Addicted to Nick (4 page)

“You said Joe gave you a job at a time when you really needed it. You were broke?”

“In more ways than you can imagine.”

Silently Nick willed her to go on, to tell him something of the past that shadowed her voice.

“I won't bore you with the long story. Suffice it to say my esteem had taken a pounding and this job was exactly what I needed. I'm not talking about finding employment or the money—it was the responsibility and the trust. It was his belief in me.”

She turned abruptly and stomped back to the horse, leaving Nick standing there weighed down by the intensity of her words and his own memories. He had experienced that same aching need. Hell, he'd spent the first eight years of his life with no one caring for him, let alone believing in him, so it had taken him a long time to recognize those gifts as the most precious Joe had given him when he took him into his family and called him his second son.

“Yeah,” he muttered hoarsely to himself. “I wish he'd been my father, too.”

 

He found her back at work, nailing the shoe with businesslike efficiency, as if she had already shed the emotion that still knotted Nick's gut. That irritated him almost as much as how she had walked away. He watched her swat
a fly from the horse's belly, and with half an eye noticed the animal had worked its lead undone. It didn't seem to be going anywhere—in fact, it looked like it had fallen asleep. What was it with her animals and sleep?

“Why don't you get a farrier to do that?” he asked.

“Pay someone to do something I can do? I don't think so.”

“Why do something so tough and painstaking when you can pay someone to do it?” he countered.

She looked up, her eyes sharp with disdain. “That's not my way of doing things.”

Trying to prove her toughness, Nick guessed. Not because she was young and inexperienced, but because she was female. There was a story here, a history he suddenly needed to know. “What
is
your way, Tamara?”

No answer. Okay. He would try a different tack.

“How did you learn to farrier?”

“My father taught me.”

“Your father's a horseman?”

“He was.”

That was it. No further explanation, and, dammit, her reticence intrigued him as much as it irritated him. “So you followed the family tradition into horse training?”

In one smooth movement she turned, drew the horse's leg forward and rested the hoof on her thigh. “I chose this profession because I love it. Tradition had nothing to do with it.”

Nick inspected her closely drawn brows, the flare of her nostrils, her tense grip on the hammer. “For someone who loves her job, you don't look like you're having much fun.”

Eyes almost crossed with consternation, she glared up at him, but before she could respond the horse swung its head and nipped her neatly on the backside. She yelped and leaped sideways, and when Nick grabbed her shoulders to pull her aside and then to steady her, he noticed
the tears flooding her eyes. He also noticed that she wasn't rubbing her behind but was sucking her thumb.

“Hey, what's the matter?”

She slid the thumb from her mouth, and Nick felt the most unexpected rush of heat. Unexpected and unwarranted, given the circumstances. It was those lips, that damn pout.

“Here, let me see.” Gently he took her hand and inspected the blood oozing from the base of her thumb. The sharp end of an unclinched nail had obviously dug in. “Do you have first-aid supplies?”

“It's only a scratch.”

He silenced her with a look. “Sit down and don't move.”

His authority didn't come from a raised voice but a certain don't-argue timbre. It had worked on Ug the previous night, and it worked on T.C. now. She sat on the drum. She didn't move. And when she looked up to find him standing, feet spread, hands on hips, glaring down at her, she told him where to find the first-aid kit.

“It's in the lunchroom—in the cupboard next to the fridge.” She indicated the general direction with her good hand. He nodded grimly, pivoted, then stopped short when confronted by the ugly end of Monte. T.C. watched in amazement as he smacked the gelding's rump to turn him around, gathered up the lead and retethered it to the hitching rail before striding off.

Like he did it every day.

She didn't want to admire the man's competence—she had spent the last half hour deliberately not admiring anything about him—so she turned her attention to her thumb. Gingerly she wiggled it back and forth, reminding herself that the pain was all
his
fault.

If he hadn't disturbed her sleep, she wouldn't be so fuzzy-headed. If he hadn't forced her to touch him, her senses wouldn't be chock-full of memories of his hands
on her. If he hadn't distracted her with his questions, she would have noticed Monte was loose.

