Til Death Do Us Part (7 page)

It would be better for both of them if he set her straight today. He didn't know a damn thing about romance or happily-ever-after or making love to a woman who needed the utmost tenderness.

He wondered if there had been a man in her life, someone she had trusted enough to take into her bed, since the night Lenny Plott had raped her. What did it do to a woman to be brutalized that way, to lose all sense of power and control? What would I have done if I'd been her fi
ancé? J.T. asked himself. He knew he would have wanted to hunt Plott down and kill him with his bare hands. And he knew he never would have deserted Joanna. If she'd been his woman, he would have— But she hadn't been his woman, wasn't his woman now. And for both their sakes, he had to keep it that way.

 

“I
DON'T KNOW
how to thank you, J.T.” Joanna spread her arms open wide as if somehow she could embrace the land and the sky, and perhaps even grasp the moment and hold on to it forever. “It still looks so much like Annabelle described it and yet so very different, too. They lived in tents right here on the site, and went into Trinidad for supplies.”

“Your great-grandfather was the archaeologist. Why did he bring his wife along with him? This is some pretty rugged country, even now. It could hardly have been a suitable place for a Virginia society matron.” J.T. lifted the thermos from the picnic basket he had placed beside him when he'd sat down atop the huge, oddly shaped rock formation.

Joanna looked down into the valley below. Such a wide-open space. Such an incredible view. Steep-walled canyons. Never-ending blue sky. And colors so sharp and vivid, they took her breath away.

“Annabelle was a lot more than a society matron. She was a site artist and photographer. She kept a detailed record of the artifacts her husband found, photographing or sketching every discovery. And, for your information, Ernest Beaumont wasn't just an archaeologist.” She turned and smiled at J.T. “He was a world-renowned archaeologist, and he counted among his friends both Earl H. Morris and Alfred V. Kidder. He took part in Kidder's Pecos conference in 1927.” Suddenly realizing she was
babbling, Joanna hushed, shook her head and laughed. “I admit that, after reading Annabelle's diary, I found out everything I could about my great-grandparents.”

“Did you discover the reason your great-grandmother committed adultery?” J.T. asked.

Her laughter died as quickly as it had been born. She sat down on the rock beside J.T. and watched while he poured iced tea into plastic cups. He handed her a cup. She accepted it, being careful to neither touch him nor look at him.

“Ernest Beaumont had been a contemporary of Annabelle's father, who had arranged the marriage for Annabelle, his only child, shortly before his death.” Joanna sipped her tea. “She was eighteen when she married. Ernest was forty-two. She was a dutiful wife, who gave him two sons, and often accompanied him on his archaeological digs, working with him. They had a contented marriage, but not a passionate one.”

“So Annabelle met Benjamin and saw her chance to put a little passion into her life.” J.T. unwrapped a ham-and-cheese sandwich. “She had a summer affair with a wild savage, then returned to her safe, secure life in Virginia and wrote beautiful prose about her ‘great love.'” J.T. grunted, his cynicism obvious in both his words and the cold expression on his face. “She
did
love him. She never forgot him. Never loved anyone else.”

“Yeah, sure. Look, Jo, if she'd really loved Benjamin, she'd have given up everything and stayed out here in New Mexico with him.”

“How could she have done that? It wasn't as if all she had to do was pack her bags and leave her husband. She had two children. And it was Benjamin who told her she
couldn't sacrifice her children for him. That if she did, someday she'd grow to hate him.”

“Annabelle's diary sure has you hooked, doesn't it?” J.T. handed her a sandwich. “Elena packed chips and pickles. Want some?”

“No, thank you.” She unwrapped the sliced sandwich, lifted one of the halves to her mouth and took a bite.

