The Heart Breaker (19 page)

When at last they reached the house, Sloan set her down none too gently. “Get inside and get warm. I’ll see to the horse.”

Heather could barely move, she was so cold, but she forced herself to climb the back porch. Rusty was waiting for her inside, a worried frown on his weathered face.

Gently, yet fussy as a mother hen, the cowboy helped her remove her wet coat and bonnet and gloves and led her to the stove. Solicitously, he poured her a steaming mug of coffee, but her frozen fingers couldn’t bear the heat. She took a sip and gave it back. Instead she held her icy hands out to the stove and stood there trembling as painful feeling began to return to her numb limbs.

She hadn’t moved when Sloan came in a moment later. He took one look at his wife, then nodded to his hired hand.

“Thanks, Rusty, I’ll handle things now. You can go back to bed.”

The silence when he was gone was terrible. Left alone with Sloan, she risked a glance at him. He was watching her, his blue eyes icy and lethal.

“I … I’m s-sorry,” she murmured.

His jaw hardened. “Sorry isn’t good enough, duchess. What the hell were you thinking? You could have died out there.”

She shuddered and swayed weakly. His hands were there—rough, impersonal, catching her.

“C-Caitlin needed me,” she replied, tears crowding her throat like jagged rocks.

“So did Janna! You left her alone with no one but a cowhand to care for her.”

“Would you r-rather I’d exposed her to the snowstorm?”

Sloan ground his teeth. Janna’s welfare wasn’t what really worried him—Rusty had seen to her
well enough. It was Heather who had scared the hell out of him. He had feared for her life.

He was furious that she should endanger herself that way. He couldn’t forgive her either for the anguished memories she’d aroused, the helpless, suffocating feeling of panic that had risen like bile in his throat. She might have died and he would have been helpless to prevent it. Just like Doe.

His fear took the form of anger; the rise of his protective instincts made him even angrier.

His eyes were a hard, glittering smoke. “I would rather,” he ground out, “you have the sense not to go out alone in a snowstorm. I warned you about the dangers here. Goddammit, do I have to play nursemaid to you every minute of the day?”

The words erupted between them with soft violence.

Despite her shudders, Heather stiffened, her spine going rigid. Backhanding the tears from her cheeks, she turned her face away. She didn’t want him to see her cry.

“No,” she managed hoarsely, “you are not required to play nursemaid.”

Forcing her feet to move, she retrieved her coat from the wall peg. When she went to the door, Sloan gave a start.

“Dammit, where do you think you’re going?”

“Somewhere where I’m wanted—where I’m n-not considered a th-threat to your daughter…”

Behind her, Sloan cursed. Moving swiftly, he put a hand against the door and shoved it shut. Heather struggled to open it again, but he was too strong for her, and she was too weak with fatigue and cold.

“Dammit, duchess, don’t be a fool. You can’t go back out there. You’ll freeze to death.”

“What do you care?”

Her voice caught on a sob. She was shaking; her head was bowed.

He steeled himself against her tears. At her back, his hands rose to her shoulders, gripping tightly.

She flinched. “Damn you, leave me be!”

She tried to draw away, but he forced her to turn around. The tears streamed down her face, yet she refused to look at him.

Those tears kicked him square and hard in the chest. Sloan inhaled a sharp breath, surveying her beautiful face, vainly trying to ignore the heat that surged through him. He tightened his grasp and found himself bringing her closer, imprisoning her. He wanted to erase those tears. He wanted to shelter her, to hold her, to warm her with his body, his lips … even as he wanted to punish her.

With another vivid curse, he brought his mouth down hard on hers.

H
eat leapt between them, shocking and primal. Relief, anger, need, all came pouring out of Sloan, into his kiss. His temper was frayed from the strain of weeks of wanting her, from the emotions that fought and tangled inside him… fear and passion and pent-up desire.

