Heiress (54 page)

When she saw the curly dark hairs that covered his chest, she turned away and slowly began to remove her undergarments, her apprehension growing. She had gone too far to stop now, and truthfully she didn't want to stop, but she was afraid of standing naked before him—afraid he wouldn't want the plain Rachel he saw. Without the jewels and the designer gowns, that's all she was: the Rachel that nobody ever loved or wanted.

Yet she had to know. Slowly she turned to face him, grateful for the concealing shadows in the dimly lighted room. She heard him draw in his breath. Tentatively she looked up, but his arms were already going around her and his mouth coming down to cover her lips hotly, his tongue licking them open then plunging inside with a fervor and an urgency that caught her up in the force of his desire.

Then he lowered her onto the bed and joined her, his hands running all over her body as if they couldn't get enough of her—caressing the roundness of her breasts and rolling her hardened nipples between the callused tips of his fingers, stroking her bottom and gliding between her legs, his fingers seeking the velvety moistness of her. Rachel shuddered uncontrollably at their entry, her hips arching instinctively to take them in.

He did not give her that pleasure for long, and she made a vague protest when he took his hand away. But already he was shifting to lie between her parted legs, his bone-hard shaft probing for the opening. Rachel tensed. She didn't mean to resist him, but she couldn't help herself. The reaction was automatic. As he entered her, Ross stretched out to lie on top of her. She tried to respond to the movement of his hips; she honestly tried, desperately wanting it to be different with him, desperately wanting to achieve climax with him inside her and enjoy more than the sensuous nibbling along her neck. For once in her life, she didn't want to fake it.

His hands slid down to cup her bottom, holding her cheeks to meet the grinding thrust of his hips and directing their movements. As the sweet pressure started to build, Rachel clutched at him, digging her fingers into his shoulders to hold him there, afraid he'd stop, afraid the wonderful rhythm would break. But it didn't. It didn't.

"Yes, yes, yes," she cried out without meaning to and felt the tempo of his thrusting hips change, driving deeper, lifting her higher, until the marvelous agony of it all exploded in a rush of pure rapture. Within seconds Ross shuddered against her, convulsed by his own throes of satisfaction.

As she lay in his arms, savoring that sensation of absolute fulfillment, she felt truly loved. Drenched in the scent of their lovemaking, she breathed it in, the musky odor headier than the most expensive Parisian perfume. She turned onto her side so she could see him, this man who had made her feel like a woman. She ran her hand over his chest, enjoying the sensation of his bare skin and silken hairs.

He caught hold if it and carried her fingertips to his lips. "I wish I were a poet, Rachel," he murmured. "I wish I knew the beautiful words to describe the satin smoothness of your body and the sweet perfection of your breasts. But the words that come to my mind sound so ridiculously corny—"

She covered his mouth with her hand. "Just love me, Ross," she whispered. "Love me." She said the last against his mouth as she took her hand away and replaced it with her lips.

Chapter 35

People swarmed about the motel lobby, some arriving, some departing, and others entering or leaving the adjoining coffee shop. From her seat on a couch in the lobby, Abbie could see the elevators—when someone wasn't blocking her view, that is, which was nearly all the time. Impatiently she flipped through the morning edition of the Phoenix newspaper while she waited for Ben to come back. She couldn't understand what was keeping him. He'd only gone to get a jacket from his room. She had wanted to exercise Windstorm before the work arena became crowded with other horses and riders getting ready for their morning classes.

"Do you see Ben yet, Mommy?" Eden stood on the cushioned couch and leaned sideways against Abbie, trying to see around the people walking by.

"No, dear."

"Windstorm is gonna be wondering where we are, isn't he?"

"Yes. Now sit down. You know you're not supposed to stand on the furniture." Abbie absently turned another page of the newspaper and shook it flat.

"But I can't see, then," Eden reasoned, "and you told me to watch for Ben."

A grainy newspaper photograph practically leaped off the page at Abbie. She didn't hear Eden's reply or notice that she didn't sit down as she was told. She was too distracted by MacCrea's likeness staring back at her, exact in every detail, from the lazy gleam in his dark eyes to the complacent slant of his mustached mouth. He seemed to be mocking her, as if he knew she'd see this photograph of him. . . and the woman with him, none other than Rachel Canfield.

