Delilah's Weakness (10 page)

It’s his voice, she decided. It was mesmerizing her. Or perhaps it was some uncataloged narcotic that radiated from him like body heat.

"All you have to do," he murmured, "is say no."

But when his head descended, that word was the farthest thing from her mind. The warm satin of his lips became the moist heat of his mouth. Her eyelids fluttered and drifted down as she unconsciously tilted her head, opening her mouth to the gentle thrust of his tongue.

His breath whispered through her mouth in a little sigh. His hands moved, pulling her to his body by slow, inexorable degrees, so that her breasts first barely brushed, then were flattened against his chest, and his thighs touched hers, then lined up hard against them. His hand pressed on her waist, bringing the soft inward curve of her belly against the contours of his lower body.

Her heart began a slow thundering that sent waves of heat through her body with every pulse, while her breath rushed upward, like effervescence seeking release. It made a low, whimpering sound as it escaped her mouth, only to be captured in his. Her hands had somehow found their way to the back of his neck. She could feel the thick softness of his hair beneath her fingers.

She jerked her hands down and pushed furiously against his chest. Luke resisted the pressure effortlessly, releasing her, but slowly, and in his own sweet time. "I still haven’t heard you say it.
No
."

Delilah pressed the back of her hand to her lips, hiding them from that dark gaze, knowing they were moist and swollen from his kiss. She glared at him as she struggled to corral her breathing and her poise, then gave up and turned on her heel. Stalking into her bedroom, she snatched up one of her two pillows, her handmade patchwork comforter, and the extra blanket she kept folded at the foot of her bed, and returned to push the whole untidy load into Luke’s arms.

"You’ll find a bale of straw in the first stall to the left," she said through the tension in her jaws. "Wire cutters are on the second shelf. Use as much of it as you need."

"Delilah—"

She opened the door and stood implacably, letting in cold air. Her voice trembled—with the chill, she told herself. "I guess you must have heard what Amos called me. But I’m not. I assure you. I’m not what he said I was."

Luke’s voice was very quiet. "I never thought you were."

"Then why did you think I’d—"

"I gave you every opportunity to stop me. You didn’t."

"This isn’t going to work." She was beginning to shiver, both with cold and delayed reaction to an embrace that had upset her in ways she would never, ever want to admit. "Please. Tomorrow I’ll take you to town. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go to bed."

"At eight o’clock?"

"I’ve been up since six!"

"‘Lilah," he murmured, "you’ve really got a problem, haven’t you?"

"Yes." She sighed. "But by tomorrow he’ll be gone. Please, Mr. MacGregor."

He hesitated a moment longer, then muttered, "‘Night, ‘Lilah," and went down the steps. A few yards from the house she saw him switch on the flashlight, and she quietly closed the door.

Her house had always seemed so warm and secure, yet after Luke had gone, it seemed untidy and uncomfortable. Delilah felt keyed up and restless, exposed and vaguely frightened, as though something unknown and dangerous was prowling the shadows beyond the firelight. She felt as though Luke was watching her, even while she undressed, took a shower, washed her lingerie. And she was haunted by the same sensual images that had tormented her all afternoon, augmented now by more recent experiences. His thumb, slowly stroking the cords of her wrist; the muscles of his thighs pressing against hers; the unexpected feel of the back of his neck in her hands, so vibrantly, shockingly intimate.

That was what bothered her about the man—he’d never been a stranger. From the moment she’d leaned her body into his and taken his weight across her shoulders there had been a sense of familiarity, of rightness. And yet she found him frightening, disturbing. It should have been a contradiction, but it wasn’t.

She knew Luke MacGregor was frightening and disturbing mainly because she was fighting so hard against that familiarity. What would happen if she were to stop fighting it? Accept it… give in to it? Could he touch her mind and heart as he’d already touched her body? Make her want to lose herself in him as she was longing to surrender to the warmth of his body?

She angrily piled her clean lingerie into a pan to hang out in the morning, turned off the lights and walked to the window to stand staring up at the barn. Her mouth still tingled with the imprint of his, and her breasts ached and swelled in involuntary reaction to the memory of their contact with his chest.

