Temptation Ridge
Page 34

“This tub isn’t quite big enough,” he complained, sitting to face her, the faucet jabbing him in the back. He pushed his long legs past her hips, lifted her legs to drape them over his thighs and pulled her toward him, into his arms.
“You’re acting crazy,” she said, laughing.
“I’m impatient,” he said, his lips on her neck. “I can hardly get through the day, waiting for you.”
“I’m not quite freshened up yet,” she said.
“I’ll help with that,” he said, picking up the soap. He ran the soap smoothly over her shoulders, down her back, over her breasts, under her arms, bringing low, delighted hums from her when he lathered her up. Then he took the face cloth and gently rinsed her. “I want to tell you something.”
“Another one of those talks? More conditions?”
“No. I visited a clinic in Eureka. Right after our first night together. I had a screening for STDs. To be sure, though I was already pretty sure. I wanted you to know that despite my shady past, I’m okay. You’re not in any danger that I’ll pass anything to you.”
“Aw,” she said, pulling him closer, chest to chest. “That was thoughtful.”
“No one’s ever been inside you before me,” he said. “I want to keep you completely safe.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I got the results just in time. I don’t have a condom in this tub,” he said. “But there’s that other matter…”
“I’m on the pill. I took care of that.”
“You didn’t tell me,” he said.
“Sorry. I didn’t think about your concerns—I was handling mine.”
“Good news to me,” he said. Then, after leaning in for a deep kiss, he said, “I meant to tell you another thing—your uncle visited me.”
“He did? He shouldn’t have done that. What did he say?”
“That he knew where you’ve been every night. And that he didn’t much like the fact that you weren’t able to ride.”
“Oh God,” she moaned.
“It was by far one of the worst moments of my life.”
“I’m sorry, Luke. I’ll talk to him—”
“No, don’t. We worked it out.”
“How?”
“Well,” he said, pulling her close him and gently rocking her against him. “I refused to explain, he threatened me with dire consequences if I abused you or treated you cruelly, I tried to reassure him that I can be civilized if I concentrate, and in the end, we actually shook hands.”
“God,” she said. “Luke, Uncle Walt and I already had our standoff about this. He told me to be careful of you and I told him he wasn’t going to bully me out of whatever relationship I chose. He promised to behave himself.”
“You stood up to him?” Luke asked, smiling. “You defended me?”
“Does that surprise you? That I can stand up for myself? Really, does everyone think I’m a spineless little twit?”
“Nah, you’re just too sweet. And Walt wanted to be sure you’re safe with me.”
“Did you tell him the truth? That I’m not? That you’re dangerous and wicked and a real shark with women?” she asked playfully, tugging at his lower lip with her teeth.
“No one has to know, do they?” he asked her. “That I was the first one to—”
She leaned back, looking at him. “Why? Do you want it to be a secret?”
“I’d like it if that belonged to us. You and me. Private. Personal. It’s so damn special.” He grinned. “I’ve never had an experience like this in my life,” he said. “And I’ve had a ton of experience.”
“And I’ve never had any,” she said.
“But I’ve never been with anyone like you,” he told her. “You’re amazing. You drive me crazy. You’ve got me playing house, for Christ’s sake. I don’t do things like this.”
“See? I tried to warn you. Maybe I should have given you the talk.”
“Yeah, I never saw that coming,” he said. “Your uncle also wanted to know what plans I had with you. I told him that was for me to talk with you about.”
“Luke, you shouldn’t lie…”
“I didn’t. Right now I plan to make love to you till you beg me to stop.”
“Aw. Well, that’s today. You’ll probably be tired of me in two weeks. Remember, you don’t stay involved for long.”
He ran a hand down her chest, over a breast, down to place a palm over her soft mound. “How are you down here?”
“Fine. Good.”
“Not sore? We getting you healed up?”
“You’ve been very considerate. I didn’t know I could function on so little sleep, but I happen to like it.” She laughed. “More than I thought I would. I never thought I’d be back every day. I guess I’m being a real pig about it.”
“Go ahead. Be a pig about it. I can take it.” He rubbed her gently. “You’re opening up. Blossoming.”
“Mmm.”
He lifted her and brought her neatly onto his lap, slipping inside without difficulty. “God,” he whispered. “Sweet heaven.” Then with his mouth drawing on her nipple, his finger massaging her and his hips gently pumping, he loved her deeply and smoothly. She held his head against her breast and rocked with him, making all the wonderful little noises he’d grown to love. In a few short and breathless minutes, she had risen to that pinnacle of pleasure that caused her insides to tighten and pulse. She pulled his head harder against her and he pushed more deeply inside, letting himself go in a blast of heat that blinded him for a moment. He clung to her, panting. Recovering. Wanting the moment never to end.
And then he heard her giggle. “Someone’s going to have to wipe up the floor…”
“Hmm.”
“Luke Riordan, you’re in a bubble bath.”
“Yeah,” he said, breathless.
“What would people think? Big, tough, womanizing Black Hawk pilot, in a bubble bath.”
