Bravo Unwrapped (12 page)

Good question. “I'll check.”

B.J. went back through the dining room to the drawing room and the big window there. A glance through the glass showed her that the SUV still waited where they'd left it, at the curb beyond the white picket fence.

She returned to the kitchen. “The SUV's still out there on the street.”

Chastity dropped pastel-colored bake-cup papers into a muffin tin. “You've looked around the house?”

“Well, upstairs. Downstairs. Yeah. I'd say I've looked around the house.”

“Then he must be over town somewhere.”

“Like where?”

Chastity cast her an indulgent glance. “Over at Bowie's? With Brand or Brett? On the bench by the grocery store, chewing the fat with Old Tony? Down by the river, skipping rocks? Your guess is as good as mine.”

“You don't think he…fell down a ravine or something, do you?”

Chastity stopped fiddling with the muffin papers. She wiped her hands on her apron, turned and braced a hip against the side of the counter. “You're worried about him.”

Denials rose to her lips. She swallowed and confessed the hideous truth. “Well, yeah. I guess…yeah, I am.”

“That's nice to know.”

“It is?”

Chastity folded her arms across her middle. “You've seemed a little bit…what? Reluctant with him…” She frowned. “Yes. Reluctant and even hostile. At times I've gotten the feeling you don't even want to be here.”

What to say to that? Strangely, B.J. felt the urge to confide in Chastity.

What was
that
about? Twice in one day she'd felt what could only be called
close
to another woman. Oh, really. Once was more than enough. “It's…kind of complicated, between Buck and me.”

“But you do care for him?”

“I…”

Chastity smoothed her apron some more. “Forgive me for sticking my nose in. I couldn't help asking.”

“It's okay. Honestly. I just don't want to go into it all right this minute.”

Chastity turned back to her muffins. “I understand. It's your business, yours and Buck's.”

“Thanks,” B.J. said, not knowing what else to say.

“Don't worry about him.” Buck's mother took two soup spoons from a drawer. “He's just wandered off by himself for a bit. He used to take off all the time as a boy.” She began scooping up thick globs of batter with one spoon, using the second to guide the batter into the baking cups. “When he wasn't making trouble, he'd hike into the woods or head down to the river. Sometimes he'd take a book to read, sometimes not.” She paused, looked toward the window over the sink and the mountains beyond. “He was…half hellraiser, half dreamer, as a boy. I worried myself sick when he was raising hell. But when he wandered off to do his dreaming? Uh-uh. I knew that was good for him.” She chuckled to herself. “When he got a little older, he used to steal beer from my refrigerator to take with him when he disappeared.”

“He told me that.” B.J. felt absurdly proud. It seemed a detail he wouldn't have told just anyone.

“I'd ground him when he got home,” Chastity said. “I can't say the grounding did all that much good….” She stuck her spoons in the batter bowl. “The main thing is, he always came home safe.” She turned and moved close enough to pat B.J. on the arm. “He'll be back soon enough, just you wait and see.”

 

Waiting. One of B.J.'s least favorite activities.

She went for a walk, crossing the bridge and strolling up and down Main Street, waving at people when they waved at her—which was often.

Already, the townsfolk knew her by name. It was “Hi, B.J. How's it going?” all up and down Main. When she got to the grocery store, Old Tony tried to wave her over.

He patted the space beside him on the bench. “What're you up to, young lady?”

She didn't linger. She was a little irked with Old Tony, frankly, and had been ever since that remark Glory had made about how her great-grandfather thought Glory was a slut.

Was B.J. judging the old guy too harshly?

Probably.

But now she had an actual woman friend, B.J. had her loyalties to consider.

She waved back at Old Tony and called, “I'm taking a walk.”

“Am I still gonna be in
Alpha?
”

“It's very possible. I will let you know.” She waved again and went on her way, past the Pizza Parlor, across that other bridge, around by the county courthouse, and back the way she'd come.

The whole time, a part of her kept anticipating the moment when she'd run into Buck. Didn't happen. And when she returned to the Sierra Star, he was still gone.

What next?

She literally had nothing to do. In New York, that never happened.

Read, maybe? She chose a mystery from the bookshelves in the drawing room.

Upstairs, she kicked off her boots, stretched out on the bed, settled an afghan over her legs and tried to get into her book—with minimal success. She kept thinking of Buck, worrying about him a little, even
though Chastity had assured her there was no need. She worried anyway, and wondered where he could have gone and why he hadn't bothered to tell her he'd decided to take off.

