The Rent-A-Groom (12 page)

She should have asked for ice cream, cake, pie, coffee, anything. Her time, she saw, had just run out.

Bradley protested, suggesting they take his car, head over to the West End tourist haunts and wander around. Race was polite but firm in his refusal. Gina didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when her ex-fiancé subsided without a fight. It seemed unreasonable to be inclined to do both.

She could have refused to leave the restaurant, of course. But that would have meant forcing a confrontation. She wasn’t ready. She had no idea what to say, what to think; she could not even decide the right questions to ask. She was afraid of appearing dumb by jumping to the wrong conclusion, but just as terrified of being a bigger fool by not standing up for herself. Paralyzed by the clamor of doubts and possibilities that whirled in her brain, she allowed herself to be escorted toward the elevators.

She didn’t want to know the truth.

 That was it, she realized as they left the elevator and moved along the hall toward their suite. She didn’t want to listen to Race saying it had been a sham, that none of it had meant anything to him. Whether he was Bradley’s hired hand or just a hustler, she just didn’t want to hear it.

Was this the way it was for all those women who wound up victims of violence from lovers or friends? Could they not believe in their melodramatic fears? Did they not run for safety because they could not bring themselves to accept that someone they loved would hurt them? Or because the wound inside from that betrayal, when it came, would be worse than anything that might be done to them?

Love. It was a simple word, yet so complex.

She didn’t love Race; why, she barely knew him. You had to know someone to love them, didn’t you? That sure knowledge took time, the careful exploration of feelings and ideas, the diligent search for compatibility. It didn’t come in an instant, with a look, a touch.

Did it?

There were small heart-shaped candies lying on the pillows where Etta had turned down the bed. Gina was touched by the maid’s small hint at romantic possibilities. Etta had certainly been taken with Race. And she had been so sure that he was being protective by sleeping on the sitting room floor. No doubt he was—protective of himself, that is.

Gina wished with sudden fervency that Etta could have been right. What a difference it would make. But she didn’t believe in romance, not anymore. After this, she would never be romantic again.

“Are you all right?” Race spoke from behind her, his voice deep and a little rough.

She turned her head to see him standing with one hand braced on the bedroom door frame. The frown of concern between his brows seemed genuine. He was a good actor.

“Yes, fine,” she answered without inflection.

“I’ll lock up.” He waited an instant, but when she made no reply, moved back inside the sitting room. After a moment she heard the click of the dead bolt on the outer door.

He had been waiting, she realized, for her to protest, or at least question, his presence in the suite for a second night. She hadn’t the time or energy; there were other decisions to be made that were far more important.

She didn’t want to be locked in, suddenly couldn’t bear it. Moving to the French doors to the balcony, she pushed the draperies aside and let herself out. Walking to the railing, she clung to it while she stood breathing fast and deep as she stared out at the glimmering city skyline.

“Gina?”

The darkness around her lightened then dimmed again as Race swept the drapes open and let them fall into place behind him. She refused to look at him, though he moved to stand beside her with his hands thrust into his pockets.

The night air was soft and cool. The arc of the sky overhead was gray-black and starless, washed out by the city lights that lay like fallen planets in the distance. Race was silent. There was something calming in the size and solidity of him there, so near yet so undemanding. As strange as it seemed, his very presence gave her courage.

Her voice not quiet natural, she asked, “Who are you, really?”

His sigh was quietly accepting, a tacit admission. “Just a man who wishes that things had been different—that he was different. Or that you were.”

She had known, yet had still hoped she was wrong. She began, “You aren’t—”

“I’m a lot of things,” he interrupted, turning to put his back to the railing, “some of them even legitimate. The part about the ranch is true enough. I run it, work hard at it.”

“That’s something, anyway.”

He glanced away, his face stiff, before he turned back to concentrate his attention upon her once more. His voice lower, he said, “Do you know anything about the rodeo?”

“A little.” She waited, knowing there was more to come.

“I used to follow it, riding the bulls, years ago when I was young and stupid and full of vinegar. I love the challenge and, yes, the death-defying charge of the danger. You have only eight seconds to prove yourself, eight seconds that can be a lifetime. The ride is dangerous and soon over, but it’s a heart-pounding glory. And if you can stay on, if you can make the buzzer, then you win the day and the silver buckle that says you’re a winner. You take home the prize.”

“And what,” she asked quietly, “if you fall off?”

“Then you hit the ground hard and the bull puts his foot in your ribs or your face and—well, you have the pain and the defeat.” His voice turned rough. “But, God, you also had the ride.”

“Yes, I see,” she said, and she did, somewhere inside where logic could not reach and instinct took over. Where the mind stopped and the heart began.

They were quiet, while from the restaurant far below them music floated upward. It was a sweet ballad, one about love and loss.

Race tilted his head, listening. Then he removed a hand from his pocket and held it out with his gaze unwavering on the pale shape of her face. His voice deep and steady, he said, “Dance?”

She could not refuse, nor did she want to; that much was suddenly clear. To accept the dance, to ride the bull, to take a chance on love—for all these things you had to be willing to risk the pain.