He felt Heather attempt to pull away as his mouth took hers fiercely. It triggered in him a primal, violent response to subdue and conquer. He deepened his kiss, refusing to release her—until she made a soft, despairing sound that broke through his blind haze of lust and anger and tore at his heart.

Lifting his head, Sloan took a deep breath, fighting the savage heat of his body. It was like a knife in him to see those tears on her face.

“Don’t,” he whispered, his voice low and rough. “Don’t cry.”

Something twisted painfully in his chest and made him reach out to touch her wet cheek. She turned her face away, her body racked by shuddering.

Remorse squeezed his heart like a fist; her vulnerability pierced him as nothing else could.

His anger turning to tenderness against his will, Sloan slid his arms around her and gathered her into him, this time gently, wrapping her carefully in his strength. She leaned weakly against him and sobbed quietly against his shoulder.

The last of his defenses crumbled. She was soft and trembling against him; her tears seemed to soak through his shirt and into his heart.

He didn’t want to let her go. He wanted, he realized with dismay, to hold her and touch her, to keep her close and protect her. He wanted to make love to her.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Hearing the rough contrition in his voice, Heather fought to hold back a ragged sob. The hand that stroked her back and smoothed her gown along the curve of her bottom was soothing, gentle. She couldn’t understand Sloan’s sudden compassion, yet she needed whatever comfort she could find.

Drawing back, she looked up into his eyes. Her tears arrested at his expression—three parts concern and one of tenderness.

The night trembled around them as Sloan brought his hands up to cradle her tearstained face. He pressed the lightest of kisses on her lips, then bent and lifted her into his arms.

Wordlessly he carried her from the kitchen and up the stairs to her bedchamber. The room was dark but warmed by the steady heat of the woodstove. Sloan set her on her feet and lit a lamp. In the sudden pale glow, Heather shivered.

Watching her, Sloan hesitated. Desire knifed through him, sharp and insistent; his body was hard with need. Yet seeing her standing there, looking so proud and vulnerable, gave him pause. She had wrapped her arms around herself, protecting
herself from him. Her eyes were wary.

He knew she wouldn’t come willingly to him. He’d seen to that. He had pushed her away at every opportunity. He had made her cry. Her very gentleness had goaded him to hurt her. Now he was filled with the desire to offer solace, the need to comfort, as well as other primal feelings more basic and male. Still, he intended to give her the choice.

“Do you want me to leave?”

The air between them trembled, raw with tension.

“No,” Heather whispered.

His gaze heated to molten pewter. His hand came up to touch her, because he could no longer bear a moment of not touching her. The hell with waiting. He wanted her, wanted to lose himself in her body, the taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her.

The combs that held her heavy hair were the first casualty. Then Sloan bent his head, tangling his hands in her silver tresses and holding her mouth still for his kiss. It seemed foolish that a simple touch could give birth to intense need, intense hunger, yet just this small contact made him want her more.

Her quivering seemed to echo in him, sending tremors that shivered across his own skin. It brought him back to reality just a little.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured. “We have to get you out of these damp clothes.”

Tugging back the bedcovers, he pressed her down to sit on the edge of the mattress. Then Sloan knelt to unlace her half-boots and remove her wet stockings. Her feet were like ice. He wrapped his hands around one at a time, massaging gently, until
she made a soft sound that was half pain, half relief.

Her underdrawers came first, then her gown. Finally her corset and chemise. Her skin gleamed like ivory, the ripe breasts tumbling forward, lushly made, the nipples tightened in automatic response.

The need that had gripped Sloan in its talons for days now tightened its hold ruthlessly. He was hard and throbbing with it. He wanted to fill his hands with her breasts, his mouth with her taste, wanted to feel her softness enveloping his man’s heat. He wanted to watch her when she went wild beneath him....

“Lie down,” he urged hoarsely, helping her into bed, the foot of which was warmed by hot, flannel-covered bricks. Pressing her back on the feather mattress, he drew the piles of covers over her naked body. Then swiftly he pulled off his own clothes, tossing them haphazardly on the floor.

