Welcome to Paradise (11 page)

“Okay,” he said, noting with satisfaction that when they reached the clearing in front of the bathhouse she was breathing hard. “I am jealous of your land. I haven't made a secret of the fact that I want it. Say the word and I'll give you a fair price for it.”

“Never,” she said, leaning against a spruce tree.

He shrugged. This was not the time to press her. Not when she was in this feisty mood. But then, when wasn't she? “I'm not jealous of your adapting to the Wild West. I'm impressed. I didn't give you enough credit. You've managed to survive here in the wilds with no amenities. I'm...what can I say? I'm amazed at your fortitude, your stick-to-itiveness, your hard work.”

“That's enough flattery,” she said “I'm not going to sell you the land.”

He crossed the clearing, stepping over piles of brush, and put his hands on her shoulders. “Forget the land for one damn minute. Can't you tell the difference between flattery and honesty?” he asked. “Don't you feel proud of yourself for what you've done here?” He gestured to the brush piles, to the ground she'd cleared. “If you're not, I am. When I first saw you I wouldn't have given you twenty-four hours here. Do you have any idea how I feel about you,” he blurted. “Besides proud?”

Honest? Oh, lord, if she only knew. For one crazy moment he almost told her the truth. The whole story. It was the way she looked at him, with a combination of trust, amusement and downright anticipation that tempted him to confess. Then a smile curved her lips and he squashed the idea of taking the honesty route. He couldn't stand to see that smile fade.

A gleam shone in her dark eyes, an awareness of highly charged particles in the air, of the tension that was always there between them. In the diner, at the bar, out in the open. Everywhere, it was always there and always building. One of these days or one of these nights, it was going to snap like a rubber band that was stretched too tight. Was this the night? The night for passion? For lust, pure and simple? He knew the answer. It was yes, yes and yes. Was it the night for honesty? No. Honesty would just muck things up. Probably for good.

She lifted her hand to his face and traced the hard line of his jaw with her finger.

Her touch was so soft, so gentle, yet so unmistakably inviting. “Oh, sweetheart,” he breathed. “I hope you know what you're doing.”

The answer was there in her eyes. She knew, she knew. She lifted her lips to his. He would have been crazy to ignore the invitation. And Mrs. Bowie didn't raise any crazy children.

He took her mouth completely in one swift motion. He was tired of wondering. Tired of flirting. And talking. He wanted her. All of her. Now. Their tongues tangled in a rapturous kiss that went on and on and made his heart hammer until she finally came up for air.

Chloe clung to him, her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his, merging with his until she was desperate to feel the texture of his skin and the heat from his body without clothing in the way. He picked her up with one swift motion, and carried her to the bathhouse. She dug her face into his neck, nuzzling and kissing him as he kicked the door open and set her on the bench.

Dazed and dizzy, Chloe watched Zeb turn on the hot water to fill the tub. Her body was aching, throbbing with desire. She needed him, wanted him. She had reason to think he felt the same. Through the steam she watched Zeb come toward her, his eyes burning.

“Brings back memories,” he said, watching her with the same heated gaze he'd fixed on her that very first day. “I wanted to take your clothes off then and I want to now.” He knelt next to the bench and unbuttoned her shirt, his fingers clumsy and awkward.

Impatient, she yanked her shirt over her head, unsnapped her bra and tossed it aside. Finally her breasts, swollen with lust and longing, were free. Zeb didn't move, didn't speak. He just stared at her as if she were a statue just unveiled for his pleasure. Maybe he thought she was wanton. Maybe he thought she had no scruples. Maybe he'd regret this tomorrow. Maybe she would too. But at the moment she didn't care. She needed this. Now. She needed him. Now. To feel whole again. To feel wanted, desired again.

“My God, Chloe, you're so...so beautiful,” he stammered. He reached for her then and cradled her breasts in his hands. She felt her nipples peak as he stroked them reverently with the pads of his thumbs. Her body quivered, every cell, every pore alive and aware.

