Leslie LaFoy (30 page)

Wonderful timing and a nice sidestep
, he thought. “Would you like me to take it from here?”

“Absolutely not. There's no satisfaction to be had in saying I managed to drive halfway home but gave up the reins when it got the first bit difficult.”

“And satisfaction is everything.”

“It is indeed,” she agreed, “and I intend to fully earn mine. If you want your kiss, then you'll have to give me sufficient driving instruction to insure that you're alive and whole enough to collect it.”

She was too damned cavalier about inviting his advances. To his surprise, he discovered that it rankled. He was going to collect that kiss the minute they climbed down out of the box, and he was going to make sure that it singed her all the way to her nonchalantly daring little toes. This was going to be the last time she contemplated one of his kisses without a sizable tremble of anticipation.

“There are limits to what a man—gentle or otherwise—can tolerate,” he felt compelled to warn. “You're courting trouble, Lindsay. You need to know that.”

“I do,” she answered solemnly. “I don't, however, seem to be able to resist temptation where you're concerned. Good judgment disappears like a wisp of smoke in a gale wind. Now,” she added, her tone back to being blithely buoyant, “tell me how I'm supposed to maneuver this huge black box through those narrow little gates.”

Lindsay knew that she'd been too honest, had pushed him too far. She could feel the tension vibrating out of him, could hear it in every taut syllable he uttered as he told her how and when to pull the reins. Pay the piper? Oh yes, the
reckoning loomed in the minutes ahead, a certain, inescapable fate. This kiss wasn't going to caress her soul as his last one had, though. If she was reading him correctly, he intended for this kiss to be rough and perhaps even a bit frightening. Which it was, even in considering the prospect. Deliciously frightening. She didn't have the sense God gave a goose. Amazingly, given how thoroughly distracted she was, she managed to get the carriage through the gates and into the carriage house without wrecking it.

Even as she drew the horses to a halt, he was swinging down out of the box, saying as he did, “Sit right there and I'll come around to help you down.”

Laying the reins aside, she watched him stride around the front of the horses. Long, hard strides. Her heart skittered and it occurred to her that a reasonably prudent woman determined to save herself would summon a haughty manner and cry propriety at this point. She couldn't do that in good conscience, though; the predicament was of her own making. Staging a well-timed faint was a possibility. But not a good one, she decided as Jackson reached her side of the box. Given the look in his eyes, he'd deliberately drop her on her head. He lifted his arms and Lindsay knew that she was out of time and options. There was nothing to be done but lean out, put her hands on his shoulders, and let him exact his rough justice.

His gaze, dark and hardened with the determination of intent, met hers and held it captive. Lindsay felt her breath catch, her pulse quicken. She was courting the storm, inviting it to do its best to destroy her. And she'd never felt happier or more wondrously alive. She had to be insane. Her heart racing, Lindsay leaned out and down, entrusting him with her safety, her dignity, and her thrilling expectations.

His clothing was wet and warmed from the heat of his body. And under it, beneath the palms of her hands, she could feel the corded muscles in his shoulders, feel the steely strength of his arms as he slipped his hands around her waist and lifted her free of the box. His hands firm and sure around her waist, he held her above him for a long heartbeat, watching her face, silently promising to wreck slow havoc on her senses.

And then he drew her closer and began to lower her, his gaze holding hers. She gasped at the tantalizing friction of her body slowly moving down the length of his. He was pure muscle and sinew and gloriously wicked intent. He was everything dangerous, the most forbidden of all temptations. The knowing, the waiting, the wanting … An exquisite ache blossomed deep in her chest and spread like quicksilver into her limbs. If he didn't kiss her, she'd die; she'd crumple to the straw-covered floor and die of hunger and disappointment.

Jackson forced himself to swallow, made himself take a breath. God, never in his life had he seen such open and innocent yearning in a woman's eyes. Never had he wanted to possess a woman like he wanted Lindsay MacPhaull; totally, deeply, and completely. Right here, right now, and all damn night long. To hell with what he should and ought to do. To hell with her being a lady and his being a gentleman. To hell with dinner and Hen—

Dinner.
His common sense rushed to assert itself. They were already late for dinner. If he kissed Lindsay, the odds were they'd never get there. She had a way of making him hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food. If he gave in, they'd both eventually regret the moment of weakness. He needed to be practical, to exercise good judgment.