“Hey, there's no need for you to get upset with me or pout,” J.T. said. “You and I disagree about our great-grandparents' affair. You think it was some grand passion, some eternal love, and that they're up in heaven now, reunited and happy. I, on the other hand, think they had the hots for each other, sneaked off together every chance they could, but when the summer ended, they went their separate ways without a bunch of mushy sentimental exchanges or broken hearts.” Joanna chewed slowly, swallowed, and took another bite. She turned her back on J.T., not wanting to listen to him make light of their great-grandparents' tragic love affair. Obviously, the man didn't have a romantic, loving bone in his body.

J.T. grasped her shoulder. She jumped, then jerked around and faced him. “You don't know the first thing about love. Real love. The kind Annabelle and Benjamin shared.”

“Let's drop the subject.” He squeezed her shoulder. She glared at his hand. Immediately, he slipped his hand down her arm. His touch was light, but sensual. Joanna shivered. J.T. lifted his hand, clutched her chin and tilted her face. “Besides, we've got more important things to discuss than our ancestors.”

Joanna held up her right hand in J.T.'s face. “You might not believe in mushy, sentimental exchanges or passionate, everlasting love, but Benjamin Greymountain did. He put his whole heart into crafting this ring.” She grabbed
J.T.'s right hand, lifting it in hers. “And this one. These rings symbolized everything he felt. Everything he and Annabelle had shared.”

J.T. glared at her. Her heart pounded, the beat drowning out every other sound. He grasped her by the back of the neck, sliding one hand under her long ponytail while gripping her waist with the other, and drawing her toward him.

“What do you want me to say, Jo?” He lowered his head, his lips so close to hers that he felt her breath on his mouth. “Okay. Maybe Annabelle and Benjamin were in love. How do I know? What the hell difference does it make? Just because you and I inherited their rings, doesn't mean there's some special bond between us.”

Who was he trying so damned hard to convince—her or himself? He wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend it didn't exist. But it did. There
was
some sort of bond between him and Joanna. There had been since the moment they met. But it wasn't what she thought it was, wasn't what she wanted. It was plain, old-fashioned lust. And J.T. would bet his last dollar that lust had been the overriding emotion between Benjamin and Annabelle.

J.T. wanted to take Joanna. Here. Now. On this hard, hot rock in the middle of nowhere, with only the birds and the insects and the big blue sky as witnesses. And perhaps the ghosts of two long-dead lovers. Had his great-grandfather felt this way about Annabelle? Had his blood run hot every time he'd touched her?

J.T. took Joanna in his arms, kissing her as he had longed to kiss her since the day they met. A wild, hungry passion ruled his actions. He was neither gentle nor patient. When she did not respond, but sat in his arms, stiff and unyielding, he thrust his tongue into her mouth and
cupped her hip with one hand while he held her head in place with the other.

He ended the kiss abruptly, resting his forehead against hers. His breathing was ragged and harsh. Taking her shoulders in his hands, he held her at arm's length. “I'm sorry, Jo. I didn't mean to be so rough. I'm not used to taking things easy or being gentle.”

She looked directly at him. “You think I need to be handled with kid gloves, don't you? Because of the rape. You think I'm not normal anymore, that I can't react the way a normal woman would.”

“I don't think any such thing.” He rubbed her shoulders. “I just think my kiss might have been a little too brutal. You froze solid in my arms, honey.”

“For your information, you aren't the first man who's kissed me since… I have dated. There have been other men. Is your ego so enormous you think all you had to do was kiss me and I'd fall at your feet, that you would be the only one who could sexually arouse me?”

“Did you respond to any of these men you dated?” His touch on her shoulders softened. “Did you have sex with any of them?”

“I—I don't think that's any of your business.”

He ran one hand across her shoulder, then draped his big fingers around the side of her neck, caressing her with tenderness. “I made you a promise to protect you, to keep you safe. Now, I'm going to make you another promise. I promise that I'll never take your power and control away from you. That even if I possess you completely, it will be only because you've given me the right.”

