Windstar (7 page)

They stared deeply into one another’s eyes and when the hand between their bodies moved, he saw her gaze waver, her eyelids flicker. He knew in that moment she was surrendering to him.

“I’m a virgin,” she told him.

He nodded for he had suspected as much. It was part of the reason he’d chosen to exact his revenge on Dalton in this way.

Freeing his cock, he swept it down the folds of her sex, allowing her to feel the moistness that clung to the aching tip. She drew in a shuddering breath but no longer fought him.

He released her wrists and she lay there for a moment with her arms still crossed over her head but then she hesitantly lifted her hand toward him. Though he shied away slightly from the contact, she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Don’t hurt me,” she asked, holding his gaze.

His attention went to her lips and before he knew what he was doing, he had lowered his head to claim her mouth, thrusting his tongue gently inside as she tightened her grip on his hair. He tasted her and lost himself in the sweet honey of her mouth.

Though he tried not to, he brought pain to her when he eased his cock inside her tight sheath. He filled her, stretched her slowly but when he broke through the fragile membrane, she gasped and tears filled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say and it was the first time in years he had apologized to anyone.

Slowly and as gently as he could he began to move inside her until he felt her body reacting to the depth and rhythm of his thrusts. He was pushing them firmly toward that wondrous place where bliss and lust and desire dwelt. The aching in his groin was intensifying and her juices were flowing as he pumped faster into her sleek warmth. Then ….

* * * *

The phone jarred Rory awake and he gasped, sitting up so quickly Angela did not have time to let go of her hold on his hair and he yelped, slapping a hand to his head. He stared at her as his heart raced, his body tensed and primed for a release he was but a hair’s breadth from enjoying.

“I’m sorry. Were you having a nightmare?” she asked, her gentle eyes searching his pale face.

The phone rang again and he cursed, stumbling to his feet, trying desperately to hide the thick erection that pushed painfully at his pants.

“Make that fucking phone stop ringing!” he ordered as he all but ran into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him.

Chapter Three

Bobby Thompson switched his attention from Rory’s sullen face to the new housekeeper’s pleasant smile. He didn’t know what he’d done to annoy Rory but the man was glaring at him as though Bobby had kicked the helpless pup the actor kept insisting he was going to adopt.

“I’ve been working for him for what--five years now, Rory?” Bobby asked, but the man in question didn’t reply.

Rory was sitting on the sofa with his knees drawn up and enclosed within the perimeter of his arms. It was a body position that clearly shouted withdrawal.

Angela turned her head toward Rory, giving him a curious look. “Boss man?” she asked softly and when he glanced at her, she saw his face soften.

“Don’t call him that or he’ll be unbearable to live with,” Bobby warned.

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on,” Rory mumbled.

“Horse?” Bobby echoed.

“I’ve got to start supper,” Angela told them and got up from the club chair where she’d been sitting. She smiled at Bobby. “Will you be staying …?”

“He will not,” Rory interrupted.

“I will not,” Bobby said and apparently decided he’d worn out his welcome. “I just wanted to drop by and introduce myself since our lord and master didn’t see fit to call me to let me know he’d hired you.”

“Wasn’t any of your fucking business what I did,” Rory informed him and got up off the sofa and went into his room.

Bobby stared after him then looked to Angela. “Did I interrupt something between you two when I called?” he inquired.

“He was asleep,” she said. “I think he was having a nightmare and it’s stayed with him.”

Bobby walked into the kitchen area as she began taking pots and pans out to begin supper. “He has a lot of nightmares, actually. It’s good he’ll have someone here with him at night. I sometimes think he spends too much time alone.”

“Goodbye, Bob!” Rory called from the bedroom.

Angela shook her head. “Celtic temperament,” she pronounced.

Bobby lowered his voice. “Just keep him from the booze.”

“I read he had a problem,” she said softly.

“He’s an alcoholic, Angie,” Bobby stressed. “One drink and he falls off the wagon for days on end. If you find a bottle, get rid of it and he’ll be right as rain.” He headed for the door. “Call me if you need me,” he yelled to Rory.

