Driven to Distraction (Silhouette Desire S.) (12 page)

T
he rain began in earnest before they were even halfway to town. With the windshield wipers and headlights on, Maggie leaned forward to switch on the defogger. Neither of them had brought any rain gear, but Ben said, “Miss Emma made me bring an umbrella. Told her I never used 'em, but she insisted.”

“That's what grandmothers are for. Where is it?”

“Somewhere back there under a ton of junk.” He nodded to the narrow space behind the driver's seat. “Rain'll be over by the time we get to town, anyway.”

Before they'd set out he had glanced at a map, even though Maggie told him she knew the way. With rain coming down in curtains, maps were little help as they could barely see the road, much less the exit signs.

“Real frog strangler.”

“Try for something more original. How about an ark floater? Ben, slow down,” Maggie cautioned.

He slowed, but not too much. He didn't want to rear-end another vehicle, but neither did he want to slow up enough to risk being a road hazard. There was no sign of any taillights ahead, but that didn't mean they were the only ones on the highway. There were always a few nuts who thought that as long as they could see they didn't need lights.

Clutching her shoulder belt, Maggie leaned forward, peering through the wall of gray. “There ought to be an exit somewhere along here where we could—”

“Sit back. If I have to stop suddenly I don't want you—” He swore under his breath. “Sunovabitch!” Jerking the wheel sharply, he milked the brakes to a standstill within inches of a white van that had pulled off onto the shoulder at an angle, one corner projecting a few feet onto the highway.

Ben backed up a few feet, then steered cautiously onto the narrow shoulder, making sure he was completely off the highway. Maggie said, “I don't want to be here.”

“Me, either.” He waited a moment, then checked carefully for any sign of traffic before pulling out again. “Is there an overpass anywhere around here?”

She shook her head. “I don't think so. Anyway, it might not be wide enough if you were thinking about parking there until the rain slacked off.”

“Yeah, you're probably right. Watch for an exit. We'd better find a place to wait it out.”

 

The Laurel Lane Lodge looked as if it had survived the past half century unchanged. Of the five separate units, none appeared to be occupied, but there was a light on in the office.

“Sit tight.” Ben ducked out and made a dash to the door.

The apron-clad woman behind the desk rose to meet him. “My mercy, would you look at this rain. Sauer's Branch is already up over the banks, I heard it on the radio. There's so much static you can't hardly hear anything. You need a place to stay?”

A few minutes later Ben slid into the truck again, soaked to the skin, but grinning. Brandishing a key, he said, “Any old port in a storm.” His voice was barely audible over the sound of rain hammering down on the metal cab.

Maggie tried to pretend her pulse rate hadn't shot into the stratosphere. “If you wanted to show off your Texas roots, a broad-brimmed hat would've served a lot better than those boots.”

“I'll match my boots against those things you're wearing any day. We drew number five, over there on the end.” Inching along the short driveway, he pulled up in front of a small unit distinguished by a blue door and a single blue-shuttered window. “Stay here while I unlock.”

Watching him dash toward the minuscule shelter, Maggie thought of all the motel jokes she'd ever heard. Under the circumstances, stopping was only sensible. It didn't necessarily mean they were going to dive into bed together. They could dry off and talk until the rain slacked off. Actually, it would be a good opportunity to get better acquainted—sharing child
hood experiences, comparing notes on the progress of their individual missions. That should take all of two minutes.
Then
what?

As if she didn't know.

Deliberately she pushed away the thought that in a few days, once the workshop ended, they would each go their separate ways. Not that they would be all that far apart—not as long as he stayed with his grandmother. She hadn't asked about his future plans because first of all, it was none of her business. Now she was afraid to—afraid his plans didn't include her.

After only a short dash to the blue door they were both wet, thanks partly to the solid wall of water pouring off the roof. Maggie wouldn't have been surprised to see steam rising from Ben's shirt, the way it was plastered to his skin. His boots made a squeaky sound with every step. “Hope there's enough towels,” he said, reaching the minuscule bathroom in three strides.