Some people never managed it. They preferred to play it safe, to avoid being hurt at all costs. But to avoid being hurt was to avoid living. And life, like bull-riding, was a heart-pounding glory too precious to be missed.

She had vowed to live dangerously, and she would. There was no other way.

She turned to gaze at him there in the dimness. He was a warm shadow, yet solid. Real. She put her hand in his then went into his arms. They closed around her, drawing her firmly against the muscle-clad planes of his chest. Accepting, absorbing his hard strength, she closed her eyes.

Together, body to body, they shifted, drifting slowly around the narrow space of the balcony. It was an ancient instinct, the urge to move in seductive rhythm. They accepted it, sustained it, used it. They held each other until nerves and sinew sang to the music and the moment, until flesh and blood could stand no more. Until the music ended.

Race brushed the silk of her hair with his lips, grazed her forehead, sought her lips as she lifted her face blindly for his kiss. Inside, she felt a sweet, warm yielding. With infinite courtesy, she let him see it, allowed him to feel it.

His chest expanded on a deep-drawn breath, then he bent to place his arm under her knees, lifting her against his chest. In that close embrace, he moved inside, where he placed her on the wide, soft surface of the bed. His knee dented the surface beside her before he joined her in a smooth, controlled glide.

She made a soft sound of pleasure as he reached to touch her breast, cupping it in his warm grasp. It was only a prelude, however, to his gentle, yet thorough exploration of the curves and hollows of her body. He stroked her, holding, pressing with shuttered eyes and widespread fingers, as if he meant to memorize every inch of silken skin and each muscle and finely tuned bone beneath it.

He unbuttoned her shirtwaist, following the opening line with heated kisses as the edges parted. Exposing the lace of her bra, he brushed the firm swells under them with his mouth, letting her feel the heat of his breath, the wet lap of his tongue around the nipples. Taking the straining peaks between his lips, first one then the other, he teased them gently to berrylike tautness.

Barely breathing, she slipped the buttons of his shirt free and trailed her fingertips through the silk thicket of hair on his chest. Finding his flat male nipple, she rubbed it with the ball of her thumb. So enthralled was she by its abrupt contraction into knobbed hardness that she hardly noticed as he slid a bra strap from her shoulder.

The hot wetness of his mouth covered her bare nipple. She inhaled with a soft gasp that grew deeper as he applied delicate, deliberate suction.

His hands, oh, his hands were sure. She tried not to think why, tried not to think of other women he might have known. And succeeded, at least in part. By degrees the suite, the bed, the night faded, to be replaced by the touch and taste and scent of the man who held her, banished by the thunder of the blood in her veins.

She was on fire inside, lost in a world of hot, consuming sensation. Flushed with need, she reached out for him, giving him in full measure the pleasure he was extending with such care and generosity. Clothing was loosened and pulled away, then dropped from sight. The smoothness of silken percale sheets soothed their skin as they turned and stretched, sought and held, while supporting themselves on an elbow or a knee.

Licking, tasting, they learned about each other, imprinting the exact pattern of the molecules of their bodies on the circuits of minds and souls. He held the apex of her being in his hand, and she gave him unrestrained access. As he pressed deep, she contracted around his fingers in fervent internal embrace.

The intrusion stung, burned, in spite of its inciting glory. She closed her eyes tight as she pressed her face into his shoulder.

A winded sound left him. His every muscle stiffened, and he tried to draw back as he recognized the barrier he had reached. She would not release him.

“No,” he whispered against her hair in strained tones. “I can’t. You—”

“It doesn’t matter. Please,” she answered in low entreaty while she pressed closer.

A shudder ran over him as he reigned in his ardor. He took her mouth in a kiss of plundering, near-desperate need. Then slowly, carefully, he began to ease the way for her with deliberate stretching movements. At the same time, he centered the ball of his thumb on the tiny peak of her femininity so that his every effort compounded the waves of pleasure rippling through her.

Her muscles tensed. Her chest rose and fell in increasing tempo that kept pace with the hot rush of her blood. Their damp skins clung. She smoothed her hands over his arms and shoulders, clasping, holding. Reaching lower, she closed her fingers around the vibrant, fevered hardness of his silken length. It pulsed against her palm, straining in bold power toward the inevitable union.

Desire burgeoned, hovered, erupted into sudden, bright ecstasy. She gave a soft cry as she arched against him. He shifted at once to cover her, fitting himself between her thighs. At the towering crest of her pleasure, he pressed into her wet, hot softness. He held the joining while he tasted her mouth once more, sounding it, drinking its sweetness. Then he drew back a little. Watching her face, holding her gaze in the dimness, he eased deeper, penetrating her internal constriction so carefully there was only an instant of aching strain before she was swept into beatitude.

At that extreme he stopped, and with a slow twist of his hips he tested the tight, resilient walls of her most secret self. She met the glistening darkness of his eyes while her heart swelled with fullness. She held nothing back then, but let him into her utmost depth, opening it to him like swinging wide the gate of a fenced enclosure.