Renegade: A Taggart Brothers Novel (12 page)

Bring jacket.

He chanced a look at her then, sure that she could see the need that rocked him to the very core. But rather than looking alarmed, she merely gazed at him, her cheeks growing pink before she looked away.

Nevertheless, she responded with:
OK.

Sure that his grin was far too telling, Jace quickly schooled his features and slipped his phone back into his pocket. Crossing to where Barry was still holed up with Lily in the tree house, Jace called up, “Time to go, bud.”

But Barry didn’t respond. Sighing, Jace used the ladder bolted to the side of the tree to climb up far enough to see inside. He grabbed Barry’s empty paper plate and cup. But when he saw Lily’s uneaten food, Jace felt a twinge of concern.

“Lily? Aren’t you hungry?”

She shook her head, her eyes wide.

Barry frowned. “Maybe she’s got a tummyache. I put lots of good stuff on her plate, but she won’t even eat a cookie.”

Jace felt a twinge of guilt, realizing that he was probably the source of her loss of appetite.

“Maybe she’s tired, Barry.”

Barry shook his head, offering in a stage whisper, “I think she’s been crying. Her eyes are all red.”

Damn, damn, damn.
He might have taken a step forward with Kari, but Jace worried he’d taken three steps back with Lily.

“Maybe she needs some time alone with her mom. Once you’ve come home with me, then Bronte can talk to her.”

Barry considered that idea. Clearly, he didn’t want to leave a friend who was in distress, but somewhere, way back in his memory, perhaps he tapped into the image of their own mother scooping him up to comfort him.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Lily.”

Barry stubbornly waited until Lily offered, “ ’Kay.”

“But you can call me if you need me before then. We have a phone, don’t we, Jace?”

“Yes. We do. The number is pinned to the refrigerator with a magnet.”

“Hear that, Lily? You can find the number if you need it. I can run right over. Or saddle a horse and ride. I can come if you need me.”

Jace’s gaze narrowed. His brother had used the little girl’s real name.

So he wasn’t mixing her up with his twin. Right?

Lily’s smile was tremulous, not quite reaching her eyes.

“Okay,” she whispered.

Barry reluctantly backed toward the ladder.

Jace dropped to the ground and waited until Barry did the same. But before Jace knew what Barry meant to do, he ran toward Bronte.

“Lily needs you to hug her,” Barry said baldly.

Jace hurried to interpret, but Bronte glanced up at the tree house, then set down the stack of plates she’d been gathering.

“Thanks, Barry. I think you’re right.”

Knowing that they would only be in the way, Jace nodded to Bronte, then steered Barry toward the truck.

Once inside, Barry clicked his seat belt, then asked, “What if a hug isn’t enough, Jace?”

Jace turned the key in the ignition. “Then we keep being her friend until we find out what we can do to help her feel happy again.”

Barry nodded, his brow furrowing as the wheels began turning in his head.

Jace realized—now more than ever—the emotional landmine he would have to walk in order to pursue a relationship with Bronte. As much as they might think that the feelings they shared were between the two of them, everything they did could have far-reaching consequences with the children under their care.

Putting the truck in gear, Jace forced himself to turn the wheel and head toward the ranch—even though it was the last place he wanted to go.

*   *   *

THE
yard was inky and filled with shadows as Bronte eased outside, carefully closing the screen behind her. Despite the full moon that hung heavy on the horizon, the grass was thick with shadows. A cool breeze was blowing, but she left the door ajar so that she could hear if her children called out.

She’d spent most of the evening doting on Lily. She’d washed and plaited her hair, cuddled her on the couch, and colored pictures of princesses with crayons they’d found in one of Annie’s cupboards. Through it all, Bronte had tried to gently draw her daughter into conversation. Lily had always been a daddy’s girl, and Bronte tried to reassure her that she would still see her father for holidays and summer vacations.

But rather than talking, Lily kept changing the subject. What little interaction Bronte was able to inspire revolved around Barry and toy horses and whether princesses ever wore lemon-lime gowns instead of cotton-candy pink.

Padding toward the glider, Bronte was alerted halfway by the soft snuffle of a horse.

She glanced in the direction of the noise, then altered her course when she realized that, this time, Jace was still atop the animal.