At some point, she must have dropped into a doze. She came sharply awake.

What was that?

“Huh?” Frowning at the ceiling, she put it together. Someone was tapping on the balcony door. She bolted to a sitting position, glanced over and…

Surprise, surprise. Buck. Big as life and home safe, just as Chastity had predicted.

All her vague, unformed fears for him evaporated, leaving sheer irritation. He signaled for her to open the door.

She threw off the afghan, jumped off the bed and yanked back the door. “Where the hell have you been?”

He looked her up and down, slowly. She felt his gaze burn a sizzling path all along her body. “Hiking in the woods. And down by the river. Thinking.”

“Thinking,” she echoed in utter disgust.

“That's right. I want to talk to you. Can I come in?”

Huffing, she stepped aside. He came into the room. She shut the door behind him and then turned to confront him. “All right. You're in. Start talking.”

Of course, he said nothing. And he stood much too close, smelling of that tempting aftershave of his, and of fresh air and clean sweat. His hair was kind of wind-chopped, his cheeks ruddy.

Her stomach tightened—and not with morning sickness. Uh-uh. This was a low-down kind of tightening, followed instantly by a warming, loosening sensation—no, more than warming.

This was heat, plain and simple. She wanted to grab
him, close and hard, just plaster herself all along the front of his big, strong body, to hold him tight and lift her mouth up for his kiss.

Bad idea. She shook herself—and planted her stocking feet wider apart, assuming an offensive stance. “You know, if you want to take off, you could just tell me you're going. Have a tiny little smidgen of consideration, maybe. Or is that too much to ask?”

His eyes were so soft. His mouth looked way too kissable. He said, ruefully, “B.J.” She whirled away from him with a cry and stared blindly out at the mountains, at the frothing ribbon of river gleaming in the thin midday sun. He said her name again, “B.J.”

She waved a hand sharply back over her shoulder, a signal that she didn't care how many times he said her name, she was not facing him—and not listening to him. Then she wrapped both arms good and tight around her. “Oh, I know.” She pushed the words out through clenched teeth. “I know. I'm spending two weeks at your beck and call. That's our deal, a deal I agreed to.” She found she was shivering, though she wasn't really cold. “But still, there's no reason you can't just tell me when you decide to get the hell out. There's no reason you can't just say you're going off by yourself and I'm on my own for a while.

“But no. Instead, you…vanish. Poof. Just like that, leaving me to wonder what's going on, to, um, worry if you're all right, if you're…hurt or something—”

“B.J.” He said it so gently that time. And he took her elbow. She pressed her arms all the tighter against herself, even tried to jerk away. But he didn't let go. And after a moment or two, she accepted the scary truth that she didn't
want
him to let go.

With some reluctance, she allowed him to guide
her around to him. He took her other arm, too. She couldn't bring herself to look at him. She stared down at his boots and her own stocking feet. “What? Just…what?”

“Come on. Forget my boots. Look up at me…”

Unwillingly, she lifted her head. Damn those eyes of his. They were softer than ever. “Okay. I'm looking up. What?”

“Let's call off the deal.”

If he hadn't been holding onto her arms, she might have staggered. “I…call it off?”

“Yeah. Don't worry. I'll hold up my end, write the feature. But you're off the hook. You can go back to New York as soon as L.T. can send the jet for you. What do you say?”

“Um. Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“No. No, I don't want to go.”

B
uck knew he must have heard her wrong. “What did you just say?”

She looked stricken, eyes wide, face pale but for those two telltale spots of bright color high on her cheeks. “I don't want to go.” She whispered the words, as if her throat was too tight to say them out loud. “I want to stay here, with you. For the rest of the two weeks, the way we agreed…”

She didn't want to go….

She'd said that. It was real.

And not in the least what he'd expected.

He'd stewed for hours, forging along the narrow, twisting trails of his childhood, up and down hillsides, under the cold shadows of the pines, trying to figure out what to do, how to go on from here.

In the end, he'd decided he wouldn't make demands, he wouldn't bully or shout or tell her how it had to be.

He also wouldn't go on playing this sweet, silly game with her. He would call it off, tell her she was free to go back to New York. He'd assumed she would jump at the chance to get free of him.

And as soon as he'd released her from the deal they'd made, he'd thought they would talk. About the baby. About where to go from here. Not for a nanosecond had he expected her to tell him she wanted to stay.

But she had.

