there and not flinch. She was braced for an argument.