With each step closer, her heart pounded more audibly in her ears. The tingling awareness that she’d felt each time in his presence grew even more pronounced—so much so, that she seemed to flash hot, then cold.

Sweet heaven above. What was it about a man on horseback that aroused a response in the average red-blooded woman? Was it a reaction encoded in her DNA after hundreds of years of survival? Was it that a male astride an animal represented the warrior that the female sex had gravitated toward for countless generations?

Or was it the sheer show of strength and dominance.

Whatever the reason, with each step she took, Bronte felt as if she were walking into her own private fantasy. A shadowed clearing. An enormous steed. A powerful man.

In the darkness, Jace’s physique was even more pronounced. The moonlight that filtered through the trees silvered the shape of his hat and cast his eyes into darkness before limning the jutting shape of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of his arms. He sat effortlessly in the saddle, the reins held loosely in one hand.

When she was only a few feet away, his voice slipped through the night like liquid silver.

“Ever been on horseback?”

She nodded.

Jace kicked free of one of the stirrups and held out a hand. “I’ll boost you up.”

As soon as she’d found her foothold, he lifted her behind him in one smooth motion. Then, he looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark and fathomless. “Put your arms around my waist.”

Her fingers trembled as she did as she’d been told. She experienced a wave of wonder as her palms registered the hard planes of his abdomen. Even through his shirt, she could
feel the contours of a well-defined six-pack. But hard on the heels of that thought, came a burst of panic. She might have ridden before, but that had been years and years ago.

“I should stay close to the house . . .” she began—and she could have cursed herself for the tremor in her voice.

But Jace reached down to cover one of her hands with his own. The warmth of his palm, the slightly rough texture of calluses brought on by ranch work, caused a delicious frisson to dance up her arms.

“We’re going to the ridge on the other side of the creek. I need to get you out of the trees and there’s a good vantage point up there. You’ll be able to see if any lights come on in the house.”

She nodded, willing to do anything so that he continued to touch her.

Dear heaven, when had she become so needy? So desperate?

He clucked to the horse, reining him away from the house and the huge willow in the backyard, to the creek that slithered through the grass and headed toward the Taggart property. Beyond the creek was a steep hill covered in scrub and cedar.

Clasping her hands together over the cold metal of Jace’s belt buckle, she pressed her cheek against the firm surface of his back, trying not to think about how far the ground was from her current position, how precarious her perch was behind the saddle, and how much it would hurt if she fell off.

But as the horse picked its way through the grass, then the cold, shallow creek, she grew calmer. Maybe, like maneuvering a bicycle, riding was a skill that wasn’t really forgotten.

Unfortunately, as soon as the thought drifted through her mind, the horse began lunging up the steep slope.

A squeak of terror escaped her throat and Jace laughed. Again, he pressed his free hand over hers in reassurance.

“Relax. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

After a half-dozen more lunges, the horse’s gait evened out. Seconds later, the animal came to a complete halt.

Reluctantly, Bronte peeked out of one eye. When she finally let out a long breath and straightened, she found Jace watching her with a smile.

“All done. The ride wasn’t too bad, was it?”

She shook her head even though her pulse was still knocking at her throat in an uneven tattoo.

“Give me your hand again and I’ll help you down.”

Her fingers didn’t seem inclined to release him. But this time, it wasn’t because of her fear, but because she didn’t want to abandon the warmth of his body seeping through his shirt.

Jace, thankfully, didn’t seem to notice. He easily lowered her to the ground. Then, after she’d stepped away, he dismounted himself.

After tying the horse to the branch of a Russian olive tree, he untied the blanket that had been rolled up and attached to the saddle with leather straps.

“Hold this.”

She took the blanket while he grabbed a set of saddlebags that he’d looped over the pommel. Then, to her infinite delight, he laced his fingers with hers and drew her toward the bluff.

Just as he had promised, they were still within a hundred feet of Annie’s house. Farther on, she could see the twinkling lights of the Taggart’s Big House, and farther on, their barn.

“Barry’s in bed?” she asked.

“Barely. Bodey’s latest relationship seems to have fizzled out, so he’s home tonight. He’ll herd Barry back to his room if he gets up.”