Joanna shivered. He was telling her that he wanted her, that he expected them to become lovers. Did she want him? Was she prepared to be his lover? “There hasn't been anyone since… My former fiancé and I—”

Releasing her, not touching her at all, J.T. lowered his head and kissed her again. This time his mouth moved over hers with soft, tender passion. When she made no protest, he deepened the kiss by slow degrees. Joanna slipped her arms around his neck, encouraging him, responding, hesitantly at first, but soon taking charge of the kiss. When she was breathless and trembling, she eased away from him and stood.

The bright afternoon sun coated her with warmth. She breathed deeply, then smiled at J.T. “You're a man of your word, aren't you, J. T. Blackwood?”

“I try to be,” he said. “If I give a promise, I keep it.”

She nodded, then turned away from him and looked back down over the wide expanse of northwestern New Mexico's rugged yet fiercely beautiful landscape. Did believing J.T. was a man of his word mean that she trusted him? She wanted to trust him—indeed, needed to trust him—and perhaps, on some level, she did. But not completely, and never with her heart.

“Before we left the ranch this morning, you said we needed to talk, and I know it wasn't about Annabelle and Benjamin,” Joanna said.

He stood, walked over to her and drew her back up against his chest. She relaxed against him.

“I talked to Lieutenant George.” Joanna tensed in his arms. “He has contacted Claire Andrews and Libby Felton.”

“How did he find Libby?” Joanna asked.

“It wasn't difficult. She has a driver's license, a couple of credit cards. She files income taxes.”

“Oh, I never thought about how easy it would be to find her. Where is she living now?”

“Texas,” J.T. said.

“What else did Lieutenant George tell you?”

“Plott seems to have disappeared, and left no trace.” J.T. hugged her to him. “And even if Plott has more trouble than the authorities had getting the information he needs on you and the other two women, it won't be impossible for him to get it.”

“What are you saying? That if Plott wants to find us, he can?”

“I'm afraid so. I contacted an old friend of mine, Dane Carmichael. He's an FBI agent. You realize the Feds are already involved. They were called in when Melody Horton was kidnapped.”

“And?”

“Hell, Jo. Why didn't you tell me Plott had millions of dollars at his disposal? The guy is some sort of Virginia blue blood whose name is really Leonard Mayfield Plott III, and he comes from the same kind of wealthy, aristocratic background you do.”

“I know.” She crossed her arms over J.T.'s where they wrapped around her. “But I don't see what his background has to do with—”

“A guy with that kind of money can pay to get any information he needs. God knows how much he paid out to engineer his escape from prison.”

“He's going to find me, isn't he? And when he knows where I am, he'll come after me.”

“Yeah, there's a good chance that sooner or later he'll come to Trinidad. But we'll be ready for him. I'll keep you safe.”

They stood there, looking down at the canyon below them. Joanna thought she heard the sound of drums somewhere off in the distance, but when she saw a streak of lightning on the far horizon, followed by a low rumble of thunder, she realized she had imagined the drums—just as she had imagined them the first time she'd seen J.T.

At sunset, J.T. drove up to the ranch house and parked, then rounded the vehicle, lifted Joanna's sketch pad from her lap and assisted her.

“J.T.!” Elena ran out into the yard. “I was just going to call you on your cellular phone when Alex heard you drive up.”

“What's wrong?” Joanna asked.

Alex stepped off the porch. Elena turned to him, her eyes pleading. Alex looked directly at J.T. “That Lieutenant George just phoned from Richmond. It seems Claire Andrews received a phone call from Lenny Plott this afternoon. He warned her that he was heading west, that he had business in Missouri and he'd be seeing her soon.”

Joanna gasped, then covered her mouth with her clutched fist. J.T. put his arm around her and pulled her up against him.

“He's found out where Claire lives,” Joanna said. “How long will it be before he finds me, too?”

H
IS HAND CLOSED
over her mouth, silencing her scream. He gazed down into her eyes and laughed when he saw the terror she could not hide.