But goddamn it, he needed Lindsay, too. He needed her in a way that he'd forgotten a man could need. And he'd promised himself that he'd kiss her. He'd promised her, too. If he went back on it… Just one kiss, he told himself. One short, quick kiss to satisfy his sense of pride, to show her that he was a man of his word. And that would be it; one brief kiss and then he'd set her aside and walk away. He could do it. He had the strength.

Lindsay blinked in dazed surprise and would have stumbled back if Jack hadn't caught her arms and kept her upright. It had to have been the quickest, most passionless kiss in the history of mankind. She didn't know whether to be angrily insulted or graciously blasé. Confused, she was— and in spades.

He cleared his throat and refused to meet her gaze as he
let go of her arms. “I need to take care of the horses,” he said hastily, stepping away.

Lindsay watched him walk off, suddenly aware of just how frustrated and angry she was and how deeply her feelings hurt. “Quite the predator,” she muttered under her breath.

He stopped and then slowly turned back to face her. His brow cocked, he tilted his head and studied her through narrowed eyes. A smile flirted at the corners of his mouth. “What did you say?”

Her heart jolted and her pulse raced. Yes, she was wildly, foolishly crazy. And she didn't care one whit. “I was observing—to myself—” she countered lightly, her hands fisted on her hips, “that I was right earlier this evening. You are
not
a predatory man, Jack Stennett.”

He moved toward her, slowly and deliberately. He stopped only when he was close enough for her to bask in the warmth radiating from him, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze.

“Is that a dare, Lindsay?” he asked, his voice the lazy drawl that sent tingles racing down her spine.

“No, it's an opinion,” she answered with quiet defiance.

He studied her for a long moment and then one corner of his mouth quirked upward. “Hope it's not carved in stone,” he said, slipping his arms around her waist and drawing her hard against the length of his body.

His lips brushed over hers once, twice, and then, as though he sensed the craving curling tightly inside her, he claimed her lips fully with his own. He devoured her, his possession as sure and masterful as it was compelling and thorough. Her lips parted at his gentle demand and her knees weakened as his kiss deepened to wrap around her soul. She pressed closer, twining her arms about his neck, abandoning herself to a kind of bold hunger that was heady and all consuming and right; as right as breathing and living itself. Desire sang through her and she rose on the song, eagerly returning the passion of his kiss.

His heart thundered; his blood shot hot and fierce. She
was everything he could want, all that he did want. He couldn't hold her close enough, taste her deeply enough. His hands explored the luscious curves of her waist, her hips, then slid to cup her from behind, drawing her against the hard proof of his desire. She responded instantly, and just as boldly, gently catching his lower lip between her teeth, then teasing his captive flesh with the tip of her tongue. Exquisite sensation swept through him in wave after intoxicating wave. Moaning at the sheer pleasure of it, he tightened his arms around her.

Wrapped in the certain strength of his embrace, won-drously intoxicated by the power of his kisses, Lindsay twined her fingers in the dark hair at his nape as his hands came up to open the buttons of her dress. Whispering her assent against his lips, she slipped her hands to his shoulders and then to the front of his shirt. The buttons opened easily and the warmth of his skin beckoned her touch. She reveled in caressing the corded planes of his chest, in the low, deep groan of his appreciation as he drew his lips from hers.

A protest melded into a gasp of wonder as his lips trailed down the column of her throat and into the hollow at the base. He lingered there, thrilling her senses, teasing the sensitive spot with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue as his hand glided into the valley of her breasts. He kissed a trail downward as his fingers slipped beneath the lace of her corset and across her hardened nipple.

Deep inside her a flame flared and grew, pulsing and heavy with urgency. Her knees trembling, she clung to Jack's shoulders and arched into his possession, aching and desperate to answer desire's insistent command, to sample its promise of delicious pleasure.

Her skin was heated satin and rich cream, a feast for his senses; her willingness and passion, a potent and heady elixir. He cupped her breast, the curve of her perfectly filling and warming his palm. Hunger surged through him and he bent to taste the bounty she offered him. She moaned softly, arching into the caress of his lips and tongue, sending his senses reeling.