When Rory’s assistant was gone, Rory came out of the bedroom and plunked himself down on a bar stool, his arms folding defensively over his chest as though he expected Angela to scold him for his behavior.

“I was a prick, huh?” he finally said after about fifteen minutes of silence in which she went about her work without speaking to him.

“A royal one,” she agreed as she breaded pork chops then dropped them into sizzling oil.

“He fucked up my dream,” he defended himself. “And it was just getting good.” He took a paper napkin from the holder on the counter and began rolling it into a tube. “I was about to get some stuff.”

She glanced at him as she added a tablespoon of cornstarch to a cup of cold water and whisked it. “By stuff, I am beginning to think you mean nookie.”

“Prime nookie,” he agreed. “Harper was about to nail Dalton’s daughter.”

Her brow furrowed. “Who is Harper?”

“The gunslinger from Wayward Wind,” he replied.

“Oh, him. That’s gonna be a good movie. If you don’t contract for it, it would be great for Conor Farrell.”

Rory’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “That fucking Mick couldn’t act his way out of a wet paper bag with a long tear in it!” he declared. He began unfolding the napkin and tearing it into long strips. “I’ll do it.” He sniffed. “I want to do it.”

“You know who would be great as Clarinda?” she asked as she poured the water from a pot of boiled potatoes.

He looked up. “Who?”

“Clarinda, Dalton’s daughter,” she replied. “Kathy Bates would be perfect for that role.”

He shrugged. “I suppose.” He ran his gaze over her as she added a stick of oleo to the pot of potatoes.

Hers was a full figure with lush breasts that pushed at the fabric of the cotton blouse she wore over her black twill pants. It was what she had told him was her preferred uniform unless he wanted the black dress with white apron of most professional housekeepers. Although her hips were a bit wide, her belly rounded and her arms thick, he didn’t find that unattractive. His gaze roamed over her double chin and he thought it adorable. He wanted to tug at it playfully.

“What are you staring at?” she asked as she stirred milk into the melted oleo atop the potatoes.

“How much do you weigh?” he questioned.

Her eyes opened very wide. “I’m not going to tell you that and you’ve no business even asking me!”

“You were a bit heavy when I lifted you up on the horse,” he said. “We’ll need to work on that. I don’t need a hernia.”

Her eyebrows arched up into her bangs. “What?”

“I was just about to rock your world when Thompson called,” he said, scooting off the stool. “Piss poor timing on his part, lemme tell you.”

She stood there with her mouth hanging open as he strolled into the living area and flipped on the plasma TV, stretching out on the sofa and propping his bare feet on the cocktail table. The milk almost boiled over before she remembered it and quickly removed it from the heat. It took her a good minute or two before she had her hammering heart under control well enough to add the cornstarch to the mixture to thicken it.

Supper ready, she came in to ask him where he wanted to eat.

“Right here,” he said.

She asked if he wanted to fix his own plate and he told her to do it for him. He was engrossed in the pay TV series Cottonwood and when she brought his plate of pork chops, creamed potatoes, sugar snap peas and roll to him, he patted the seat beside him.

“You sit here,” he said, staring at the screen.

After bringing him a glass of tea, she brought her own food in and sat down beside him.

“Albert Sweargen is a hoot,” Rory exclaimed. “Ian really brings the character to life, doesn’t he?”

“I’ve always been a fan of Mr. Shane’s,” she replied as she cut her pork chop.

“You’ll meet him when we go to London next month,” Rory told her.

They were silent as the western played out before them. Finally as the credits began rolling, she looked at him.

“You’ve got to stop teasing me so strongly,” she said.

He paused with a chunk of potato at his mouth. “Why?”

“Pretending to be dreaming I was Clarinda ….”

“I wasn’t pretending,” he said. “I really was dreaming I was about to have sex with you and was damned mad I got interrupted.”

She sighed. “You poor, delusional man. You need to get out more.”

He stuck the potato in his mouth. “Do you find it odd that I would dream of making love to you?”

“Perhaps Angela Jolly or …”

“Ah, no,” he said and she remembered he had once done a movie with the beautiful star.

