Rainbows and Rapture (33 page)

Taming his wild urge to settle himself upon her and bring her dream to reality, he picked up a fold of her crimson gown. Starting at the tips of her toes, he trailed the shimmering fabric all over her feet, across her ankles, and up her legs before dropping it and picking up another fold near her waist. He let it drop to her belly, then swished it to her breasts. There, he tarried for a moment before gliding it across her womanhood.

Russia could hardly stand the intense pleasure, and yet she willed it to go on forever. She’d never experienced anything so exquisite as yearning for a man’s unseen touch. And the satin… Satin had never felt so astonishingly wonderful next to her skin.

And then she felt him take the luscious fabric away from her. What would he do to her now? Was he finished? Would he—

Her mental questions were answered when she felt the tip of something cold touching her lips. Just as she tried to taste it to see what it was, Santiago removed it. “What was that?” she asked, hearing the tremble in her voice.

“Guess.” Again he allowed the metal spoon to brush against her lips. “Open your mouth.”

She parted her lips and felt something warm, something sticky flow over her top teeth and tongue.

Honey,
she realized.

Santiago drizzled the spoonful of honey all over her lips, forcing her to lick it off before it could slide down her chin and onto her neck. “Russia,” he whispered silkily, “what do you taste,
chiquita
?”

“Honey.” She couldn’t help thinking of its rich golden color, its thick texture. She could “see” it streaming lazily off the spoon and into her mouth. Her mouth watered as she swallowed it; her flesh continued to quiver with heightening awareness.

“Honey,” Santiago repeated. “Share it with me.”

She couldn’t understand what he meant until she felt his mouth whisper across hers. His lips were warm, soft, and sweet, as was the honey. His tongue cleansed her; his lips nipped at her. And while he dined upon the sweetness, his hair fell around her face.

She pictured a mane of ebony. Soft as the satin on which she lay. Perfumed by wind, sun, and that virile male scent that was his alone. The fragrance as it swept through her seemed almost like a live thing. It touched her as if with hands and fingers. She’d never
felt
a scent before, but she did now. God, she did now.

Adrift on a strong current of sensation, she moaned softly, wondering and wishing for whatever he would do next.

He held something firm and round to her lips. She tried to bite down on it, but he withdrew it for a moment before pressing it to her mouth again.

Santiago squeezed it. The slick fruit slid from its peel, dripping pale juice.

Russia smiled. “Grape.”

He fed her sweet, ripe pear. Rich, smooth avocado and bits of crusty bread. He gave her a sprinkle of sunflower seeds and coerced her into chewing mint leaves. He painted her lips with a lime wedge, laughing when she grimaced and shuddered. He dropped fresh pecans into her open mouth, and bade her suck on a thin strip of sugar cane.

And when she thought she was totally sated, then came the wine.

He gave it to her not from the flask, but with his own mouth. His closed lips stroked hers again before he opened them.

The warmed wine trickled into her mouth. Russia savored the unfamiliar experience. Being fed by Santiago, by his own lips… She couldn’t decide what was more potent—the intoxicating experience, the wine, or the man who gave her both things.

“Had enough?” he asked.

His mouth was still so close to hers, she felt the vibration of his deep voice on her lips.

“Still hungry?” he queried.

Hungry didn’t begin to describe how she felt. She was beyond ravenous. And only one thing would satisfy her.

She lifted her arms, intending to pull his body down to hers.

Smiling, he caught her hands, knowing full well what she wanted. Her need was his own.

She was aroused, yes, but he would excite her even more. He wouldn’t stop until her every nerve and each of her senses had been stroked almost to the point of aching.

But he would go no further now. She would sleep with the memories, and tomorrow they would be her constant companions. And then he would add to them, giving her more and more to remember and ponder during the times when he wasn’t touching her. He knew her fantasies; the sensual creations of her own imagination would work in his favor. He counted on it.

“Santiago?”

He removed her blindfold.

She blinked several times, astonished by the millions of bright stars twinkling down at her. Nighttime had come, and she hadn’t even known it. Dear God, she could barely wait for the rest of the surprises this evening would bring. She almost lost all control when Santiago stretched out beside her.

He clasped his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “Good night, Russia.”