“You better not tell or you’ll be punished,” he said, still catching his breath.
She giggled again. “That might be interesting. I never know what you’ll come up with next.”
Late in the night, long after dinner and some time in front of the fire, Luke was lying in bed, his head propped on a hand, staring down at the sleeping form of Shelby. She was curled on her side, her beautiful, smooth back and perfect bottom against him, and he could see her profile. She slept like a baby, content, peaceful and drunk on sex.
He had known from the moment he saw her that she was dangerous, but he’d had no idea how lethal. She had pulled feelings to the surface that he thought he’d been in control of and now it was here—he felt it all and he was completely lost. Terrified. He adored her. He couldn’t stand the thought of this ending.
He had felt something almost this deep and powerful once before, when he was much younger. He had been twenty-four when he found the beautiful, raven-haired Felicia. In her arms, in her body, he had come to life. He’d never fallen so hard before, and certainly not since. He had been surprised by the passion and commitment he felt, but he let it sweep him away. He loved her hard for a year, and then he had to leave on a mission. He went to Somalia. When the conflict was at its worst, it was her face in his mind that helped him get through, gave him purpose, something strong and powerful to fight for. He had pledged his life to her; he was going to love her till the day he died.
When he got home he found out it had all been a lie; she had never been his. She’d been unfaithful since before he left; she cut him loose the first day he was back. It had been an ugly, bitter parting that left everyone scarred—mostly him.
To say his heart was ripped apart didn’t touch it. For a couple of years at least the pain was so bad he thought it might kill him. When the pain stopped, he was empty inside. He made a firm resolution: that would never happen to him again. His involvement with women was purely recreational from that point on. He wasn’t about to be vulnerable to a woman, open himself to that kind of pain.
Yet beside him, all gentle and sweet, was an incredible woman. He wanted to pull her into his arms, tell her how much he loved her, how far he’d go to make her happy, beg her to either change her plans or include him.
But he wouldn’t. It was too risky. Another deal like the last one would kill him. He wouldn’t give his heart.
The problem was, without meaning to, without wanting to, he had.
Walt Booth had watched the evolution of Muriel’s renovation for almost six months; he’d helped with some of it, but she was extremely protective of her work and wanted to be able to take credit for doing it herself. As he witnessed, he learned a few things. One—gutting and remodeling, upgrading, modernizing, might be expensive, but it was easy. And such houses, like his, were a dime a dozen. All you needed was money and a builder. What Muriel was doing—restoring it to its former pristine beauty—was an art. Well—it was largely restored. She had new appliances and wasn’t about to be sitting on spindly settees or sleeping on a hundred-year-old mattress. She couldn’t wait to get her flat-screen TV, stereo and DVD equipment, all of which would be kept in antique wardrobes.
It was mid-November when she called him and said, “What are you doing?”
“I’m babysitting while Vanni runs into town. She’ll be back soon. Why?”
“I want you to come over,” Muriel said. “As soon as you can.”
She never had to ask him twice. When he pulled up, she was all bundled up and standing on the porch of the big house, waiting. Her hands were plunged into her pockets, she was stamping her booted feet and her breath was swirling in steam around her.
He got out of the Tahoe. “What’s the matter?” he asked, walking toward her.
Her face lit up in that brilliant smile of hers. “Matter? God, nothing! Walt—it’s done. Done.”
Muriel had the upstairs finished to her satisfaction at least a couple of months ago, but she’d never moved out of the refurbished bunkhouse; she hadn’t wanted to move that furniture out and live in a mostly empty house when she was perfectly comfortable where she was. She just kept working away.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready,” he said.
She swung open the front door and he was standing right in a living room—no fancy foyers in old farmhouses. The dark wood floor gleamed; the baseboards and crown molding were the same dark, varnished color. She’d needed his help to lift the heavy sections of crown molding, but she’d fit it herself, using her very own circular saw. The walls, textured by her own hand, were painted green. The banister had been stained and varnished to match the walnut trim and molding, and the wall of the open staircase was a dark beige, the ceilings a lighter beige. Straight ahead, the same color scheme as the living room, the dining room was framed by a walnut arch. She must have recently installed the sheer, lacy curtains that were pulled back from the windows. The hearth was framed in the original, thick dark wood mantel.
The kitchen was bright yellow, some of it papered in a design of old-fashioned yellow roses. The cupboards and counters were the originals, sanded and stained, but she’d pulled the cupboard doors apart and installed dark glass panels to replace the old, buckling wood. The sink and appliances were new white, but she kept the sink pump handle right where it was. She’d even sanded and stained the windowsills and frames. And the light fixtures that hung over the kitchen, dining room and breakfast nook were rewired antiques. There was a door to a pantry and a door to the cellar.
“You are amazing,” he said.
The upstairs was equally impressive—the shining hallway floors, three bedrooms all painted different colors, a bath much too small and compact for a movie star down the hall from the largest bedroom. No master baths or walk-in closets here. But every detail of the original house was polished, varnished, painted, papered. It was beautiful. It looked like a museum piece.