Winter's Night (5 page)

I'd probably end up surrendering to it.

But she had no intention of letting him know that, either.
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.
She couldn't afford to let him break her heart again. The first time had been painful enough. And in truth, she wasn't sure if she could survive losing him again.

Instead, she sought to protect herself by putting an end to whatever thoughts might be playing through his mind.

“I'm not a girl anymore, Mr. O'Callahan. I no longer dance to your tune.”

O'Connell took a deep breath as he sized her up. He'd almost forgotten his old alias. But the cold tone of her voice chilled him more than the winter wind at his back.

Still, it did nothing to daunt the fire in his gut that her presence stirred. She looked even better than he remembered. Gone was the willow-thin frame of her youth and in its place were the luscious curves of a woman full grown.

She wore her hair in that tight bun he'd always despised. Catherine had such beautiful hair—long, thick, and wavy. He, the man who was wanted in six states, had spent hours brushing her hair at night. Running his hands through it.

And he wondered if it still smelled like springtime.

In that instant, he remembered the way he had left her. Without a word, without a note. He had simply gone off to work and had never returned.

Shame filled him. He should have at least sent a letter. Although, honestly, he had tried to write one a thousand times. But he'd never completed it. What did a man say to a woman he'd been forced to give up against his will?

Especially when he didn't want her to know the real reason he'd left?

Picking his hat up from the porch, he cast a sweeping, hungry look over her body, and wished for the millionth time, that things had been different between them. That he could have had a long life spent by her side, being the husband she deserved to have. “It's good to see you again.”

Her look froze him as she untied her apron, then stooped to pick up the broken glass and place it in the cloth. “I wish I could say it's good to be seen by you, but in this case I think you'll understand if I'm a bit cool toward you?”

“Cool” was a mild term for her demeanor. In truth, he suspected icebergs at the North Pole might be a shade or two warmer.

He'd expected more anger from her. The Catherine he remembered would have been cursing him like a slow-walking dog for leaving her.

This Catherine was different. She was composed and serious, not laughing and playful.

Passionate, he realized with a start. That was what was missing. She'd lost the verve that used to have her laughing one minute, sobbing the next, and then kissing him blind two seconds after that.

And without a doubt he knew he was to blame for it. Being abandoned had a way of affecting a person adversely. His gut drew tight. He had a lot to answer for in his life. He just wished she wasn't one of those things he'd messed up.

“Where's your anger?” he asked as he leaned over to help her pick up the mess.

Catherine considered her answer. She should be enraged at him, but oddly enough, once the initial shock of the encounter wore off she found herself completely numb to him.

Well, not completely numb.

In fact, “numb” described his effect on her like “handsome” described Abe Lincoln.

A woman would have to be dead not to feel a vigorous stirring for a man so incredibly handsome as her wandering polecat. Especially a man possessed of such raw, primal appeal.

Everything about him promised sheer, sexual delights. And all too well she remembered the way he had felt in her arms, the strength of his long, lean body caressing hers in playful abandon as he sent her spiraling off into blissful ecstasy.

And right then, with his head just inches from her own, she could smell the raw, earthy scent of him. That leather and musk that had always titillated her. That warm, wonderful smell was a part of him like the innate power and authority that bled from every pore of his body.

And those lips …

Full and sensuous, those lips of his had kissed her until she lost all reason, until her entire body buzzed with lust and desire. And those wonderful, sensual lips had teased and tormented her body to the ultimate pinnacle of human pleasure.

Good heavens, how she ached for him. Even after the way he had hurt her.

What are you thinking?

Catherine mentally shook herself. No, she didn't hate him for leaving her the way he had—five years had given her time to lay her hatred aside.

She wouldn't get mad at this point.

She would get even.

He deserved to feel the sting of rejection. Then he would understand exactly what he had done to her. How it felt to be denied and forgotten.

“I got over my anger for you, Mr. O'Callahan,” she said tartly, rising to her feet carefully lest she cut herself on the glass in her apron.

She raked a look from the top of his head down to his still-smoking boot, took a step back into the house and spoke, “And then I got over you.”

With one last stoic look at him, Catherine closed the door in his stunned face.

2

Catherine's words rang in O'Connell's ears as he stared in disbelief at the closed door.

Well, what did you expect?
he asked himself as he retrieved his charred duster from the porch.

Her hatred, in all honesty. That he had been prepared for. But her apathy toward him …

Well …

It was … insufferable.

Anger over her rejection blistered his gut. How dare she dismiss him so. What did she think he was, some lost little puppy come to lick scraps off the floor?

Well, he wasn't a lost puppy. He was a man. A man sought by every woman who had ever laid her eyes upon him. Not that he was vain about it. Not overly so, anyway. It was merely a fact he'd long grown accustomed to. A fact everyone who knew him just plainly accepted.

Women had always been partial to him.

In Hollow Gulch where O'Connell had been working the last few months, the women had singled him out the moment he rode into town—baked him fresh pies, batted their lashes at him. Hell, one gutsy blonde had even snuck into his room and hidden herself naked in his bed while he'd been out drinking.

Not that he had been interested in the blonde or any of the others. Unlike any normal,
sane
man, he'd sent her home as soon as he tossed some clothes on her body. And all the while she'd whispered to him the torrid, lusty things she'd do to give him pleasure.

Her salacious comments had set fire to his loins, but even so, she hadn't appealed to him in the slightest. His heart belonged to Catherine. It always had.

And he refused to sully Catherine's memory by bedding down with any other woman. That was the one vow he'd never break.

Hell, he'd given up everything he valued to see Catherine safe.

And she had banished him from her thoughts?

He saw red.