Heather watched him wordlessly, bracing herself for what was to come. Sloan would hurt her, just as he had in the past. Not physically, of course. He wouldn’t be rough with her. But her wounded heart would be the worse for this night.

She tensed as he came toward her, one corner of her mind registering the sheer physical splendor of his naked body. Starkly masculine, he moved with athletic grace, his body rippling with fluid strength. Her gaze wandered lower, to the tempered-steel thighs and the thick erection rising from the dark curls at his groin. She drew a sharp breath as a hot shameless need filled her.

She fought against it for a moment, her heart slamming painfully against her rib cage.

Sloan stood over her, waiting. “Heather?”

Was she imagining that hoarseness in his voice that hinted of desire? That spoke of primal need, of
want? That echoed the need inside her?

Could she deny him? Could she deny herself?

But no, Heather reflected with silent misery. She had only one choice. The time for self-protection was long past. She wanted his hands, his mouth, his hard body, wanted him with a raw, reckless hunger. He made her want him.

He could see in her expressive eyes she was his for the taking. He slid beneath the covers, pressing against her, letting her feel his heat and hardness.

His hands stealing upward, he threaded his fingers through her tangled hair. “I want to make love to you,” he murmured, his voice silky and rough.

His lips found her throat and her back arched, her taut nipples scraping his chest. Her shyness vanished as it always did when he touched her, while a shallow gasp broke from her lips. Then he lowered his head to her breast. His tongue circled the dusky crest, now pebbled and urgent. When his hot mouth closed over her nipple, sucking it strongly, Heather whimpered at the searing wet heat.

Sweet God, how could he affect her so? Why did her heart lurch so wildly at his touch? Her newly sensitized body thrummed with panic and desire, her senses spun wildly.

Yet Sloan seemed totally in control. His sensual assault was slow and unhurried and careful. He lingered over her, deliberately branding her flesh as his, while his hand slid between her thighs. He was touching her there now, intimately stroking, arousing the slick flesh with exquisite caresses.

Her head thrashed on the pillow as the torment continued. Once she’d thought he lacked tenderness. That he was dark and hard and dangerous. She’d been wrong about the tenderness. His touch was smoke and fire, making her burn with the pleasure
he was giving her. Her skin was fevered, her senses singed by brazen heat. She could scarcely bear the savage magic he was working with his hands and lips.

Raw heartbeats later, Sloan eased his body between her thighs. His naked arousal pulsed hard between her legs.

“Look at me, darlin’.” He gazed down at her, his smoky eyes suddenly very blue as he pressed into her.

She gasped aloud at the feel of him, huge and hot and urgent. Desire, savage and blinding, rippled through her as he slowly thrust home. She heard his voice, raw silk, coming from far away as he whispered to her, sensual, carnal words, telling her how good he felt entering her, stretching her, filling her. His dark words only inflamed her more.

Then he began to move inside her, reaching deep with every stroke. Heather moaned and clutched his shoulders, her nails scoring his skin.

Sloan felt the same exquisite torment. The breathless need that spiked through his body was fierce and overwhelming. He was a man who prided himself on control, but the sweetness of her hot, tight flesh drove out all logical thought. The urgency built and built, on and on, until the savage pleasure engulfed them both.

Racked by ecstasy, she cried out and twisted to meet his thrusts. As she shuddered around him, Sloan shoved her face against his sweat-slicked shoulder and buried her scream. Each tremor burned through him relentlessly, melting reality into oblivion. His straining thighs pressing hers wide, he drove into her with pent-up wildness. In only moments, fiery talons of sensation ripped through him in a harsh, convulsive climax … frenzied … tumultuous … violent. Groaning, gasping
for breath, he plunged into her, feeling his body explode inside her, pulses of fire flowing between them.