“Well, now I know how bad your nightmares can be,” she said. “No wonder you looked so upset when you woke up. Having me beneath you must have been terrifying.”

“Who said you were beneath me, wench?” he asked. “You was straddling me dangly and riding like the wind with your sweet tits bobbing ….”

“Oh, shut up!” she said and propelled herself off the sofa. She stomped into the kitchen and began cleaning. She didn’t expect him to follow her and he didn’t.

Rory finished eating and brought his empty plate to her. She was at the sink washing the pot the potatoes had cooked in and ignored him when he came to stand beside her, his hip against the counter.

“I really did dream of you,” he said, his feet crossed at the ankles, arms folded over his chest.

“That’s not funny,” she said, scrubbing angrily at the pot.

“It wasn’t meant to be. Why do you find it so hard to believe?” he asked.

She paused with the heels of her hands on the edge of the sink and turned her face toward him. “Look at me,” she said. “Do I look like a woman who would inspire lustful dreams in a man like you?”

His forehead creased. “What’s that supposed to mean? What is a man like me?”

She snorted. “
Community
Magazine’s Most Beautiful ….”

“That’s all a bunch of ripe shite,” he said, giving the word the Gaelic pronunciation with a sneer.

“
Period
Magazine’s ….”

“Another pile of it,” he stated.

“
First
Magazine said ….”

“Fuck me,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“
Applause
,
US
,
TV Listings
…”

“What have you been doing?” he demanded with a laugh. “Stalking me, wench?”

“I dream about you!” she said, staring him in the eye, no doubt shocking him from the look he gave her. “I’ve dreamed about you making love to me for years. I’ve seen all your movies and have copies of nearly all of them. I have all your records and I have a scrapbook of your pictures and….”

He had her in his arms before she could finish and his tongue was parting her lips, slipping inside even as her soapy hands pushed ineffectively at his muscular biceps. She strained to get free of him, but he would not allow it. He turned so she was against the counter and he was leaning into her, pressing his body against hers, one hand at the back of her head to hold her mouth still for his taking, his arm around her back. He wedged one leg between hers, the hardness of him forming along her belly.

Angela’s head was spinning and her body was on fire with a need that scared her. She pushed against him, but he wouldn’t release her and the longer his potent kiss continued, the more her knees weakened and her belly clenched. Her fists were doubled against his shoulders but there was no give, no lessening of his hold. If anything, his embrace tightened around her and the bulge between his legs stabbed into her. With one last, frantic shove, she managed to break free of him, stumbling sideways to get away from him, a trembling hand to her lips, her face as white as a sheet.

“What the hell were you doing?” she questioned, tears clouding her vision.

Rory shook his head as though to clear it of whatever strange emotion had reached out to ensnare him. He was as shocked at his actions as she appeared to be and just stood there looking at her, breathing heavily, trying desperately to get his desire under control. He couldn’t move as she fled, running to her room and shutting the door loudly, the sound of her lock clicking making him flinch.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he swore, unable to do anything but stare at her door, his blood pounding in his ears.

Angela was shaking so badly all she could do was slump down on her bed and tremble. Her lips were swollen from his passionate kiss and her body alive with a desire so rampant she knew what she’d have to do in the shower before she could ever hope to sleep that night. That he had toyed with her, she could not forgive and the tears suddenly became a torrent of sobs that shook her to her core and she fell to the mattress, keening in her misery.

The gentle knock at her door was like a hot blade to her heart and his low voice as he begged her to open the portal hurt even more.

“Angela, please,” he said, his brogue even more pronounced as he spoke softly. “Open the door and let me apologize.”

“Go away!” she threw at him.

Rory ran the palm of his hand over the surface of the door. “Please, Angie. I don’t know what the hell came over me. I’m sorry.”

She’d known it was too good to be true but her admiration for his talent, her awe of his stunning male beauty, had blinded her. Men like him made fun of women like her, yet she had fallen into his trap so easily. She had thought they could be friends--not just employer and employee. She should have known better and it had not only cost her her pride but any chance of having the exciting life she’d pictured at the side of a man like Rory Keith.