The Ranch She Left Behind (27 page)

It made no sense to feel particularly exposed—she knew how helplessly turned on he was, had known from the start, because the drenched cotton had outlined every inch of him as clearly as if he’d already been naked.

And yet, as she knelt before him, shoving the discarded clothing to the side and using the soft terry towels to dry his feet, his shins, his thighs, his…

He almost came right then, though she touched him so briefly, and only through the towel. But he was so tight, so swollen and inflamed, that it was as if every nerve ending had been distended to twice its size and twice its sensitivity. Any contact with his flesh was dangerous—even the warmth of her breath as she bent toward him, ministering to him, was nearly enough to explode his fragile control.

Or maybe it had shattered already. A strange shivering seemed to have started inside him, like a tiny fire made of ice. It rippled out in waves that rode his bloodstream from nerve ending to nerve ending. His legs began to tremble.

What was wrong with him? He had never wanted anyone as much as he wanted this woman, and he wasn’t going to be able to control himself. He wasn’t going to be able to make it right for her….

He shut his eyes and held his breath. He reached out and found the edge of the wall, tightening his legs to try to make the desperate pulsing stop.

“It’s all right,” she said. “Just let go, Max. Just let go.”

She spoke the words only millimeters away from the thrusting length of him, and her breath was like honey fire. He cried out once, and she cupped her hands around him and slid him into her mouth…just in time…just in time….

He jerked, and the entire world seemed to disappear inside that warm, moist place. Sizzling fingers of electricity exploded out through his limbs, and thick currents of release pulsed through him and into her.

It went on. And on. Seemingly endless cresting waves of mindless pleasure—as if he had waited too long for this, and he would never be able to get enough. But finally the waves eased to ripples, the roar in his ears died down and the world reformed around him.

When he could think again, the first thing he recognized was the silk of her hair under his hands, braided through his fingers as if he’d held on to her desperately, through it all.

And the second thing he recognized was the peaceful, steady beating of his no-longer-aching heart.

* * *

P
ENNY
WATCHED
THE
lightning play over Max’s face as he slept. Though it was three in the morning, she didn’t feel the need to rest. Every now and then, she would shut her eyes, thinking she might drift off, but then she’d open them again, just for the joy of being able to stare at him without any barriers.

In the relaxation of sleep, the sweetness of his features was uppermost. All the drive, the competence, the confidence, even the intelligence and wit, were erased by slumber, and all that was left was pure structural beauty—and an unusual degree of kindness, an amazing lack of ruthlessness or aggression, especially in a man’s man like Max.

He’d been asleep for about an hour. He’d fought it, clearly uncomfortable with the way he’d given in to his need for release. But he was like the survivor of some natural disaster, like a plane crash or a train wreck. He had been functioning on sheer adrenaline and willpower, and it had drained him completely.

She’d let him lower her to the bed, and she’d savored every gentle, sensual kiss… Wow, but that man could kiss!

But she’d counted on nature to do its work. And it had. Once her soft pillow cradled his head and his exhausted muscles had the chance to relax, all she had to do was use her embraces to massage his shoulder, the back of his neck…

He kept fighting, heavy-eyed, for several minutes. But finally he lost the battle and succumbed to the sleep he so desperately needed.

Her body hummed pleasantly. For her, it was the best of both worlds. She got the joy of intimately learning the secrets of his face—and, when he finally woke, she knew he would give her all the physical pleasure she could ever desire.

Odd, she thought as if from a great distance, that she didn’t use this time to try to talk herself out of any further intimacy. But somehow this interlude didn’t seem to violate anything that really mattered.

It definitely wasn’t a surrender to loneliness or fear on her part. She hadn’t gone to him, looking for a crutch. He had come to her. This time, she was providing the strength—for whatever reason, his dreams tortured him, and he had come to Penny for relief.

And, with Ellen gone until midday tomorrow, at the “camp-in” at Bell River, this night posed no threat to his vow, either. He would give 100 percent to Ellen, whenever she needed him. But right now, she didn’t.