Self-conscious, Maggie studied the room that was dominated by a chenille-covered bed. Instead of the usual commercial carpet there were several scatter rugs on a varnished wood floor. “This reminds me of one of the illustrations in this book I used to have,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by a bed. “I'm not sure if it was
Goldilocks
or
Little Red Riding Hood.
”

“Easy to tell the difference.” Ben dropped a towel over her hair and gave it a few gentle rubs. “Depends on whether there's a wolf or a bear in the bed.”

So then of course they both stared at the bed, which suddenly seemed to grow until there was nothing else in the room. Ben cleared his throat. He seemed almost
as tense as she was. Moving abruptly, he crossed to the window, discovered that it wouldn't open, and opened the front door a crack. “Air's musty in here,” he said gruffly. “Rain's not blowing from this direction.

He began unbuttoning his shirt and Maggie thought, not like this…please. It's too soon. She looked everywhere but at the man who absorbed all the oxygen in the small room. “You know what? I think this furniture is the real thing,” she said brightly. “I mean genuine wood.” Swallowing hard, she walked over and touched the leaf of a potted plant. “This is real, too. Real dirt and everything.”

Marvelous, Maggie. Why not impress him with your brilliant conversational skills?

“Watch your step on these rugs, they're trippers,” Ben cautioned. His shirt unbuttoned, he tugged it out of his pants. Before she could inform him that she didn't need a caretaker, he said, “Maggie, get out of those damp clothes before you start sneezing.”

She wilted. All right, so he was bossy. It was the kindness in his voice that got to her. He wasn't just interested in getting her naked so he could have his way with her—not that his way wasn't hers, too.

“Oh, for Pete's sake,” she muttered, turning away just as he peeled off his wet shirt.

Unfortunately, she turned toward the oval dresser mirror, and there he was again. Closing her eyes didn't help. They could be stranded together in a pitch-black cave and she would still be aware of him with every cell in her body. It had to be chemical. That pheromone thing, probably. She knew men who were handsomer—even a few who were built as well,
but not a single one of them moved her at all. Somewhere inside her was an intricate lock, just waiting for the right key. And Ben Hunter was that key.

All right, she told herself—you're both adults. You've done it before, so what does it matter if you do it again? Where's the problem?

The problem was that she wanted more than sex.

“Maggie? You're frowning.”

He appeared behind her in the mirror, his wide shoulders framing her narrower ones like a hawk hovering over a scared rabbit. “No'm not,” she said, and forced a smile to prove it.

His hands closed over her shoulders. “Maggie, Maggie,” he said with exaggerated patience. “Look, if you don't want to stay here we don't have to. We can wait in the truck for the rain to slack and head back. I know I promised you dinner, but it might have to wait.”

“I'm fine. I mean this is only sensible. I mean, what if one of us had to go to the…” Chagrined, she closed her eyes. “Shut up, Maggie, just shut up.”

Ben chuckled. “Take off your damp clothes. I can turn on the fan and they'll dry in no time.”

They wouldn't, and they both knew it. Maggie might tell a white lie or two to spare someone's feelings, but she tried never to lie to herself. She had wanted this man almost from the first moment she'd seen him. Wanted him even before he'd kissed her. Out in the woods on a patch of moss beside a tiny waterfall, she had welcomed him into her arms, into her body. What had followed was a pleasure so profound she knew it would be with her 'til her dying day.

A realist, Maggie told herself that whatever happened now, it was an inevitable extension of what had happened earlier. It really didn't change anything.

“So,” she said, her voice half an octave higher than usual. “Shall we…sit down? If we had a deck of cards…”

There wasn't a damned thing to do in here but go to bed. There wasn't even an old newspaper she could pretend to read. Nothing but the bed looming behind them.

Ben watched her in the mirror, trying to figure out what was going on under that shaggy mop of damp hair. He couldn't quite get a handle on Maggie Riley—possibly because she didn't play any of the games he'd come to expect from the women he took to bed.