Bronte turned in the opposite direction, expecting to see a view worthy of the trip up the hill, but a stand of trees in the distance prevented her from seeing much more than distant lights.

Her face must have registered her confusion because Jace laughed and said, “That’s not the view we came here to see. If we’d been at my place, we could have relaxed on the porch, but there’s too many trees around Annie’s house.”

He grabbed the blanket and shook it free, then arranged it on the ground. Sweeping the hat from his head, he set it carefully on one corner. Then, before she knew what he meant to do, he lay down, crossing one foot over the other ankle, and held out an arm in invitation saying, “Come here.”

Bronte frowned, wondering if she’d given him the wrong impression. Yes, she was attracted to this man. Yes, she wanted to spend time with him . . . touch him . . . even kiss him. But . . .

“Relax. I’m not making the moves on you. Just lie down for a minute.”

Deciding that after everything he’d done for her she could afford to humor him, she lay stiffly at his side.

A
GAIN,
Jace chuckled, a low, soft,
delicious
sound that seemed to come from the depths of his chest. Then he pulled her head onto his shoulder and, gesturing to the sky above them, said, “Look.”

Bronte obediently followed the direction of his finger, seeing what she had expected to see—a sky black as pitch. But then, her eyes took in the glittering pinpoints of starlight—large and small, white hot, pale pink and icy blue, rounded orbs that were probably distant planets, and glittering dusty smudges that hinted at faraway realms that hadn’t been explored by mere mortals yet.

Bronte shivered at the beauty pulsing above her, and Jace pulled her tighter against his body for warmth. Not even the latent power of his body could distract her from this incredible view. She’d forgotten how beautiful the sky could be when the glow of the city was removed. For some reason, the stars seemed closer against the blackness.

“It’s fantastic,” she breathed.

Bronte felt Jace’s head turn and knew he was watching her. He’d pulled her more securely into his shoulder and she
absorbed the rise and fall of his chest and the nearly imperceptible sound of each breath swelling his lungs. Making herself more comfortable, she rested one hand on his sternum, her fingers intuitively deciphering the rhythm of his heart.

She was about to tilt her face toward him when something streaked through the sky like an arrow of light. Then, it was gone, making her wonder if she’d imagined it.

A soft “
oh
!” of surprise burst from her lips. Then she frowned in disappointment, not really sure what she’d seen, but wishing she’d been forewarned so that she could have given it more of her attention. Then, to her delight, another thread of silver shot through the pinpoints of light, seeming to head for the mountaintops in the distance.

“Right on time,” Jace murmured under her cheek.

“What are they? Shooting stars?”

He nodded. “Technically, the earth is passing through an asteroid belt. I think that’s what they called it on the news. It happens every few years in the spring, but the weather doesn’t always cooperate. Since there weren’t many clouds today, I was hoping that our luck would hold.”

Bronte waited, barely breathing. Several minutes later, another star seemed to plunge to earth, then another. Soon, she realized that the intervals between the phenomena were growing shorter and shorter, until the sky seemed streaked with lights that shot through the blackness like a spider’s web. Then—as if weary of performing a private fireworks show—the night grew still again.

“It’s over?” she whispered to Jace, barely breathing in case she should miss something by daring to speak.

“Mmm hmm. You might see a stray one, but the whole thing usually lasts only about twenty minutes.”

“This happens every few years.” It wasn’t a question. Instead, it was a statement of wonder.

“Did you make a wish?”

She looked at him in alarm. “I didn’t think about it.”

“Do it now. I’m sure the statute of limitations isn’t up yet.”

His eyes twinkled as the arm around her waist nudged
her, encouraging her to suspend her cynical adult wisdom for a few minutes.

Closing her eyes, she searched for a wish that would equal the grandness of the occasion. But as the quiet settled around her, it wasn’t a wish that came to mind. Instead, she grew intimately aware of the warmth of Jace’s body, the strength of the arm that held her, the almost imperceptible knock of his heart against her fingertips. Suddenly, the future seemed inconsequential and oh so far away. Instead, her senses were flooded with thoughts of Jace and what she wanted—no,
needed
—from this man.

Her eyelashes flickered open and she was hooked by his gaze—one that seemed as intense and hungry as her own.