She told herself she didn't care, that he meant nothing to her anymore, that all she had to do was turn the page again. Instead she folded the paper open to the photograph and read the caption. "Rachel Canfield, wife of industrialist magnate Lane Canfield, escorted by millionaire wildcatter MacCrea Wilder to a party held last night at—"

"Look, Mommy!" Eden excitedly tapped her shoulder. "There's MacCrea!"

"I see him." She shifted her eyes back to the picture.

"MacCrea! Wait!" Eden bounced across the cushion in her scramble to get off the couch.

Startled, Abbie looked up as Eden darted toward a man crossing the lobby. MacCrea. "Eden, come back here!" She hurried after her, but it was too late. MacCrea had already seen Eden and stopped.

"Hello, short stuff." Smiling, he rumpled the top of her dark, wavy hair. "Don't tell me your mother's lost again." When he glanced up, he looked directly at her. Although his expression never changed, Abbie sensed shutters closing and a mask dropping into place.

"No." Eden laughed. "She's sitting right over there. We're waiting for Ben." As Abbie caught her daughter by the shoulders and pulled her back out of MacCrea's reach, she realized she still had the folded newspaper in her hand. "There you are, Mommy. See, she's not lost."

"Come on, Eden." She took her firmly by the hand. "You're bothering Mr. Wilder."

Resisting Abbie's attempt to lead her away, Eden looked at him and frowned. "Was I bothering you?"

"No, of course not."

"Don't encourage her," Abbie warned, keeping her voice low to conceal her anger.

"How come you got that?" Eden pointed to the garment bag slung over his shoulder. "Are you going somewhere?"

"Yes, I'm leaving. I have a plane to catch," he replied, addressing his answer to Abbie.

"But aren't you going to stay and see Windstorm win?" Eden protested.

"I can't. I've finished all my business here and I have to get back to work."

"Business?" Abbie scoffed bitterly. "That's not what the morning paper called it. Here. You can read it for yourself." She shoved the newspaper at him. "Maybe you'd like to tell me again how little contact you have with her!" She had no intention of waiting around to see what kind of trumped-up explanation he would make. As she scooped Eden into her arms, she saw Ben coming into the lobby and headed directly for the front door to their car parked outside.

"Mommy, how come you don't like MacCrea?" Eden asked as Abbie lifted her onto the seat.

At almost the same instant, MacCrea walked out of the motel and signaled for a cab. Abbie watched him, with more pain than anger. "You wouldn't understand, Eden," she said regretfully and climbed into the car with her daughter.

Chapter 36

Mornings, afternoons, and evenings, Rachel grasped every opportunity to be with Ross. The lavish parties and equally glamorous sales that were an integral part of the Scottsdale Show scene enabled her to meet him discreetly. Always arriving and leaving separately, they attended the elegant gala held at the Loews', an elaborate fête given at the Wrigley mansion, the staid brunch at the Biltmore, an intimate dinner party in a luxury condo, and countless casual aisle parties and formal receptions.

They arranged to sit at the same tables in the exclusive "gold card" sections and view the Arabian horses offered for sale in spectacularly staged productions against backdrops of larger-than-life reproductions of art masterpieces, a recreation of the Palace of Versailles, and sleek contemporary settings of chrome and crystal. They sipped champagne together and ate chocolate-dipped strawberries while celebrity entertainers performed for them and Arabians came floating onto the runways through mists of white fog.

They sat together in the show stands and offered each other moral support when their respective horses competed in elimination classes to qualify for the finals. But then there were the nights—the madly passionate nights when Ross made love to her so thoroughly and so completely that she found it impossible to doubt the depth of his love. It seemed that nothing could mar this happiness she'd found.

She slipped the satin nightgown over her head and felt the sensuous material slide down to cover her naked body. Absently she adjusted the narrow straps over her shoulders as she turned back to the king-size bed where Ross lay, watching her.

"You are supposed to be getting dressed," she chided softly.

"I was trying to decide if you're more beautiful with clothes or without."

"And?"

"I can't make up my mind." He raised himself up on an elbow and reached for her hand to draw her close to the bed. "Why don't you take that gown off so I can decide."