In the last five years there hadn't been an instant when he hadn't been consumed by thoughts of her. Not a minute he hadn't wondered what she was doing.
How
she was doing.

And she felt nothing toward him.

Nothing.

He didn't even warrant her hatred.

“Fine,” O'Connell muttered at the closed door as he shrugged his duster on, then settled his Stetson on his head. He grimaced at the front of the brim that had been partially burned away by the fire. “I don't need you to feel anything for me, woman. I don't need you at all. In fact, I can put you right out of my mind, too.”

Spinning on his heel, he took a step for his horse. Pain exploded across his foot and he cursed out loud as he limped away.

The woman had damned near maimed him. And all the while she felt nothing toward him.

Nothing.…

*   *   *

“
What do you
mean, you got over me?”

Catherine turned around to see
him
standing in the doorway. His face awash with shadows, she could feel his angry glare more than see it.

Go ahead and seethe, Mr. O'Callahan. Stew in your rage until your entire body becomes pruney from it.

It was terrible to take such delight in a man's misery, but delight in it she did. Catherine kept her face from betraying her glee. She'd known he couldn't resist her words. That was why she'd left the door unlocked. The last thing she wanted was for him to break it down. And knowing him, he most certainly would have done it had she tried to bar him from her house.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.
He wouldn't escape her clutches until she had exacted five years of rejection from his rotten hide.

“Did you need something?” she asked coolly.

O'Connell forced the emotions from his face as he swept his hat from his head. How could she stand there so all-fired calm and dismiss him like an old shoe?

Well, he wasn't some old shoe, to be cast aside and forgotten. They had been more than merely intimate. The woman had actually touched his unrepentant soul. And after all the years he had tortured himself with guilt over his actions, she had forgotten him?

Oh, he wasn't about to leave here until he made her remember what they'd shared. Stepping into her house, he closed the door behind him.

“What do you mean, you got over me?” he asked again as he closed the short distance between them.

She shrugged casually. “It's been five years, Mr. O'Callahan.”

As if
he
needed her reminder. It had been five long, gut-wrenching years of missing everything about her. Of feeling her presence, smelling her scent. Of longing to hear her voice, feel her tender caresses on his flesh.

Like an arrogant fool, he had assumed she'd missed him as well. Obviously, he'd been wrong.

Well, he wasn't going to let her know how much it bothered him. If she wanted to play this with a cool hand, he was certainly one to give it right back to her. He could hide his emotions better than anyone else alive. Indeed, how many times had that trait made her loco?

“You're right, Mrs. O'Callahan,” O'Connell said in a deceptively calm voice. “It has been five long years. For the sake of old times, could you at least tell me where I might find a doctor for my foot?”

A becoming pink stained her cheeks as she glanced down to his injured member. “I'm afraid Dr. Watson died a few months back and as yet we have no replacement. But since I'm the one who burned you, I'll tend it.”

“Well
it
would definitely appreciate that since it is throbbing.”

And now that he mentioned it, the other
it
was throbbing, too. Especially as his gaze dipped of its own volition to her succulent breasts. His body grew even hotter and stiffer as his palm itched to caress the firm round mounds, and his mouth watered to suckle the soft pink tips until they hardened into rippled buds under his tongue.

And she felt nothing for him.

Nothing.

Stifling his growl, he vowed that that would soon change. If it was the last thing he did, he would make her remember how good they were together.

How much pleasure he could give her.

And if any other man had dared enter her bed in the last five years, the law could add the crime of murder to his wanted poster.

“If you're through ogling me,” she said, “I keep my medicinal basket in the back.”

“I wasn't ogling you,” O'Connell muttered, unwilling to admit to her what he'd been doing.

She headed down a narrow hallway toward the back of the house. “Then please forgive me,” Catherine said over her shoulder. “I guess after five years, I've forgotten what an ogle looks like.”

Biting back his response, O'Connell limped his way down the narrow hallway, past the stairs. He looked around at the burgundy walls and the paintings lining the hallway. She had a beautiful home. He just wished he'd been the one to give it to her.

Even worse, a homey feel enveloped her boardinghouse.

There had been a time once, long ago, when he had dreamed of having such a place to call home. And the thought of sharing such a place with Catherine had been his idea of paradise.

But fate had turned her back on him and he had long given up that delusion. He could never have a life with her. He knew that.

“Nice place you have here,” he said.

“Thank you. I made the down payment on it with the money you left behind.”

“See?” he said defensively as he limped. “I wasn't all bad.”

“Which is why I don't hate you.”

O'Connell cursed under his breath. Back to square one. That hadn't helped his case the least little bit.

He wanted her anger, her hatred. He wanted … no, he corrected, he
needed
her to feel something for him. Something other than apathy.

There had to be some way to stir her up.

He paused in the doorway of the kitchen as she crossed the floor to put the apron and glass in a wooden trash receptacle. “If you'll sit at the table and remove your boot, I'll be right back with the burn salve.”

She disappeared into a room off the kitchen.

O'Connell crossed the floor to the table. He set his hat down on the table, shrugged off his duster, then straddled the wooden bench seat and did as she ordered.

Grimacing in pain, he removed his scorched sock. He had to admit his foot had looked better. And it had most definitely felt better.

He blew air at his throbbing toes, noting the reddish skin that was already showing signs of blistering.

Damn, but it hurt. Even more so than his nose had when she'd accidentally smacked him in the face with a broom handle because of some spider web she couldn't stand being in the corner of the room. Personally, he'd have much rather suffered the spider than the broken nose.

Being around Catherine could be quite dangerous to one's health. Though, to be fair to her, he'd never seen her clumsy around anyone but him.