“Did you make a wish?”

His voice was low and raspy, echoing the awareness that raced through her body like a tidal wave, sweeping away everything but the need for his arms around her. And his kiss. Please, let him kiss her, right now, in this hushed clearing, in this magical moment.

“Yes.” The word emerged as an almost imperceptible puff of sound.

Then, when she felt she couldn’t bear one more second of loneliness, his fingers sifted through her hair, drawing her down toward him.

He let her control each move, his hand suggesting the movement rather than commanding it. But there was no hesitation as she bent toward him until their breaths tangled together. Then, he was lifting his head the last scant inch until he whispered a hairsbreadth away from her mouth, “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Before she could react to the pronouncement, his lips were against hers, softly, sweetly, urging her to relax against him as his head returned to the ground. The hand that had been at the side of her face moved to cradle her nape, pulling her gently closer until her hair fell around them like a dark curtain, providing them with an illusion of privacy that they didn’t really need. Except for her children in the house down
below, there was no one around for miles. There were just the two of them, lost in exploration.

As Bronte leaned into him, Jace’s tongue traced her lower lip, bidding entrance, and she immediately complied, knowing that there was nothing on earth that she wanted more. Immediately, he swept inside, tasting and exploring—and teasing Bronte into doing the same.

It seemed like a lifetime since she’d been in Jace’s arms, since she’d felt his lips against hers, his breath hitching in time with her own erratic gulps for air. Almost immediately, her body was hit with a raging wave of sensation. She flashed cold, then hot again as desire and want and need rushed together, storming through her body and robbing her of all coherent thought. She could only
feel
—feel his strength, his masculinity, his adoration. As she pressed more hungrily against him, slanted her lips to give him better access, Bronte realized the enormity of her isolation and loneliness as her body, which had felt heavy and dull and weighted with ice, melted beneath the heat of Jace’s simple caress. As the fire licked through her arms and legs and chest with the swiftness of a flashover, she found herself hungering for more and more and more.

Without conscious thought, it was Bronte who deepened the caress. Her tongue tangled intimately with his, seeking the very essence of his soul, while her body pressed tightly against his, absorbing each ridge, each valley, as if he had been tailor-made to give her pleasure.

One hand plunged into his hair, absorbing the silky softness, the way the short strands ran through her fingers like quicksilver, while the other fist gripped at his shirt.

Heeding her silent cues, Jace wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, rolling her onto her back. Their legs twined intimately together, even as her hands swept over the musculature of his arms, the strength of his back. Like a blind woman, she reveled in the bunch of muscles across his shoulder blades and the Braille-like bumps of his spine. Unable to stop herself, she gripped handfuls of his shirt,
pulling it free from his waistband so that she could splay her palms over the heat of his bare flesh.

Jace gasped, pulling back, and they both struggled to breathe. She honestly couldn’t remember if she’d ever seen Phillip breathless. Not even in passion. Not for her.

But Jace was searching her face, gauging her reaction. Then a slow smile spread over his lips while his eyes continued to burn in the darkness. The warmth of his expression spread through her body like hot molasses, thick and slow and filled with latent promise.

Thankfully, he didn’t speak—he didn’t have to. Bronte was sure that her need was broadcast as transparently as his. But when she tried to bring him closer, he lowered his lips for a quick kiss, then another, then another. Then he sighed against her lips.

“Shh. Relax and enjoy it. There’s no rush.”

But there was. Bronte nearly whimpered aloud with her need to glut herself on the sensations this man was inspiring. She couldn’t remember the last time that she had been held or even touched in passion. It wasn’t a matter of months, it was years—probably before Lily had been born. Phillip had craved his drugs and the high they gave him more than he’d ever longed for her. Day by day, she’d tamped down her own needs and desires until she’d convinced herself that she was too old to feel the headiness of sexual awareness any more. She’d even wondered if something had happened to her after Lily’s birth. The pregnancy and the delivery had been hard on her, and she’d begun to believe that something inside her had been damaged.

But Jace easily dispelled all of those concerns. When his lips settled in for a long, slow kiss, she surrendered herself to his ministrations, especially when one broad hand slipped beneath the hem of her shirt and made a slow pass from the nipped-in spot at her waist, up to her rib cage, then higher, until the tips of his fingers brushed against the fullness of her breast.