And that meant he was getting somewhere with her, after all, didn't it? That meant the deal they'd made was working. The impossible was happening.

B.J. was ready to give him—give
them
—another chance.

“Buck?” She looked up at him, those eyes that could be sky-blue or stormy, full of light. Full of something that might have been hope.

He had to swallow before he could speak. “Yeah?”

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you.”

“I don't believe I said that.”

He almost smiled. “Neither do I.”

“But the crazy thing is…”

“What? Tell me.”

“I actually meant it. I don't want to go. No one expects me back for nine more days. And I want to see where this takes us, you know?”

“I think so.”

“Do you want me to go?”

“Not if you want to stay.”

“I said I did.”

“Yeah. Yeah, you did…”

“Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I think you should kiss me.”

She was
asking
for kisses, now? “Great idea…”

She lifted her sweet mouth and he took it, gathering her in. Her lips parted. He speared his tongue inside and he tasted her.

Oh, yeah. It had been way too long since he'd held her, willing, in his arms….

She sighed into his mouth. He tightened his hold on her, pulling her closer. It was good. Nothing better. B.J., here, in his arms. Where she'd always belonged.

Slow,
he thought,
easy…

No need to rush, no need to push.

She sighed again, melting against him, all pliant sweetness. So much woman. All he'd ever wanted. All he longed for, all he needed…

The bed was behind him. One step, two, three…

His calves hit the edge. He took her hips and lifted her. She let out another urgent, willing cry as he guided her legs around him. Slowly, he lowered them both, till he sat on the edge of the bed with her in his lap, facing him, gripping him between her long, slim thighs. She groaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him tighter, tipping herself into him, so he could feel the heat and softness of her, even through all their clothes.

Her kiss deepened. She moaned some more, the sound a purring low in her chest. The heady scent of her claimed all his senses. His blood burned through his veins. He took her sweater and slid it up. She raised her arms. Off it went.

Her bra, he dispensed of with a flick of his thumb. He guided the straps down her arms. She did the rest; the bra was gone. He took her full, soft breasts in his hands, felt the nipples, hard and hungry, poking into his palms.

By then, he was the one groaning—deep, rough groans—as he kissed his way down her arched throat, licking as he went. He tracked the slope of one breast until he reached a nipple and caught it in his mouth. He suckled and she bucked against him, moaning out his name.

He brought a hand between them, slid his palm over her mound, cupped her heat—and lifted. She gathered those incredible legs under her and went to her knees, offering access. Still drawing on her sweet, round breast, he undid the snap above her zipper—and he took that zipper down.

That brought a sharp gasp from her. She cradled his head close, fingers splayed in his hair. Her eager moans urged him on.

He palmed her again, outside her clothing, steadying her, and then he slid his hand upward, slipping it beneath the satin barrier of the naughty little thong she wore. Her response was a hungry cry of encouragement. He touched her, fingers sliding into that slick, hot groove, finding the bud where her pleasure was greatest, lifting his head from her breast, seeking her mouth once more.

She gave it. He stabbed his tongue inside and she sucked on it, eagerly, her head bent down to him, as she moved to his touch.

In moments, she hit the peak. Her whole long, slim body quivered and she cried out against his mouth, breaking their kiss, throwing her head back, grabbing his wrist to still his hand.

He felt the pulsing, the sweet, slick spill of greater wetness, her body drawn tight with it, straining in release.

And then, with a slow, deep sigh, she crumpled against him.

He fell back across the bed, taking her with him, so she landed on top of him, her head on his heart.

Again, more softly, she sighed, and he smiled a slow smile at the ceiling as he stroked her hair, wrapping the strands around his fingers—fingers that were wet from her, slick and musky with her scent.

She cuddled closer, catching his other hand, twining their fingers together, and brushing a kiss on his knuckles. “Umm,” she said, a sound of pure contentment.

He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and breathed in the clean citrus smell of her shampoo. “Yeah,” he said softly, and felt no need to say more.

For a time, they lay there, holding each other. Buck was fully erect and aching for release—or his body was, anyway. But in his mind and heart, he knew an immense satisfaction, just to be there, with B.J., to feel the weight of her against his body, to cradle her golden head on his chest.

But then she murmured, “Too many clothes,” and shoved at his sweater, sliding it up.

He helped her to get it over his head and off. Once it was gone, she sat up and looked down at him, eyes softly shining, fly wide open, full breasts and slim belly gloriously bare. He saw that she wore a navel ring now, a tiny hoop of gleaming metal.