Ageless instincts urged him to know more of her beauty,
her wonder, to lower her into the straw and—
Straw. Not here. Not this way. Not like Maria. God, not like Maria.

Lindsay felt his decision in every inch of her body, regretted with all her heart the gradual easing of his embrace, the lightening of his possession. Jack's lips lifted from her breast and she shuddered as she drew a ragged breath. God, she missed the touch. It was for the best, she told herself. There was dinner. Henry and Agatha. And the doors to the carriage house were open. Someone could walk in on them.

As though he knew her thoughts, he lightly brushed his lips over hers. Once, twice, ending as he had begun. Lindsay slipped her arms from around his neck, placing her palms against the broad expanse of his chest to steady herself. Her pulse raced and the ache deep inside her throbbed in rhythm with her heart. She'd survive, she assured herself, willing her eyes to open. Lindsay looked up into dark eyes still smoldering with passion.

“I really do need to take care of the horses,” he said breathlessly, his smile regretful as he eased his arms from around her.

She nodded in agreement and took a step back. Jack mercifully spared her the need to say something halfway intelligent by winking, turning away, and setting to work. She buttoned her bodice and watched him, only vaguely aware of what he was doing. Learning to hitch and unhitch a team of horses paled beside a greater realization. Society might well consider her an “experienced” woman, but when it came to Jack, she was encountering a wholly new and unexpectedly wonderful world of sensation. There was no sense of duty in surrendering to him, no notion of keeping to her part of a rationally negotiated bargain. There was nothing the least bit rational about being with Jack; he set her senses on fire.

Lindsay smiled ruefully. If he were to ask her for business concessions between kisses, she'd agree to give him anything he wanted and offer to throw in Mrs. Kowalski's cat, too. Lydia MacPhaull was undoubtedly watching from her eternal destination and flailing her arms in disgusted outrage.
For godssakes, Lindsay, can't you do
anything
right?
Apparently not.

“Why don't you go to the house and start getting cleaned up for dinner,” Jack said quietly, interrupting her thoughts. “I'll be along in few minutes.”

Lindsay looked out the open carriage house doors and across the yard. The windows at the rear of the house were illuminated with lamplight. Henry and Agatha and Edith were in there and waiting for her. “Truth be told, Jack,” she said, turning back to him, “I'd rather take a beating than go in there alone.”

“Why do Henry and Agatha frighten you so much?” he asked, pulling the harness off a horse.

She watched the animal amble through its open stall door, as Jack pulled the harness from its companion. “It's not so much that my brother and sister frighten me; it's that every encounter ends with me feeling as though …” She shrugged, unable to put a lifetime of feelings into precise words.

“As though what?” he pressed, hanging the tack from wooden pegs.

“I don't know,” she admitted. “It's such a jumble of things. Overwhelmed, mostly. And completely inept. If I were even halfway adequate as a manager, they wouldn't have grounds to complain about anything. As it is, though, it seems that I can't do anything right.”

He nodded, closing the stall doors. “Do you ever feel angry?”

All the time.
“Anger isn't a very productive emotion.”

“Try letting it have free rein the next time it comes over you,” he countered, coming to stand in front of her. “You might be surprised just how much it can accomplish.”

“But it tends to lead to such unladylike behavior.” Lindsay smiled up at him. “I've seen Agatha angry. It's not a pretty sight.”

“Sweetheart,” he drawled, his eyes sparkling, “you'd be downright beautiful all riled up.”

“Even if I happen to be angry with you?”

“Now, what could I do that would get you all puffed up?” he asked, all innocence and utterly adorable charm.

“Somehow, Jackson Stennett, I imagine that you could find a hundred different ways to try a woman's patience.”

He grinned. “A hundred and fifty-two. I've kept count.”

She laughed, certain that the total was even higher than he'd admit and fully equal to the number of times he'd been kissed and forgiven. He could charm the hardest of hearts. She'd bet that there were women all across Texas vying for his attention. And, she realized, sobering, he could claim one in New York as well; one who didn't mean anything more to him than any of the others. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as a bitter memory surged to the fore.
A rather dull little notch in the bedpost.