All right, so she’d never felt like this before. But she’d been fooled before, too, and every time she’d been left with the bitter aftertaste of disappointment. Her few sexual experiences had left her feeling lonely and betrayed. Why should this man, a man who would stoop so low as to hide from a woman who loved him, be any different? In the one short day he’d been in her life he’d turned it upside down and torn to shreds what little peace of mind she had.

No. She’d take him to town first thing in the morning, right after chores. He could go back where he belonged, and she would get back to what was important—to her sheep, her future, her dream.

Up in the darkness near the barn door a tiny light flared. The glow of the match briefly illuminated cupped hands, a classic profile. It seemed the president of Thermodyne was restless too.

** ** **

Luke drew smoke deeply and gratefully into his lungs—and erupted into a fit of coughing. Examining the end of the cigarette as if it were responsible for all his troubles, he heaved a long, discouraged sigh. Delilah was right. He could be skiing right now—or more probably, snuggled up to a warm fire, a warm drink, and a warm body, in no particular order and preferably simultaneously.

She was an even bigger pain than her father. Why was he putting up with this aggravation, anyway? He ought to say the heck with it—cut his losses, pull up stakes and go to Idaho, or Montana… even Alaska. He’d always wanted to go to Alaska.

She’d surprised him. He kept remembering the way she’d felt in his arms. She’d come to him so easily, so naturally. And yet….

Somehow it had gone wrong. For perhaps the first time in his life, he’d misplayed his hand. He couldn’t read her, that was the problem. She had a thick hide and was as headstrong as a Billy goat, but he could still feel her fingers stroking the hair back from his forehead—right after she’d stitched his head together as casually as if she were sewing a button on a shirt. And just now,  her mouth, so warm and sweet, and her hands on the back of his neck…

Dammit.

He needed more time. Time to figure her out, time to get in under all those defenses she’d built up around herself. And she was bound and determined to ship him off tomorrow morning, just as soon as she could drive him into town.

Drive him.

When the inspiration struck, it felt like a discreet tap on the shoulder by a helpful guardian angel. Or devil.

A very small voice said:
If she can’t drive you, she can’t get rid of you.

He straightened abruptly, tossing his cigarette away in a shower of sparks. The house was dark. Off to the side, all by itself under the silver glow of starlight, sat the Incredible Hulk, as he’d begun to call it on the way home from town—Delilah’s twenty–year–old Navy–surplus pickup truck. Grinning to himself, Luke sat down in the barn doorway and took off his shoes, and then, tucking the flashlight under his arm, set off across the gentle slope of bare ground that separated the barn from the house. Lady came running up to lick his hand, then went ranging off on some foray of her own.

He felt for the truck’s hood latch, praying it wouldn’t open with a creak and a groan, but his guardian angel was still on the job. The latch gave, and the hood rose with only the faintest metallic whisper. And then Lucas Byron Charles MacGregor, president and principal stockholder of Thermodyne, Inc., and erstwhile law–abiding citizen, working only with the aid of starlight, flashlight, and a watchful guardian angel, calmly and deftly removed the rotor from the distributor of Delilah Beaumont’s pickup.

T
he smell of
bacon cooking woke Delilah out of a heavy sleep. She lay for a moment with her eyes closed, floating in a dream limbo that must have had its origins in the furthest reaches of her subconscious memory, before the years of housekeepers and cold breakfasts, when loving hands had tied ribbons in her hair and a soft voice had sung her to sleep with nursery rhymes.

She blinked her eyes open and stretched, then saw the rectangle of pale light on the Navajo rug that covered her feet, and remembered:
Luke.

And to make things worse, she had overslept. Kicking herself free of the rug, she scrambled out of bed and snatched up the alarm clock, glaring at it in silent reproach.

From the other room came the unmistakable clatter of stainless steel. Delilah hastily replaced the offending clock on the nightstand, fluffed her hair vigorously with her fingers, and dressed. She stripped off the warm thermals circumstances had forced her to sleep in, then quickly slipped on fresh underwear. The thermals went back on, then clean jeans and a sweat shirt. Half–hopping on one foot, still struggling with her shoe, she went out into the warm living room.