Tonight he didn’t have to be a father first.

Penny didn’t kid herself. Whatever they found together tonight, it would not survive the coming of daylight. He’d actually said the words, straight out. Just one night. For just one night, he wanted to take some comfort from a woman who was both a lover and a friend.

She appreciated the honesty more than he could ever know. She didn’t want to be lied to. She didn’t want to be any man’s fool.

The lightning crashed outside, and thunder rolled. But in here, Max slept on.

She got out her sketch pad, which she kept by the bed always, and flicked on the low-wattage bedside lamp. It wasn’t bright enough to disturb him, but it allowed her to see well enough to draw.

Over the next few minutes, she made several attempts to catch whatever subtle magic made him both angel and man, both tender and tough. She missed every time and kept flipping to a new page, annoyed, but eager to try again.

It must be in the lips. No—it was in the gentle hollow where the cheekbone met the eye.

No. It was the chin—the perfect proportion, that square jaw ending in the surprise of the rounded, dimpled chin. Strength without ego, power without brutality.

No. Maybe it was the brows…

She sighed, leaning back against the headboard and shutting her eyes. Either it really was magic, or it was elusive beyond her ability with a sketching pencil.

“Hey, there.”

She turned, and Max’s eyes were open. He still looked sleepy, like a little boy. But she knew the power of the naked body under that sheet, so softly molded to his torso. The warm, low buzzing she’d had inside her ever since he arrived intensified slightly, and she put her hand on her belly, as if she could feel it through her skin.

Lightning flashed, but farther away now, so that it was just an opalescent shimmer against his skin, not the white strobe it had been a few minutes ago.

“Hi.” She smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“Fabulous.” He arched his neck, stretching the muscles awake. He twisted to look above the bed, toward the window. “It’s still raining. How long did I sleep?”

“Not long. About an hour, I guess.”

He widened his eyes. “Not long? That’s an entire hour wasted. I had plans for that hour….”

He lifted on his elbow, but as he closed the distance between them, his chest encountered the sketch pad she’d let fall on the bed between them. It made a crinkling sound. He paused and angled back so that he could retrieve it.

“Oh, I should move that…” She felt suddenly too self-conscious to allow him to look at it. “It’s just—”

But he’d already looked. He saw, of course, that the first sketch was a picture of him, drawn from just above, and to the side…a picture of a very handsome, naked man, sleeping with only a thin sheet to cover his trim, muscular body.

He turned the page. Then again. And again. Over and over, the same man, the same sheet-draped body. Sometimes the face dominated, as she’d tried to capture his essence. But sometimes the body was her focus…that beautiful, powerful body….

For a minute she couldn’t find any words. It looked obsessive. It looked like the fixation of a woman in love.

“You have a…a difficult face to draw. It’s very interesting, artistically speaking. I mean, if you’re interested in form and shadow…that angle where your cheek and your jaw…”

She gave up. “You’re very beautiful,” she said. “I couldn’t help trying to see if I could capture it in a sketch.”

He leaned over her, his naked chest brushing against her shoulder, and the rain-washed scent of him teasing at her nose, and set the pad down on her nightstand. When he rolled back to his side of the bed, he caught her by the shoulders and rolled her over with him.

She wasn’t quite on top of him, but close enough. She could feel the contours of his legs, the jut of his lean hip bones, the already-rigid length of his arousal. The buzzing inside her became a swarm, and things in her midsection seemed to be shifting blindly, contracting and relaxing, swirling, agitated, as if searching for another arrangement of parts.

Their faces were only inches apart. “
I’m
beautiful?” His eyes were tilted up, filled with both seduction and laughter. “Have you looked in a mirror lately, Penny Wright?”

She laughed breathlessly. She wasn’t beautiful, but he made her feel that way. All this swirling inside made her feel more alive, more vibrant, as if she must be rosy and glowing.

“No,” she said. “Not really.”

His arms tightened, pulling her closer, until her breasts touched his naked chest. “You don’t know what you’re missing.” He lifted his head and kissed her neck, moving across her skin with a slow, trailing heat.