"No, you don't." She leaned away from him, slightly pulling from his hand without making any real effort to get free "It's late, almost midnight. And I have to get up in the morning. Tomorrow's the big day." Sirocco was scheduled to compete in the finals of the halter class.

"So?"

"So, I need my sleep. And so do you."

"Why don't I sleep here tonight with you? I want to wake up in the morning and find you lying beside me."

"Ross, we can't." She wished he wouldn't ask. "Suppose you're seen leaving my suite in the morning. What are people going to think?"

"The same thing they think when they see me sneaking out of your room in the middle of the night." He pulled her down onto the bed and began kissing her arm. "You don't really think we're fooling anybody, do you? By now, everyone's seen the way I look at you with all the love in my heart shining in my eyes."

"I suppose." But she didn't want to consider that.

"I do love you, Rachel. And I don't care if the whole world knows it."

"Ross, I—" As she reached up to stroke his face, the telephone on the nightstand rang shrilly. Rachel jumped, startled by the harsh sound. For an instant, she could only stare at it as it rang a second time. She glanced hesitantly at Ross, noting his suddenly sober look, then picked up the receiver, cutting off the bell in the middle of its third ring. "Hello?"

"Rachel, darling, did I wake you?" Lane's voice came clearly over the line.

"Yes," she lied, clutching the phone a little closer and turning more of her back to Ross. "Is something wrong? Alex—is he all right?"

"Yes, he's fine," Lane assured her. "As a matter of fact, he didn't even run a fever today."

"Then. . ." If it wasn't an emergency—and from the sound of his voice, it wasn't—why was he calling her at this hour of the night?

"I tried to reach you several times today."

"You did? I. . . I'm sorry. I've been on the run so much today that I never checked to see if I had any messages. I would have called but. . ." She hadn't wanted to talk to him. She didn't now, not with Ross lying here.

"I thought that was probably the case. And I'm sorry to call you so late and get you out of bed, but I wanted you to know that I'm flying out of Houston tomorrow. I'll have to stop and pick up MacCrea at our field in West Texas. I have some papers to go over with him. But we should be landing in Phoenix around noon."

"You will?" She didn't know what to think, what to say.

"I promised you I'd be there for the finals. Don't I always keep my word?" Lane chided affectionately.

"Yes, of course," she replied.

"You don't sound very happy about it."

"Oh, I am," she said in a rush. "It's just that. . . I'm only half-awake. Why don't I pick you up at the airport tomorrow?"

"I'd like that." He sounded satisfied with her explanation. "You go back to sleep, dear, and I'll see you tomorrow—correction, today."

"Yes. Good night."

"Good night, dear."

Rachel waited for the click on the other end of the line before she slowly replaced the receiver on its cradle. As she brought her hands back to her lap, she unconsciously touched the wedding ring on her finger.

"Your husband?" Ross guessed.

"Yes. He's flying in tomorrow."

The mattress dipped beneath her as Ross pushed himself into a sitting position behind her. He ran his hand up her arm in a caress that was no different from countless others she'd experienced, yet this time Rachel felt tense at his touch. That telephone call had complicated the situation. Not ten minutes ago it had all seemed so simple: Ross loved her; that Lane was her husband had seemed totally immaterial. But it wasn't.

"Are you going to tell him about us?" Ross asked, slipping aside the strap of her gown to nuzzle her shoulder.

The thought frightened her. What if she was wrong? What if Ross didn't really love her? This had all happened so quickly; how could she be sure? Agitated by his suggestion, Rachel pushed off the bed and took several steps away from it. "I don't see how I can, Ross. MacCrea will be with him," she reasoned with a forced calm.

"Rachel—"

"Please, Ross, I think it would be best if you'd get dressed and leave now." Nervously she twisted her hands together, unable to look at him.

"No." She heard the rustle of bedcovers being thrown aside and the squeak of the bedsprings, followed by the faint thud of his feet hitting the floor. "I'm not going anywhere until we get a few things straight." As she started to turn, he caught her arm and swung her the rest of the way around to face him. He wore a desperate look as he searched her face for some clue. "Just what are you telling me? 'It's been fun, but good-bye'? Because I'm not going to accept that. I can't just walk away and forget any of this happened. I love you. It isn't just a passing thing with me."