For a moment she didn’t think she’d heard right. “Good night?”

The rogue in him made him move closer to her. Not a lot closer, but just close enough for her to feel his heat. “We had a long day,” he told her and then feigned a yawn.

Russia could barely control her breathing, which kept coming in short pants. “Santiago,” she whispered, “I thought we was gonna make—”

“Did you get enough to eat?”

“Yeah, but I—”

“What else do you want, then?”

She wished desperately she could
show
him, but was hesitant to do anything he might consider related to her occupation. He’d reacted almost violently the last time she’d taken the initiative during their lovemaking, and she was loath to upset the fragile truce that had evolved between them. “Santiago?”

“Don’t you think you should go to sleep?”

“I s’pose, but—”

“You don’t want to be tired when we reach Whispering Oaks tomorrow, do you?”

“No, but y’see, I thought we’d—”

“Good night, then, Russia.”

She kicked off the blanket he’d pulled around her. What with all the hot disappointment covering her, who needed it? What on earth was wrong with the man? Didn’t he know how she felt right now?

She sat up and glared down at him. She wouldn’t touch him, but she’d for damn sure
tell
him. “I wanted to make love,” she told him straight out. “I’m so hot you could bake a potato inside me, and you’re jist layin’ there actin’ like—”

“All right, Russia, if you must know, I’m exhausted. If you’ll remember, I chased a herd of mustangs yesterday. I caught one, then spent hours training her to a halter and lead line. And all day today I’ve been teaching her to follow us. It—it took a lot out of me.” He rolled onto his side, pressing his face into the pillow so she wouldn’t see his smile. He wasn’t at all tired. God, if the time were right, he’d make love to her all night long. But the time
wasn’t
right. Not yet.

Just to pique her further, he added, “Weak’s what I am. Completely drained.”

“All right, then!” Twisting the blanket into knots, she deliberated, weighing her options. “I got another idea, though,” she said hopefully.

He knew he shouldn’t ask what it was, but he couldn’t resist. “What?”

“Well, you ain’t gotta really make love to me, y’know. Ain’t really gotta use up much strength a’tall. There’s other things we could do. Other ways we could—”

“No. My hands are tired. My fingers will barely move.” He felt silent laughter explode inside him.

Her face fell, but after a few seconds another thought came to her. She blushed thinking of it, but wasn’t so shy that she couldn’t suggest it. “Well, then, how about—”

“No.” He knew exactly what she was going to propose. Winning the battle not to laugh, he moved his lips, grimacing as if it hurt him to do so. “My mouth’s tired, too.”

“Well, what about—”

“If you’re going to suggest I use my feet—”

“Santiago—”

“Good night, Russia.”

She threw herself back down to the bed. “A varmint’s what you are, then. Leavin’ me—”

“For the last time, good night.”

“—worked up the way I am,” she continued without pause. “Meanest thing I can think of, Varmint Zamora. Atrofous. That’s what you are.”

“I believe the word is
atrocious
.”

“
Whatever! And jist why the hell do
you
know more English than I do? You ain’t even American!”

“But I’ve been here for sixteen years.”

“So? Still don’t make it fair that you know more’n I—”

“Russia—”

“Shut up, Santiago.”

She said nothing more, but he knew she was infuriated with him. He didn’t care.

Smiling, he closed his eyes again, ready to dream about all the sensual tricks he had yet to try. His last thought before sleep drifted over him was that lovemaking really
was
the slow evocation of all five senses. He found himself feeling a bit sorry for all the men in the world who would never understand that.

And he felt profound sympathy for the women who wished they did.

“Oh, Santiago!” Russia exclaimed upon riding into the town of Whispering Oaks. “Ain’t it purty? It’s so
clean!
And folks ’pear so friendly here!” she added, smiling at the plump, whistling lady who was nodding a greeting to her while sweeping the porch of the general store.

Santiago turned to see how Little Miss Muffet was doing. She seemed a bit wary but content to follow Quetzalcoatl’s lead. Satisfied that the mare was fine, he turned his attention to the town. “It’s very nice,” he replied, saying exactly what he knew Russia wanted to hear.