A bolt of white-hot passion shot through her body and she gasped, her hips unwittingly bucking against him, her back arching so that his hand settled more firmly around
the aching globe. As she fought to breathe, Jace’s lips left hers, slipping lower and lower, dropping down the sensitive column of her neck to the notch in her collarbone. Then to her utter amazement, he licked the sensitive hollow, nearly causing her to come completely unglued.

“What are you doing to me?” she gasped, nearly incoherent.

She felt him smile against her. “Good things, I hope.”

Her hands lifted to frame his face, her fingers plunging through his hair.

“Oh, yeah,” she whispered.

He pushed up the hem of her blouse until her bra gleamed white in the darkness. Bared to him, there was no question that she was aroused. Her nipples were so tight, so sensitive. When he bent to take one of the aching nubs in his mouth, she arched into him again, crying out.

Dear sweet heaven above. What was he doing to her? Was it simply that it had been years since she’d been touched so intimately? And even longer since she’d made love? Or had some new power taken over her body and her mind, making her more susceptible to a man’s caress?

But no, that wasn’t possible, because what Jace was doing to her—with his tongue, his fingers, even the mere pressure of his breath was more arousing than anything that she could ever remember experiencing.

Sensing her wantonness, Jace allowed their legs to tangle, his body to press hers more firmly into the ground. She reveled in the pressure, in the strength of his thighs, the rasp of their jeans as she arched against him. But most powerful of all, she felt a blaze begin low in her belly at the evidence of his arousal as it rocked against her, mimicking the very act that she found herself craving most.

A delicious tension was building in her—one that she’d only experienced a few times before. But it was different this time, holding her in its grip, making every muscle in her body strain toward a single goal, even as her mind whispered, “
Not now. Not yet!”

But there was no holding it back. Before she even knew
what was about to occur, she seemed to shatter so fiercely that she was sure bits of her soul streaked through the night sky like the shooting stars she’d recently witnessed. On and on, the powerful contractions shuddered through her body as she clutched Jace tightly against her, rocking against him in need.

Finally, as the last rippling sensations seeped from her body, she found herself gripping Jace around the neck as if she were drowning and he alone could save her. But then, as her wits slowly returned, and she became aware of the secluded clearing, the stars overhead, and the man above her . . . she was inundated with flashes of emotion—awe, embarrassment, joy, shame.

How could she have lost control so quickly—and obviously—with a man she hardly knew?

But when Jace lay her back down on the blanket and bracketed her face with his broad hands, she found herself looking at him—
really
looking at him. It wasn’t a stranger she saw. Instead, she absorbed the broad brow and deep-set eyes, the blade of his nose, the slash of his cheekbones, and that square jaw with the faint cleft in the chin. In that instant, a part of her recognized much more than his face. It was as if she’d been searching for something all this time, and she’d finally found it in him. A part of her soul welcomed him into her heart even as her mind reared back from the idea.

As if sensing her inner turmoil, Jace rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so that she lay against his chest. She buried her face against him, afraid of what he must think of her. But the fingers that smoothed her hair were gentle.

“I take it that it’s been a while,” he murmured.

There was a teasing note to his tone that was meant to put her at ease, to convey to her that he wasn’t put off by her reaction—and indeed, he was pleased with himself for inspiring it. It was that playful acceptance that gave her the courage to lift her head and meet his gaze again.

“I’ve never felt like that,” she whispered, confessing the awful truth. Oh sure, she and Phillip had enjoyed a healthy physical relationship. At least at first. But her husband had found it necessary to remark that she was “slow to warm
up.” She’d never been the one to instigate lovemaking. With Phillip’s late hours and the arrival of the girls, quite honestly, she’d been too tired most of the time to find such encounters with her husband worth the time and effort. It wasn’t long after that when Phillip was injured in the automobile accident. Little had she known, but as his addiction to pain medication had increased, his sex drive had withered. For years, she’d blamed herself for the lack of physicality in their relationship. If she’d only tried harder to be the woman he wanted her to be. If she’d only reached out more, been creative, made the time. If she’d only been prettier, younger, more voluptuous.