She was nervous, which told him that despite what had happened earlier she didn't take this sort of thing for granted. As it couldn't be for lack of opportunity he could only conclude that few men had managed to break through her prickly defenses.

Still facing the mirror, he slipped his arms around her waist from behind. Under the clinging fabric of her dress, her small breasts were clearly visible, her nipples dark and alert. She closed her eyes as he began unfastening the row of pearl buttons. “Maggie?” he whispered, and she nodded.

He deliberately lingered over the task of undressing her, savoring each small step. Allowing the tension to build until it was all but irresistible. Her body might be slight, but there was no mistaking its maturity. Judging from the way she was pressing herself against his arousal, she was as eager as he was.

This woman won't be so easy to forget.
Ignoring the soft, insistent whisper, he led her toward the bed. It was a double, not even a queen size. His inconvenient conscience urged him to issue the standard disclaimer to the effect that, despite what had happened earlier and what was about to happen now, there was nothing binding on either side.

But hell, she knew that. He didn't have to put it into words.

Turning her in his arms, he lowered his lips to hers. The fleeting thought crossed his mind as he deepened the kiss, savoring what was to come, that he could easily become addicted to this woman.

When she began tugging at his belt, he reached for the bottom of the silky undershirt thing she was wearing and eased it up under her arms. There was no way of getting it over her head without ending the kiss. Reluctantly, he lifted his head. Then, in an impromptu dance, she kicked off her sandals and wriggled the rest of the way out of her damp top.

Ben took a moment to appreciate the perfection of her, from her small, rounded thighs to her small rounded hips—to the waist he could practically span with his hands and the small, proud swell of her breasts.

Dropping his jeans around his knees, he attempted to step out of them and nearly tripped. He cursed under his breath, but managed to keep it brief and relatively clean.

“You might want to take off your boots first.” Maggie's dry observation brought forth a snort of laughter that did nothing at all to reduce the tension.

“Yes, ma'am. Uh—how about closing the front
door.” He'd forgotten they'd left it partly open to air out the room.

Naked but for a scrap of yellow silk that just missed being a thong, she lunged for the door, slammed it and fastened the chain. “Oh, for gosh sakes, anyone passing by could've looked in!” She switched off the overhead light but left on a forty-watt lamp on the dresser.

Ben shucked off his boots and socks, then peeled off his jeans and briefs in one swift motion. Glancing up, he said, “Watch that rug.”

She wrinkled her nose at him. “You know me too well.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said, realizing it was no less than the truth.

With one knee on the edge of the mattress, she hesitated. “Um—do you—that is—”

“I do,” he said, and held up a foil packet.

“Good, because I don't, and we didn't earlier this afternoon.” She said it in a half-joking way, trying to sound as if she did this sort of thing all the time.

Ben knew better. He really did know Maggie Riley, no matter if they had met only a few days ago. “Come here,” he said, his voice a rough caress.

There was none of the awkwardness that sometimes occurred between new lovers. Even the first time, there had been no real awkwardness, only eagerness—only a sense of inevitability.

Now, starting with another hungry kiss, they picked up where they had left off and quickly moved beyond. All senses alive, Ben felt the satiny heat of her skin—he breathed in the intoxicating scent of fruity shampoo and warm, aroused woman and heard the tiny
whimpering sounds, the soft gasps she made as he explored her slender perfection. Her nipples were ripe cherries begging to be plucked. He plucked them, first with his fingertips, then with his lips and teeth.

Gasping, she ran her hands over his chest, raking his flat nipples until they stood up like small cartridges.

“Honey, maybe we'd better slow down,” he said even as his hands made forays under the sheet that brought forth another shuddering gasp.
Slow down? Man, are you crazy?

No guarantees on that front.

Her fingers twisted the flat curls that crossed his chest before spearing down to his groin. At this rate he'd better suit up fast, or it would be too late. Amazing, the degree of pressure that could build up when a man went too long without sex, he told himself, unwilling to admit that it was the woman herself and not the long, dry spell that had ended only hours earlier.