So let him play Mr. Competence if he wanted. Maybe then he would go off and do something else—like leave her in peace.

Unfortunately his idea of playing Mr. Competence involved hunkering down in front of her and steadying himself with a hand on each of her knees. She could feel every degree of his body heat radiating through his long fingers, through her jeans and her skin, all the way into her flesh. For a man who moved with such lithe grace, he seemed to take an inordinate length of time to regain his balance and remove his hands.

Not that T.C. gained much respite. She had scarcely recovered her equilibrium before he picked up her hand, placed it palm-up in one of his and bent over to inspect her injury.

She stared at her hand lying in his. How small and soft it looked compared with his—exactly as he had described it in the early hours of the morning. She disliked that thought as much as she disliked the hitch in her breath as his thumb stroked across the center of her palm, tracing her lifeline. Or was that her heart line?

She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath, but instead of badly needed oxygen, her lungs filled with his soft musky scent. Dimly she thought about leaning forward and burying her nose in his neck…but then something akin to liquid fire hit her thumb, and she rose clean off the drum.

Nick steadied her with a hand on her elbow. “Sting a little?” he asked as he reapplied the antiseptic-soaked swab.

“Try a lot,” she muttered shakily.

He leaned closer, so close that when he looked up, she could make out tiny flecks of gold in the blue of his irises. Then he smiled that brilliant world-tilting smile, and she couldn't help but return it.

“Good girl,” he murmured, and for some dumb reason the admiration intermingled with concern in his eyes brought a thick lump to her throat. Tears welled in her eyes. To her chagrin, one spilled over and rolled down her cheek. She scrubbed at it with the back of her free hand, bit her lip, chanced a glance from beneath her lashes.

The hand on her elbow tightened for a second; then he bent over the first-aid kit at his feet. “We need to get this covered up.”

He took longer than necessary to fix a plaster to her wound, as if he knew she needed time to collect herself and that she would find her tears humiliating. The thought of such insightfulness threatened her composure all over again. She shut her eyes and tried to concentrate on the pain—except there didn't seem to be much of that anymore.

“All right now?” His thumb gently stroked the inside of her wrist.

T.C. nodded, although she wasn't all right. For a start, there was that thumb stroking fire across her oversensitive skin. She knew his intent was solicitous rather than sensuous, but her senses weren't listening to reason. He moved, or she moved, or maybe the air around them moved, for she caught another heady whiff of his scent.

Burying her nose in his neck suddenly seemed like the only thing to do. With eyes still closed, she must have actually leaned in his direction, because the drum tipped forward and she would have toppled right into his lap but for a last second reflex that saw both her hands curl around his upper arms, her injury forgotten.

“Hey, no need to throw yourself at me.”

His quip should have defused the awkwardness. T.C. did try to smile back, but her lips wouldn't cooperate. The sensation of taut muscles beneath her hands had turned her mouth desert-dry. She tried another smile, considered removing her hands, but couldn't manage either simple task.

And when she moistened her lips, his gaze followed the movement. His smile faded. There was a moment of intense gravity as they studied each other, and T.C. felt as if she was suspended in time and motion. As if her senses were too packed full of everything-Nick to allow anything else in.

Nearby a horse snorted, breaking the spell, and one corner of Nick's mouth kicked up. She could have escaped then, if she had wanted to. She didn't. She sat still, completely enmeshed in the slow-motion sequence. His hand reached toward her. His fingers combed a slow path through her hair, to her nape. He drew her face to his, gradually and surely, until their lips finally met.

His were warm, their touch soft and restrained, as if he were savoring that first contact as much as she. It was no more than lips meeting, touching, retreating, returning, yet it was the most exquisitely sensual indulgence of her life.

She whimpered low in her throat. His hand tightened on her neck, drew her mouth closer, while he slowly—oh so slowly—tasted his way around her lips, enticing them open, inviting her response, causing a cascade of delight to ripple through her body. He was leisurely, almost lazy, but he was very, very thorough. Around the edges of her hearing something jangled vaguely, but she shut it out, focusing all her senses on the complexities of a kiss she had never known existed.