“That's new.” He reached up to brush it with a finger. “Silver. Very nice…”

“Platinum,” she corrected. And then she bent close and laid a trail of nipping kisses, from his left nipple, across to the right. She bit that one, lightly.

“Hey!”

She laughed, a low, oh-so-sexy sound, and rocked her hips, rubbing against him.

He grabbed her, stilling her. She braced up on her arms and looked down at him.

“Watch it,” he warned.

She licked her lips, slowly. Deliberately. “Boots next,” she said.

“Go for it.” He laced his hands behind his head and watched her as she slid down his body and off the bed. She took his boots, one and then the other. They hit the floor with heavy thunking sounds.

Then she crawled back up to straddle him again. He caught her face between his hands, spearing his fingers up into her hair.

He had to ask, one more time. “You're sure?” She swallowed, nodded, showing that shy, self-conscious side she rarely revealed. He whispered, “I only want you to be certain….”

The shyness vanished. She made a show of clucking her tongue. “Buck. Scruples, all of a sudden?” And she moved on him again, taunting him with another slow roll of her hips. He shut his eyes, let out a groan—and heard her say low and so tenderly, “Yes. I'm certain.”

He wanted the rest of her clothes off—and his as well. But he didn't move. He was thinking of the condom he'd been carrying with him every moment since they'd boarded her father's jet at Teterboro. He had it with him now.

He was as ready as a man can be. He'd made a point of that, of being ready. Half the time in the past five days, he'd doubted this moment would ever come. But he'd known that if it did, he wasn't going to blow it due to lack of preparedness.

He considered whether to mention it—that condom. Whether to ask her if they needed it; whether maybe to lead her into a discussion of the secret she was keeping.

But this was all so new and so very sweet. Her eagerness. Her admission that she wanted this time with him.

He couldn't take the chance of ruining it.

She
would
tell him. In her own time. And he
could
wait for that.

It would be a pleasure, the waiting. No sweat. As long as she looked at him through hungry eyes, that mouth of hers soft and wet and ready for him, he could wait forever, damned if it couldn't.

“Buck? What's wrong?”

“Not a thing.” He pulled her face down to him. Their lips met. They both moaned. He urged her over, onto her side, and he went with her, so they faced each other.

They finished undressing as they kissed, laughing a little, straining to keep their mouths fused, tongues sparring and sliding. He tugged his wallet from his pocket, and got the condom free, kissing her the whole time.

Her hands were busy, too. She shoved down her jeans and slithered out of her little purple thong. She unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, helped him tug them down, his boxers with them.

Finally, they were both naked except for their socks. He reached for her. But she was quicker, pushing him to his back again. Claiming the top position, she kissed her way down the center of his chest…

He groaned and tried not to shout out loud at the agonizing pleasure of her soft fingers closing around him. She licked him like a lollipop, long, slow teasing strokes, from the base to the flare and all around the nerve-rich head, scraping her teeth against him so lightly, making him moan some more, dipping her
tongue in the ultra-sensitive groove, until he felt he would burst his skin, he was so hard and ready.

She took him in then, deep into her mouth, lowering onto him by slow degrees, sucking him steadily, working her tongue on him, driving him mad as she slowly moved up, her tongue swirling at the peak—and then sliding down once more…

In the end, when he knew he would lose it if he let her keep on, he tangled his hands in her hair and pulled her up to him. Kissing her deeply, he felt beside him for the condom, which he'd dropped while she drove him wild with that mouth of hers. His fingers closed around it.

And then her hand was there, taking it from him, quickly unwrapping it, sliding it down on him with practiced ease. Their eyes met. He wondered, in a vague and shattered kind of way, what she might be thinking, as she told this subtle, sexy little lie—as she slid on protection with those knowing hands of hers, when it was already too late for that.

But a moment later, he didn't care anymore—about the secret she thought she was keeping from him, about the future, about anything but her soft heat closing around him, milking him, her silky hair rubbing his chest, her tender moans and her hands, stroking.

There was only the scent and the feel of her, the weight of her upon him, her body claiming him, the two of them moving in perfect time, hard and fast, then slow and liquid.

Somehow he held on long enough to feel her coming around him, to know the velvety, intense contractions of her inner muscles as her pleasure crested. He held on that long—and no more.

Then he gave it up to her, pushing to the hilt inside her, as she threw back her head and cried out his name.