It was much better than “nice” in Russia’s eyes. There wasn’t a speck of garbage or blowing trash anywhere. All the townspeople were neat and proper. Even the few dogs that trotted around appeared congenial and well groomed.

There were many buildings lining the kempt main street. Next to the general store stood the town meat market with terra-cotta pots full of brilliantly colored flowers decorating the front of it. The pharmacy, a quaint, cornflower-blue edifice, boasted snow-white shutters around its sparkling windows. The word
WELCOME
was stenciled above its door.

Russia smelled the enticing aromas of good home cooking coming from a darling little restaurant called Mama Melly’s. A bald but bearded minister stood oh the steps in front of the whitewashed church, clipping pink roses and placing them in a big wicker basket looped over his arm.

Russia broke into a huge smile when he took the time to wave at her.

Every building she saw had some special touch about it that made her think of homey things. Why, even the jailhouse had a grapevine wreath hanging on its door. “Whisperin’ Oaks is jist like my happily-ever-after town, Santiago,” she informed him, sighing contentedly. “It’s jist the kinda place where I’ll live with my Prince Charmin’ one o’ these here days.”

At the mention of her Prince Charming, Santiago felt a wave of discomfort. It was a dark feeling, one that tainted his recent happiness. “Wonderful,” he mumbled, directing Quetzalcoatl toward the livery.

Lured by a bucket of sweet oats and Russia’s softly spoken love words, Little Miss Muffet hesitated only a few seconds before entering her stall in the stable. Santiago watched, ready to intervene at any moment, but soon relaxed. It was obvious that the little mare had been blessed with a trusting nature, and he could barely wait to begin training her to a saddle. In no time at all, Russia would be riding her very own horse.

As he and Russia walked from the stable to the hotel, Nehemiah trotting behind, Russia didn’t miss how the townspeople stared at Santiago. It bothered her that the horrid tales about him had obviously found their way here, but she remained confident that the citizens of Whispering Oaks were good people.

She would do whatever it took to make them understand that Santiago was not a man they needed to fear.

“Afternoon,” she greeted the plump, whistling lady who was still sweeping the porch in front of the general store. “Name’s Russia Valentine, and this here’s Santiago Zamora. I had these ant bites a while back? Well, I want you to know that he cured ‘emfer me. Mixed me up a prickly pear poultice, y’see, and it worked. He feeds me real good, too. He’s a real carin’ man.”

The woman nodded blankly, trying to absorb everything she’d just heard. “Santiago Zamora?” she repeated. Looking up at the tall, black-garbed gunslinger, she clutched her broom tightly. “
The
Santiago Zamora?”

“I don’t reckon there’s more’n one,” Russia replied, patting Santiago’s arm. “Yes, ma’am, this is him.”

“Oh, my,” the woman mumbled.

Russia realized the lady was still very afraid. She didn’t know what else to do until she noticed a brood of kittens playing with a frayed string behind the woman’s skirts. “Them your baby cats, ma’am?”

Flustered, the woman turned and saw the kittens. The sight of them softened her frown. “Yes, they’re mine. My six little terrors.”

Russia flashed a smile so big, she felt it move her ears. “Santiago loves cats. Loves horses, too, but he loves cats more. Don’tcha, Santiago?”

He nodded when she elbowed him in the ribs. What was she up to? he wondered. She knew he hated cats.

Russia ambled behind the woman and gathered up the runt of the litter of kittens. Praying that Santiago would cooperate, she placed the ball of wriggling white fur into his hands.

The kitten immediately began gnawing on Santiago’s thumb. The feeling was not unlike being punctured by a dozen fine needles. Santiago gritted his teeth.

“See that?” Russia prompted the woman. “Your kitty’s bitin’ the pure puddin’ outta Santiago, and he don’t even care. When you love somethin’ as much as Santiago loves cats, you jist sorta put up with the irritatin’ stuff.”

The woman watched as her kitten chewed on the gunslinger’s thumb. The man didn’t bat an eye. “That one’s name is Moses,” she stated quietly.

“Nice name fer a cat, don’tcha think, Santiago?” Russia asked. “Ain’t it the bestest one you ever heared?”

He clenched his jaw again when the kitten’s sharp claws dug into his wrist. “The best,” he muttered. “The absolute best.”