Until he pulled away from her clinging lips.

Then she recognized the metallic strike of shod hooves on concrete, heard a low tuneless whistle, the clink of a steel bit. Jason returning from the track.

L
ike a teenager caught necking, T.C. jumped to her feet, stumbling over her boots—or Nick's—in her clumsy haste.

“Jason's back,” she said, only because she had to say something, to drop some words into the ever-deepening pool of silence.

“I did gather that.”

“Yes, well, I should go help him.”

“I'm sure he can manage,” Nick said reasonably.

“Manage what?” Jason asked as he came into view. He pulled up short and frowned at T.C. “Thought you were going into town to watch Dave do that bone-chip op?”

Thank you, Jase!
T.C. checked her watch and tossed an apologetic smile in Nick's general direction. “I lost all track of time. If I don't get moving, I'll be late.”

“I need to pick up a few things in town. How about I drive and we can talk on the way?”

T.C. shook her head vehemently. “No. That's absolutely not necessary.” She needed to get away from him,
to cool the suffocating heat from her blood, to talk some common sense into her muddled mind. She had no right to be kissing Nick. Those kinds of luxuries belonged in fantasies, not in real life. “I could be hours at the vet's, and then I have some shopping to do. I'm sure you have other plans for the afternoon.”

His lips set in a stubborn line, and she could imagine him picking her up and tossing her bodily into the passenger seat. A tempting frisson of anticipation scurried up her spine, and she retreated quickly, holding up a hand, as if that might keep it at bay.

“Look, I'm happy to shop for you. I know there's nothing in the house unless you brought supplies with you, and I can hardly imagine you packing bread and milk and tea bags.” She was prattling about as quickly as she was back-pedaling. She took a deep breath and made herself stop. “I'm going to shower and change. Just write a list and put it in the Courier out front.”

“You'll be gone all afternoon?”

“Unless Dave is called away on an emergency and has to reschedule the operation.”

He seemed to give that considerable thought, and she wished for an insight into whatever was ticking over in his mind. Especially when she glimpsed a hint of wickedness around the edges of his quick smile. “And picking up a few things for me won't be any trouble?”

“None at all.”

Despite an unsettling sense of
what-have-I-done?
she smiled brightly, turned and made it halfway down the breezeway before he called out to her.

“Tamara.”

T.C. closed her eyes, which was a big mistake. Without vision, the impact of his voice drawling her name intensified about a thousand times as it curled around her senses. Slowly she turned to face him.

“About our unfinished business…”

Her gaze was drawn to the source of those softly spoken words, to the mouth that had moved with such sure sensuality over hers. Her lips tingled just thinking about it. Was that the business he meant? She shook her head slightly, dismissing the notion, but only until Nick spoke again.

“We
will
get back to it,” he assured her. “Later.”

 

Nick had just finished washing an afternoon's hard labor from his body when he heard the rattle of a vehicle crossing the grid into the house-yard. A silver flash sped past the window, and his pulse did a surprising little snap to attention.

Ignoring his body's response, he leaned in close to the shower-fogged mirror, rasped a hand over his six-o'clock shadow and reached for his razor as the front door slammed. The noise reverberated through every timber beam in the low sprawling house, setting the long bank of picture windows rattling.

Nick winced.

She sounded about as mad as he figured she should be, considering the shopping list he'd left on her dash. Possibly over the top—no,
definitely
over the top—but unavoidable. It had ensured that she would be gone long enough even if the veterinary operation didn't go ahead. Long enough for him to get his plans back in order.

As he carefully maneuvered his razor through the dip in his chin, he wondered how long her snit would last and how long it would take him to cajole her out of it. The notion set up a powerful thrum of anticipation. She could play tough and indifferent all she liked, but that kiss had given her away. He hitched a towel around his hips and headed into his bedroom to dress, his smile ripe with expectation.