If she was going to stop this—she was going to have to stop it now. Later—even a few seconds from now—would be far, far, too late.

She put her hand up, and slid her fingers between the skin of her neck and his lips. “Max,” she said softly. “I think we should talk first.”

He drew his head back. A frown had appeared between his brows. “You’re not saying…you’re not saying you don’t want this.”

Her heart hammered its own response, but she shook her head, knowing he’d need a clear, unambiguous green light. He wasn’t the kind of man who would claim a prize he hadn’t won.

“You know I want this,” she said. “I just hoped we could talk first. I hoped you would tell me what happened tonight. It was another bad dream?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“But why? What are these dreams that can hurt you like that?” She put her head on his chest, and listened for his heartbeat. Before, it had been racing like an electronic toy spiraling out of control. She’d actually been afraid for him and had wondered whether even the orgasm he so clearly needed could possibly be safe.

To her great relief, his heart drummed with a calm but powerful rhythm. “You don’t have to tell me, if you’d rather not.”

For a minute, she thought he would choose not to, just as he had in the past. But then, under her ear, she felt him inhale deeply. He laid his palm against her hair and stroked it softly, as if she were a kitten.

“Two years ago, I worked for an architectural firm out of Chicago. Alexander and Floyd. They’re one of the biggest. My main job was site consulting. I traveled all over the world, checking out locations. One of those trips took me to Mexico. It should have been simple. I’d been on a dozen trips to Mexico already. But this time, I got an invitation to dinner. Someone I didn’t know, but who said they knew one of the VPs at Alexander and Floyd. I had a strange feeling about the meeting, but I went anyway. And, as I told you the other day, I should have listened to my gut. There was no dinner, no man who knew the VP. I was taken hostage.”

She felt her body jerk slightly, startled. She’d known it was something bad. But
kidnapped…

“How terrible,” she said. But she didn’t lift her head. She didn’t want to interrupt his flow of words.

He stroked her hair soothingly—though she had the feeling it calmed him as much as it did her. Rhythmic, gentle, controlled.

“It was all about money, of course. I was nothing to them, personally. I wasn’t rich enough, but Alexander and Floyd was. So, essentially, I was just the kidnappers’ product. They owned me now, and they intended to sell me back to my company.”

She tightened her arms around his waist. Still his heart beat normally. But she wasn’t sure hers still did. “What happened? Did they agree to pay?”

“Not at first. I didn’t know what was going on, of course, not at the time. But when I got back to Chicago, Alexander explained that they’d been required to negotiate. The asking price was so high…no one ever pays the initial offer…the stockholders would mutiny….”

“Oh, my God.” She closed her eyes, thinking of the jackals who could make those kinds of cold-blooded calculations while a man was being held hostage. Stockholders? “How long were you there?”

“About two months.”

She finally had to look at him. Two months… Two months away from his family, not knowing whether he’d ever see his child again. She lifted her head and met his gaze. It was dark, but not haunted and lost, not like when he arrived tonight.

“How bad was it?”

“It could have been worse,” he said. “But it could have been better.”

She shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t pass me off with meaningless half statements like that. What happened?”

She wanted to know…. But more than that, she wanted him to talk about it. He had all these dodges ready on the tip of his tongue. All these canned phrases that he had undoubtedly used for two years now, to avoid letting anyone know the truth. He probably told himself that stoicism was strength. That a refusal to brood and wallow and whine was courage.

But the dreams said otherwise. The dreams showed that stoicism was just denial dressed up in a fancy name. The dreams proved that a refusal to brood was a refusal to process. A refusal to face pain consciously would inevitably drive that pain to find its outlet in the subconscious.

In the dreams.

“Where did they keep you?”

“In a basement. It was dirty and cold, and it reeked of gas and oil and power tools. But the hardest part was that it was dark. It was always, always dark. Day or night, it was all the same. It’s more difficult than you think it will be, doing without any way to visually orient yourself. You lose your sense of reality, somehow. You hear things. See things.”