“I promised I'd get out of prison and hunt you down, didn't I?” Lenny Plott's grin widened as he laid the knife across her throat. “I warned you that you'd be sorry if you testified against me. You and the other three.”

She struggled to free herself, pushing up against him, but he pressed her down, trapping her with his body.

“You can't get away from me. There's no one here to save you.” He removed his hand from her mouth, then kissed her hard, thrusting his tongue inside.

Joanna moaned. He slipped his hand under her gown, inching his way up her leg.

No, please, dear God. Not again. Not ever again! She prayed he would go ahead and kill her. She felt his fingers, painful and probing, and felt the knife at her throat.

Joanna's scream rent the night air. She jerked straight up in bed. Sweat coated her body, drenching her nightgown. Trembling from head to toe, she grasped the bottom sheet with both hands as she tried to slow her harsh, accelerated breathing. Reaching out a trembling hand, she switched on the bedside lamp.

A dream. Only a dream. But it had seemed so real. Too
real. Had it been a premonition? Was it inevitable that she faced Lenny Plott again?

With his 9-mm Glock pistol held firmly and ready to fire, J.T. flung open the bedroom door and quickly scanned the area for an intruder. When he saw none, he turned to Joanna.

“What happened?” Replacing his gun in the shoulder holster he was wearing, he walked toward the bed. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Where did you come from?” Sliding to the side of the bed, she slipped her legs off the edge.

“I decided to have the ranch hands take turns standing guard outside. Starting last night. I woke up early and came over to relieve Chuck Webb.” J.T. sat down beside Joanna. “I hadn't been here more than ten minutes when I heard you screaming.”

Joanna scooted away from J.T., not thinking rationally, only feeling vulnerable and insecure. “It was just a dream. A nightmare, really.”

“Must have been some nightmare,” J.T. said. “Want to tell me about it?” Joanna was acting skittish, like a spooked mare, he thought. If only she would let him, he'd take her in his arms and hold her, but he could see plainly that she didn't want to be touched. Not right now.

Joanna shook her head. “I'd like to forget it.”

“Think you can go back to sleep?” he asked.

“No.” She wondered if she'd ever sleep again without fearing the return of the nightmares. For months after the rape, in fact for nearly a year, she had seldom slept the whole night through. “What time is it?”

“It's about five o'clock. If you don't think you can go back to sleep, I'll fix us some coffee.”

J.T. stood, but stopped abruptly before taking a step when he felt the tentative touch of Joanna's fingertips
against his hand. He looked down at her hand reaching out for him. His chest tightened; his stomach knotted. Turning his hand upside down, he offered her his open palm. Damn, but he wanted to grab her, drag her into his arms and hold her close and safe. Instead he waited, holding his breath.

She laid her hand in his, threading her fingers through his fingers, clasping their hands together.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for the feelings that coursed through him at that precise moment. Desire softened by overwhelming tenderness. A fierce protectiveness that made him want to fight the world for her. And a primitive possessiveness that shouted,
This woman is mine!

He could not bring himself to look at her, uncertain what he would see in her eyes, and afraid of what he might do.

Holding tightly to his hand, she eased off the bed and stood. “Thank you, for being here.”

He lifted his downcast gaze, drinking in the sight of Joanna, all feminine beauty in her teal silk nightshirt. Her rich, dark red hair tumbled around her shoulders in a thick, fiery mass. She stared at him with earthy, moss green eyes.

He grew hard and heavy, the very sight of her arousing him painfully. “Joanna—”

“Let me put on my robe and I'll go fix our coffee.” She released his hand, turned and picked up her matching teal silk robe from the corner chair. “I have some banana-nut muffins I made fresh yesterday.”

The moment she pulled away from him, he felt bereft, as if he'd been robbed of the tentative closeness blossoming between them.

“Muffins and coffee sound good to me,” he said, and followed her out of the bedroom.