 

The sharp tap of her boot heels on the slate floor must have masked his arrival, so Nick leaned back against a
kitchen bench and watched her crisscross the room, tossing packages into the fridge, then the pantry, muttering to herself most of the while. She turned and took several more strides before spotting him. Her gaze flicked from his face to his fingers, which were still busy fastening shirt buttons. Her stride faltered.

“Oh. You
are
here.”

“Sorry I couldn't help you in with this stuff.” He gestured at the grocery bags stacked on the island. “You caught me just out of the shower, and I figured you'd prefer if I put some clothes on. Right?”

Her gaze followed his hands as he tucked his shirt into his jeans. “Yes…um…right.” Then, with a mental snap to attention that was almost audible, she swung back to the bench and buried her head in a grocery bag. “You could help me put this away instead of taking up space.”

“I could. But then I wouldn't have the pleasure of watching you.”

She rolled her eyes, clamped her teeth shut and continued stashing groceries.

It hadn't been a line—well, not entirely. The simmering temper suited her almost as well as the sweet-fitting jeans. There wasn't a lot to her top, so when she delved into the next bag it rode up her back to bare an enticing sliver of skin. He imagined sliding his hands over the silky warmth of her skin and laying his lips against her smooth golden nape.

As if his thoughts had been transmitted telepathically, she jumped sideways to put more space between them…and bumped her hipbone against a doorknob.

His attention was diverted by the hand rubbing her hipbone. It was the hand she'd injured earlier. “How is your thumb?”

“I'll live,” she replied, with an abrupt little shrug.

“Did you see a doctor?”

“It's a scratch, for goodness' sake. Get over it.” She tugged a tattered piece of paper from her pocket. Nick recognized his shopping list. “I managed to find most of this stuff,
eventually,
but I had no idea what this—” she stabbed a finger at his scrawled handwriting “—this hieroglyphic was supposed to be. Some sort of schnapps.” She delved into the last bag and slapped a bottle down on the counter. “This is the best I could do.”

“Is it butterscotch?”

“Does it matter?” she spluttered, eyes wide and incredulous.

Nick rubbed his chin as if giving the matter deep thought. Of course it didn't matter. He'd added it to the list while still savoring the impact of that rich, sweet, heady kiss—a kiss with a kick at the end that had left him breathless. Exactly like butterscotch schnapps.

“Oh, for goodness' sake! When I offered to shop for you I was thinking basics, not exotic liqueurs and fresh pasta and bloody Atlantic salmon. Riddells Crossing doesn't exactly cater to gourmet tastes.” She snapped the last bag shut, crumpled it into a tight ball and strode over to the bin.

He could actually feel the hot vibes of her anger blazing across the space between them, but he couldn't help stoking the fire. “In my experience, shopping
improves
a woman's temperament,” he said, tongue firmly in cheek. “Makes her amenable.”

She spun around, eyes spitting green fire. “Amenable to do what? Cook for you?”

“Some do,” he drawled. “Others just skip that step and head straight for the dessert tray.”

“I'm sure
they
do. Me, I've never had much of a sweet tooth.”

Nick laughed out loud. She was about as thorny as a full-grown prickly pear, yet that didn't seem to matter. He
couldn't remember the last time he had felt so thoroughly entertained.

“I'm all done here, so I'll leave you to it,” she said.

With a little jolt of alarm, Nick straightened off the bench. She couldn't be leaving—not without giving him a chance at some heavy-duty cajoling.

“But I haven't thanked you for doing the shopping.” He moved closer, trapping her in the right angle where two benches met. He leaned nearer still, until he could reach around her to snag a bottle of wine from the bench top.

“Oh,” she said, as if she had expected something else from his proximity. She moistened her parted lips. “I really have to go. My own groceries are in the car. They'll be getting hot.”

“Really? I didn't think it was that hot. Are you hot, Tamara?”

She shook her head.

Liar.

The heat softened the brilliance of her eyes and flushed her cheeks and throat. Nick focused on the rapid pulse beating in the hollow of her throat, and the need to touch his lips to that spot, to taste her heat, gripped him suddenly and intensely.