Arching her body to give him access, she suddenly glimpsed the water cresting over the top of the tub. “Zeb, the water,” she gasped.

He let some out, then motioned for her to get in. She approached cautiously, watching him kick off his shoes and strip down to his jeans.

“I want you to come in, too,” she said, in a breathy voice she hardly recognized. She quickly shed the rest of her clothes.

“I'm coming all right, sweetheart,” he promised, ripping his jeans off as he watched her slip into the tub.

She wanted a good look at him, at his body in all its naked magnificence, but he slid into the water before she could satisfy her curiosity. With his hands on her shoulders, he held her on top of him, her back against his chest, where she half floated, half rested, half satisfied, half frustrated, as his arms went around her. His broad fingers stroked the outline of her breasts, then moved to her belly and the soft slick skin of her inner thighs. She shuddered. A rush of pure sexual desire left her quivering, begging for release. She was losing control fast, too fast.

She wanted to see him, touch him, and feel him go rigid at her touch. She twisted around to face him, reached for the soap, and started a lazy journey down his body. Her hands traveled from his broad shoulders to his chest to his navel, reveling in the rise and fall of his chest in the heavy thudding of his heart. In the sounds he made, all male, all macho groans of pleasure and of protest.

“Chloe, hell, what are you...oh, yes, yes...,” he said as her soapy hands stroked his rigid masculinity.

Stunned by the strength of his response, she felt excitement fluttering in her very core. Excitement and need and wonder at the size of him. Her breath was coming in short gasps now as she realized how hot and how wet and ready she was. How ready he was. How close they were to the point of no return. Not that she wanted to return. She wanted to move ahead. To close the gap between them. Once and forever.

With a deep hoarse sound, he gripped her shoulders and thrust upward, filling her as she'd never been filled before. Her body was hot and wet and slick as his strong, demanding thrusts drove her higher and higher onto another level of consciousness. Until the painful pleasure peaked, and in one dizzying moment she went over the edge. She called his name. He shouted hers.

His eyes were closed, his lips pressed together in a sublime smile. He was drifting...no, he was sinking.

“Zeb,” she said, alarmed, pulling his head up out of the water. “You're drowning.”

“I don't care,” he said and he meant it. He could die right now a happy man. On the other hand, if he stayed alive, he might live to do this all over again.

“Come here,” he said. He sat up and, with his hands on her temples brought her mouth to meet his. He brushed his lips across hers, tangling his hands in her wet curls possessively. He wondered for the nth time how any man could have ever let her go. She was everything a man could want— generous, warm, loving, lovable. It took all his self-control to remind himself not to get involved with another woman. Especially one who didn't fit in here. No matter how lovable she was.

In fact, the more lovable, warm and generous she was, the more likely she was to be desired by someone else. And the more likely to go off with someone else when his back was turned. He'd never forget the pain and humiliation he'd felt when Joanne left. How his friends had looked at him, with a mixture of pity and astonishment at his stupidity.

This was a different matter. This was a one-night stand, or maybe two or three. As long as she was willing. As long as she never knew he wanted her land more than he wanted her. Needed her land for his own survival. If he played his cards right, she'd never find out. But if she did... He shuddered to think what she'd think.

If he'd met her sooner, it might have been a different story. Before he was disillusioned about women. Before she was disillusioned about men. Before he'd decided that women couldn't be relied on. Before she'd decided that men couldn't be trusted.

As if she'd read his mind, and suddenly saw how conniving and devious he was, she drew back and studied his face for a long moment He didn't know what she saw there, but whatever it was, she stepped out of the tub and wrapped a large towel around her, knotting it above her breasts.

“So now what?” she asked briskly, as if they'd just finished a hand of poker.