She flipped on a lamp in the living room as they passed through, then turned on the fluorescent light in the kitchen. J.T. sat down in a Windsor chair at the table.

“Are you sure I can't help you?” he asked.

“Thanks, but I know where everything is and can do it quicker without any help.”

He sat and watched her as she prepared the coffee and warmed the muffins. He couldn't keep his eyes off her. Damn! What was wrong with him? He hadn't been this horny in years. If he needed a woman, he could solve that problem easily enough. But that was it. He didn't want just any woman. He wanted Joanna Beaumont. And despite her denials and her brave show of strength, she was vulnerable and fragile and filled with distrust. There was a raging bull inside him, a rutting animal. But the object of his desire needed a patient, gentle and understanding lover. Hell, what a mess!

He traced the lines and shapes on the table cover, then noticed it was a woven cloth of Navajo design. He'd seen enough Navajo rugs and blankets and other items to recognize them. When he'd given Elena permission to redecorate the ranch house after she'd married Alex, she had used various Navajo items in almost every room.

Joanna placed two mugs of piping-hot coffee down on the table, then removed the huge muffins from the microwave and laid each on a separate plate. Placing a plate in front of J.T., she sat down opposite him. She tore her muffin in half, broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth. Chewing slowly, she swallowed, then washed the morsel down with a sip of coffee.

J.T. lifted his mug. The coffee smelled good. He always started his mornings with a pot of coffee. But this
morning, he'd been too anxious to bother with it. His gut instincts had told him he should be near Joanna. Somehow he had known she was going to need him.

Holding the mug in both hands, he sipped the coffee. “Was your dream about Plott?”

She gazed down into the dark liquid in her mug. “Yes. He had found me and was—” Joanna looked at J.T. and drew in a deep breath when she saw him staring at her, an odd expression on his face. “He was raping me…before he killed me.”

“No wonder you woke up screaming.” J.T. laid his hand, palm up, on the table. “It's not going to happen, Jo. You're safe with me. Plott may find out where you are, but he'll have to go through me to get to you. And tougher bastards than Plott have found out it's not so easy to get through me.”

Joanna glanced down at his outstretched hand. He was offering her comfort and support, the way he'd done in the bedroom. He wasn't grabbing, wasn't taking, wasn't forcing anything. He was just waiting for her to make the first move. She laid her hand in his. With gentle strength, he encompassed her hand with his.

She looked up at him and smiled. He returned the smile and squeezed her hand.

“I'm all right,” she said. “I'll admit that I'm scared, but I'm dealing with it. I've had to deal with it before. For a long time after the rape, I had nightmares. I kept reliving what had happened over and over, and each time it got worse. That first year, even after I came out here to New Mexico, I seldom slept the whole night through.”

“Yeah, I can understand,” he said. “I had a few nightmares after this.” He pointed to his black eye patch. “The bullet severed the optical nerve and screwed things up
pretty bad inside my head. I was lucky I didn't die or wind up some sort of vegetable.”

“The eye patch suits you. Makes you look roguish and a little dangerous.”

“I am dangerous, Jo. You might do well to remember that.”

“Are you trying to warn me about something?” she asked.

He squeezed her hand, released it and stood. Lifting his coffee mug, he took a swig of the warm, sweet liquid, then set the mug back down on the table. “You're a sentimental, romantic woman. You need something I can't give you. I don't want to wind up hurting you, but I could, if you let me.”

He walked into the living room, propped his booted foot on the hearth and stared up at the portrait hanging above the fireplace. A beautiful woman with coppery-red hair, cut in a fashionable twenties bob, stared down at J.T. with compelling blue-green eyes.

“That's Annabelle Beaumont.” Joanna walked into the living room. “I painted her portrait, using some old photographs to go by and from studying the portrait of her that was painted when she was sixteen. Her father had it done and it hangs in one of the guest bedrooms at Mother's house.”

“I can see why Benjamin Greymountain wanted her,” J.T. said. “She was a beautiful woman.” Turning his head, he ran his gaze over Joanna's face. “As a matter of fact, you look a bit like her.”

“Yes, I know. I resemble my father a great deal, and he was told he took after his grandmother.”

J.T. wondered what she'd say if he told her that he looked a bit like Benjamin Greymountain, that although he'd never seen any photographs of his ancestor, and didn't
even know if any existed, he had seen Benjamin's likeness. When his mother had given him the silver-and-turquoise ring, she had also given him a yellowed sketch, the edges of the paper frayed and the charcoal drawing somewhat faded. She had told him that the sketch went with the ring, that both had belonged to her grandfather, Benjamin Greymountain, a Navajo silversmith and a revered leader to his people.

J.T. paced around the living room, knowing he should leave before he said or did something he would regret, but he didn't want to desert Joanna. If he left, she'd know he was running from her. And where could he run? Outside to stand guard? He had the oddest notion that there was nowhere on earth he could run to get away from Joanna, to escape the way he felt about her.

He stopped at the easel set up before the row of windows looking out onto the front porch. Glancing down at the sketch, he caught his breath. Damn! Yesterday when he'd taken her to the site of the old archaeological dig, she'd spent a couple of hours sketching and several times he had caught her watching him. But he'd had no idea she was using him as subject matter.

Hell, he shouldn't be surprised. She'd already filled half a notebook with rough sketches of him. But this was not a rough sketch. This was a completed work. And there was something about the way he looked in the picture that greatly disturbed him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something—something alien to him.

“I didn't mean for you to see that.” She walked up beside him. “I suppose I should have asked your permission before drawing you.”

He grabbed her wrist. She gasped. “Why would you have bothered to ask my permission to do another sketch, when you'd already filled a notebook with sketches of me?”

She jerked away, glaring at him, her mouth rounded in surprise. “How did you know? When did you see my sketches?”

“I found the pad yesterday while I was waiting for you to change clothes. It was sticking halfway under the chair I sat down in.”

“Why didn't you say something then?”

“I didn't want to embarrass you.”

“You didn't want—” Joanna laughed. “You're so damn egotistical, J. T. Blackwood. Those sketches aren't what you think. And neither is that one.” She pointed at the completed sketch on her easel. “If you think I'm some lovesick fool—”

“I never said you were a lovesick fool. Just a sentimental, romantic fool. You've got it in your head that because your great-grandmother had an affair with a native, you're destined to do the same.”

“I wish I'd never told anyone, least of all you, about Annabelle's diary!” Spinning around, she marched over to the easel, ripped off the sketch and threw it to the floor, then lifted her foot and stomped on the torn paper.

“There's no need for you to get violent. I didn't mean to upset you, only warn you not to build any romantic fantasies around me.”

J.T. grinned, a stupid, smirky, macho grin, and Joanna wanted to slap that silly smile off his face. “For your information, I have five commissioned works to do, all with a Native American theme. I've built my career on creating unique oil and watercolor paintings as well as finely detailed sketches. But somehow I've never been able to truly capture the spirit of this land or the Navajo people. Using you as a subject has helped me focus on your ancestry. In a couple of sketches I've come so close to put
ting my emotions on paper, in delving deep enough inside myself to find the truth.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You might have been raised as a cowboy, J.T., but when I try to sketch you as a cowboy, I know something is missing. In this sketch—” she stomped her foot on the object under discussion “—I somehow captured the real you. A man who is both cowboy and Indian, and yet is truly neither.”

He grabbed her, not heeding the warning voice inside his head, listening only to the primitive needs inside him and to the whispers of his heart. Pulling her up against him, he glared at her. “You see too much, Jo. You understand too much.”

“I'm not afraid of you,” she said, tilting her chin defiantly as she stared directly at him.

“You should be,” he told her. “But heaven help me, I don't want you to be.” Lowering his head, he took her mouth in a hot, bold kiss that quickly had her clinging to him.