Cool it,
he told himself. Despite the heat sizzling between them, instinct told him she wasn't ready for hot and heavy. With a wry half smile, he brushed the backs of his fingers across her throat. She swallowed convulsively and almost climbed backward onto the bench.

“Please, don't touch me,” she breathed, eyes wide and panicky.

“You didn't mind earlier, down at the stables.”

“That was a mistake. I was upset with the accident and—” she took a deep breath that trembled “—it won't happen again.”

“Now that would be a pity.”

“Oh, puh-lease! There's no need to patronize me.”

“I'm not. I enjoyed kissing you. I absolutely want to kiss you again.” He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “The enjoyment seemed mutual.”

She looked away. “As far as kisses go, it was okay, but I'm not interested in taking this any further.”

For a second Nick thought about pushing it, about proving that he kissed—
they
kissed—better than okay. Slowly he lifted a hand toward her face, but her swift intake of breath, the wide frantic eyes, made him pause. She was scared. Scared of letting him close? Scared of her own response? Scared of the powerful chemistry between them?

It didn't matter which.

He wanted her leaning into him, meeting him halfway, as she'd done at the stables. He didn't care to analyze why, so he simply moved away.

Even after his retreat, T.C.'s heart continued to hammer against her rib cage. Feeling weak and hot and breathless, she lifted an absent hand to her throat, to where she swore the brush of his hand had blistered a trail right through her skin. She gazed longingly at the door. If only her weak, trembling legs could carry her there. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and decided to give them another minute before trying them out.

“I think it's time we had that talk, Tamara.” With an expert twist of his wrist, he decorked the wine, then laid the corkscrew on the bench.

T.C. shifted her weight again. Left foot, right foot. Right foot, left foot. Her strength seemed to be returning. She should leave.

Except her gaze was drawn to Nick as he poured two measures of Shiraz. He picked one up, twirling the glass in his long fingers so the liquid shimmered ruby-red in the light. He lifted it to his lips, took more than a sip, and a shiver of longing vibrated through her body.

God help her, she wanted to taste that wine on his lips. On his tongue.

Her gaze darted to the door. She had to leave before she did something stupid, like drinking the wine he'd obviously poured for her. With alcohol dulling her defenses it would be too easy to let him touch her again, to kiss her again, to turn her to mush with less than a casual fingertip. By purring her name, damn his too sexy, overconfident hide.

The sudden flash of temper fortified her, and her legs held her weight when she stood up straight. “I'm going now.”

“You don't want to discuss this partnership problem?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then how about you take the wine into the front room,” he suggested smoothly, “while I throw a couple of steaks on the grill?”

“No.” She shook her head emphatically. No way could she eat with him, drink with him, and concentrate on business. “I can't stay.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Actually I'm going out.” Dave
had
asked her to stay for dinner. She had declined, but it seemed like the perfect time to change her mind. She cleared her throat. “I have a dinner date.”

His glass paused midway to his mouth. “With your vet friend?”

“How did you know that?”

“Lucky guess.”

T.C. considered his bland expression, the small movement of his hand that caused the wine to circle his glass in measured motion, and she knew luck had nothing to do with that guess. Indignation washed through her, hot and fierce. “Do I take it you spent the afternoon grilling Jason?”

“We talked some.”

“And Dave's name just happened to crop up?”

“We were discussing your nuisance calls,” he said evenly. “I asked Jason about ex-boyfriends, and the vet's name came up.”

“Dave is not an ex-boyfriend.”

“Do you mean not an ex, or not a boyfriend?”

T.C. ignored that. “You had no right to quiz Jase about my friends,” she said stiffly, although she could have used the singular form, such was the sad state of her social life. “There is no logical reason for the calls. Like I said before, it's most likely kids mucking about.”

“If that's the case, they will stop. I ordered a silent number, and it's already in place.” He pulled a piece of note paper from his pocket. “Don't give it out to anyone you wouldn't trust with your life. Okay?”