"‘Morning, sunshine."

Luke had turned to zap her with one of his high–voltage smiles. It caught her mid–hop, and she had to drop down onto the couch and pretend to be absorbed in tying her shoelaces to give herself time to recover.

Damn, she thought.
How can any mortal man look so good so early in the day?

He’d already helped himself to her shower, obviously, and his damp hair still had a tousled, Huck Finn look. There was nothing boyish, however, about the arrangement of muscles in his neck and shoulders.

How can a man look so masculine wearing a dish towel for an apron?

And this room, already warm, full of golden light and mouth–watering smells…

It was just too much. Getting out of a warm bed in a cold, dark house had never been her favorite part of the day. This was  wonderful, and yet, perversely, she resented it. She felt usurped, her confidence in her independence severely shaken.

When she finally got up off the couch, Luke met her with a cup of coffee. "What’d you do, just walk in?" she asked irritably, without returning his greeting.

"I knocked," he said equably, "but you were sleeping. Seemed like a good time to take a shower. How do you like your eggs?"

Delilah stared at him for a moment, then murmured. "Over easy." She strolled in an offhand way to the stove, lifted the paper towel that covered a plateful of bacon, and selected one perfect, crisp red–brown slice. She leaned against the counter and nibbled, then blissfully closed her eyes.

"Do you like to cook?" she asked after a moment, licking her fingers and watching Luke sprinkle salt and pepper over slowly congealing eggs. Lacy yellow bubbles had begun to pop and sizzle around the edges of the whites. Delilah wondered if it was real butter.

Luke glanced over at her, his expression wry. "Not especially. I like to eat, and if I can’t get someone else to do it for me…" He shrugged and turned his attention back to the eggs. "
Oops.
Damn. How do you feel about broken yolks?"

"That one’s yours." Delilah helped herself to another piece of bacon. "Don’t you have a housekeeper?" she asked, then thought:
Or does the girl who wants to marry you take care of that too?

"When I have a house." He flashed her another crooked smile. "Most of the time I live on drilling sites— trailers, RVs, maybe an apartment. If there’s a place close enough."

"Like Mammoth?"

He shrugged, busy dishing up eggs. "I have a place in Mammoth, but I spend most of my time on–site." He turned with a plate in each hand and nodded toward the table. "Shall we?"

She took her plate and sat down, a little awed by the fact that, though she’d already eaten two strips of bacon, there were four more on her plate. Luke put two pieces of bread in the toaster and gracefully straddled the chair opposite her.

He was wearing his khakis again. The shirt was short– sleeved and open at the neck. Delilah stared at the pattern of hair on his tanned forearms and decided she knew exactly what Luke MacGregor was up to. He thought he could get to her through her stomach.

And he was succeeding. She felt mellow and relaxed, and there was a nice core of warmth in her middle that had already begun to radiate to other parts of her. Last night seemed long ago and unimportant. She’d been neurotic and unreasonable; the kiss had merely been friendly. And if he slept in the barn, what harm––

"I’m sorry," she said, giving her head a shake, "what did you say?"

"I said, ‘What time shall I be ready to leave?’"

"Oh." Delilah coughed and reached for her coffee, frowning and feigning deep thought. She was trying to think of a way of withdrawing her edict while saving her pride. "Let me see. I’m getting a late start." He was gazing at her with a patently innocent look that told her he knew very well he had her wavering. "It usually takes me about an hour and a half—what time is it now?—and then I’ll have to—" She stopped. She’d been staring over Luke’s shoulder, thinking out loud, and it had just registered that something that should have been in her line of vision wasn’t there.

"Where," she said in a frozen voice, "is the pan I left next to the sink?"

"Pan?"

"Pan. The one with—"

"Oh, you mean the pan of underwear? I hung them—"

But Delilah was already out the door. On the top step she teetered to a halt. Yes, sir, there they were, every last article of them, stirring gently, almost voluptuously, in the brilliant morning air—camisoles and teddies, lacy bras and wispy bikini panties, in champagne and rose petal, honeyed peach and baby blue, naughty black and purest white. Her secret vice and only vanity.