He followed her out of the tub, dripping water across the floor and braced one arm against the wall. “I was thinking about spending the night in your hammock, with you,” he said. He'd been thinking about it since the day she'd bought it. Thinking about sleeping next to her in it her body folded tight against his, one hand stroking those beautiful breasts, the other sliding between her legs to find that secret spot to bring her to another climax and another and another. Then he remembered he'd already suggested a night in her hammock the last time he'd been there and she'd turned him down flat. Something about not wanting to fulfill her romantic fantasy. Not with him, anyway.

Whatever the reason, she had the same look on her face as last time, the look that said,
I don't think so
. He couldn't take being turned down again, not after what had just happened. Not after that earthshaking experience in the tub. It had left him feeling like an overcharged battery, or as if his head were floating above his body, looking down at him. That could be due to his extended immersion in hot water. Or it could be something else.

Damn. His blood pumped just remembering how she floated on top of him, the water lapping against her rosebud nipples. A fever raged somewhere inside him. He grabbed a towel to wrap around his waist and hide his throbbing erection. No, he couldn't chance a rejection. The best thing was to pretend his suggestion had been a joke.

“I was thinking about the hammock,” he continued. “But on second thought it's probably not big enough for two and you've probably got other plans for the night, like sleeping.” There, that ought to let her off the hook. He forced a smile, grabbed his clothes and went out in the night air, hoping it would cool more than his head.

When she came out, still wrapped in the towel, looking puzzled and dazed, a shaft of guilt struck him between his ribs. Obviously, he shouldn't have said what he'd said, or she wouldn't have that look on her face. Ladies' man that he was, or was alleged to be, he still didn't know what you were supposed to say on an occasion like this. “Thanks for a wonderful evening” didn't seem to cut it. “We'll have to do it again sometime” seemed presumptuous. So he didn't say anything except “Good night” She didn't say anything at all. So he raised his hand in a casual gesture and took off, feeling like a total jerk. A guilty jerk.

Chloe stood barefoot wrapped only in her towel, staring off in the direction of the Bar Z Ranch long after the sound of Zeb's footsteps had faded in the darkness. She stood there until a chill came over her, so intense that she started to shake uncontrollably. Yes, she knew he'd leave. No, she didn't want him to stay. Yes, she knew what he wanted from her. Her land. And her body. In that order.

He'd been honest about that. He'd been honest about everything. No sweet talk. No flattery. Except to say he admired her for her hard work. Since he couldn't have her land, and she thought she'd made that perfectly clear, then he wanted a night of fun with her.

She knew what she wanted from him, too. And she'd gotten it. One evening of ecstasy unlike any she'd ever known before or would likely ever know again. She threw on a pair of sweat pants and a sweat shirt, wrapped herself in a thick blanket and lay down in her hammock. Still cold and still alone. “Blues, leave me alone,” she muttered.

After all, what had she expected? That he'd spend the night with her? Holding her? Protecting her from wild animals and her fears of failure and loss and of being deserted? No, he couldn't get out of there fast enough. Probably afraid she'd burst into tears or demand a dozen roses and a thank-you note. Men like him didn't spend the night. Men like him didn't make promises they couldn't keep or send flowers the next day. So what?

He'd said he had no idea how he felt about her. But she knew exactly how she felt about him. He alternately amused her, surprised her and irritated her. And he always
always
attracted her. Like a bee to honey. Like iron to a magnet. Despite her best intentions, she couldn't stay away from him. In the water or out of it. Damn him. She'd come here with the firm intention of avoiding another disastrous romantic entanglement with a man, any man. But especially one with a roving eye. One who had no intention of settling down with one woman.

And what had happened? She'd been here a little over a week and already she was in hot water. Literally. Which didn't mean she had to stay in hot water. Not with him, anyway. She could get along without Zeb Bowie. She could make this place a success on her own. On Monday morning she was going to take steps in that direction.

Restless, she got out of the hammock, went to the cabin she'd cleaned and modestly furnished with an inflatable mattress, and lit the gas lantern. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, she made a shopping list: