Haze of Heat (8 page)

His grin broadened. Damn, he loved sparring with her. “Darling, when it comes to you, I’d have to be dead first.”

She jerked her head, but not before he saw it flush with heat. Anger or passion? Probably both, he thought on a silent snigger of satisfaction. He couldn’t wait to see what would happen when all that contained passion finally sprang free. She’d probably blow his mind.

“Just follow the fence-line,” Porter called out, watching her ride away, gauging her every move as both an instructor and a man. Her back was straight, her shoulders held high. Good. When he could see her profile again, he saw the smile. “Perfect. You’re doing great, Rach.”

As Porter continue to praise or instruct as she made several more rounds, he couldn’t help but compare this jeans-clad woman to the coolly elegant one from yesterday. Despite the weariness that had clung to her like a second skin, she’d looked serene, feminine, and just the tiniest bit remote. Her pants had skimmed her hips and legs, teasing him with hints of the shape and curves hidden beneath the light material. The loose top had revealed the creamy skin of her shoulders, the gentle muscle tone in her arms, but had only hinted at those beautiful breasts, which, seeing the lush sway and bounce of her chest with every step Daisy took, he bet would fill his hands.

All last night, recalling her attire, the French twist of her hair, and the pink tips of her toes peeping out from low-heeled sandals, had him placing her front and center in one of his most favorite of fantasies. That of the naughty librarian.

It was a good thing Rachel was a shifter and possessed superior eyesight, because if she’d had on a pair of glasses, he probably would have fallen on her like a ravenous beast right then and there.

“How long are you going to keep her out here?”

His father’s voice jolted Porter from his daydream where he’d been currently peeling Rachel’s ultra-feminine clothing off, one slow piece at a time. “What? Why? She’s having fun.”

Andreas moved up next to his son. “She’s also starting to burn.”

Porter refocused his attention to see the pink tinge on her nose and cheeks that had nothing to do with pleasure and all to do with the beating rays of the sun. How long had they been out here, anyway?

“Ah hell. Rachel!” Porter called out to her and waved. “Come on back.”

“Where you even looking at her face?”

“Yes, Dad,” Porter grumbled.

“Hmm,” was his father’s unconvinced response.

They remained silent as Rachel approached. “Was I doing something wrong?” she asked, glancing from Andreas to Porter.

“Not a thing. You’re a natural. But you’re starting to burn.” Porter slipped up to take the reins from her hand. “I’m sorry. I should have brought you a hat.”

Rachel touched her nose gingerly. “I put on sunscreen.”

“Down here, the sun’s more intense,” Andreas commented, helping her down. “If you’re not used to it, or are fair-skinned as you are, you’ll need to reapply often.”

The sight of another man’s hands on Rachel had Porter’s feline leap up in aggression. It didn’t matter that such assistance was as instinctive as breathing to his father; the low warning rumble of possessiveness and aggression erupting in Porter’s throat would not be contained.

A whiplash that was the sting of Andreas’s power lashed at Porter in sharp caution. As if sensing the tension in the air between the two male shifters, Rachel backed away, her eyes darting between them.

It was Andreas who spoke first, his tone relaxed. “We’ll walk you to the gate.” Suiting action to words, the trio—along with Daisy, whose reins were fisted in Porter’s hand—headed toward the gated entrance. “The last time I saw you, we danced at your aunt’s wedding. You’ve grown into a beautiful woman. And extremely talented as well.”

Rachel blushed. “Thank you.” Her lips lifted in remembered delight. “I remember dancing with you. I thought you must be a movie star, you were so handsome. It was very sweet of you to dance with a clumsy, awestruck girl.”

“It was the highlight of my night,” Andreas assured her with a charming smile that set Porter’s teeth on edge. When they reached the gate, Andreas placed two fingers under Rachel’s chin and tilted her head gently. “It appears the tips of your ears are burnt, child. Go ask Katie or Melinda for some aloe vera. You’ll be good as new by dinnertime.”

“Okay.” Her eyes went back to Porter. “Thanks for the lesson.”

Shoving himself between Rachel and his father as if the other man posed some sort of threat to her, Porter reached for Rachel’s hand and brought it to his mouth. Because the last touch she would feel would be from him, dammit, not some other male. “It was my pleasure. Next time we’ll go out on one of the trails.” His voice lowered into a sensual promise, his lips brushing her knuckles as he spoke. “Make it more interesting.”

Touching her as he was—and wasn’t supposed to be—he felt the fine tremor, drew in the delicate scent of feminine awareness. “Perhaps.” She tugged on her hand and he reluctantly let go, only to see her turn to his father once again. “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Felix.”

“Andreas, please.” A smile creased his ruggedly handsome features. An older version of Porter. “We’ll see you at dinner.”

“All right. Thanks again.”

Rachel slipped through the gate and father and son watched in silence for the length of time it took until she entered the main house. Then Andreas turned on Porter.

“Are you challenging me, boy?” The biting demand pierced Porter with its edge of anger.

Porter dropped his eyes. He knew he was strong in his own right. An alpha, not in the making, in fact. He was easily as strong as his father, as fast, and could take him in a physical fight. Probably. But several things held him in check, not the least of which was his own respect and love for the man who sired him. Even should Porter dismiss those two important factors, he knew he didn’t hold a candle to the sheer power Andreas held in check. If his dad ever let all that energy loose in one blast, it would flatten Porter, and probably anyone in a two-hundred-foot radius, as surely as being run over by a Mack truck.

“No, sir.” He let an unhappy Daisy loose so she could head to the safety of the barn. But she only wandered back several yards, keeping her eyes on the unfolding scene.

“Then what was that all about?”

With a spurt of unprecedented rage, he lifted his head to glare at the most important male in his life. “You touched her.”

A dark brow, nearly identical to his own, arched at the fierce accusation. “And what? Did you think I was going to hurt her?”

“I didn’t like it,” Porter growled out, ashamed but unable to stop the burning in his gums as his fangs threatened to emerge.

Dark eyes, full of ruthless experience, narrowed to slits. “What you like or dislike is no excuse for your behavior. You either accept me as your alpha, challenge me for the position, or you leave.”

Porter popped his jaw, searching for calm. “I don’t want to leave. Or challenge you.”

A long silence that was broken by a heavy sigh from deep within his father’s chest. “One. I would never hurt that girl and you know that. Two. My history with her surpasses yours.”

“That doesn’t make her yours.” The jealousy and possessiveness was still riding him hard. His cat was clawing to the surface, turning the edges of his brown eyes into molten greenish-yellow. Jaguar’s eyes.

“And you think she’s yours?”

“
Yes
.” Porter jerked as the claim hissed out between clenched teeth. What the hell? He shook his head, confused. “I mean, no.”

“Hmm.” Andreas breathed in deep, watching his son with uncanny knowledge. Whatever he smelled caused him to relax into an easy posture. “Best to figure out what you want before you go after it.”

Sensing the danger from his father had passed, Porter should have been relieved, yet he was still wound up so tight he wanted to hit something. Hard. What he got instead was a hard smack to the back of his head.

Whirling around, Porter glared at his eldest brother. “What the fuck was that for?”

“For being a spoiled brat.” Santos glared right back. “I could smell the lust and aggression over the piles of shit we’ve been dumping all morning. What is your problem?’

“None of your fucking business.” Porter didn’t feel threatened in the least by Santos, and in fact, he intentionally pushed at his brother, turning his hostility toward another target.

Santos bristled. “It becomes my fucking business when you get in Dad’s face.”

“Oh. So you’ve become Dad’s champion now? Ready to defend him at every turn?” Porter could hear the words coming out of his mouth, and though some part of him was wincing and yelling at him to shut the hell up, they flew from his lips like a red flag to an enraged bull. “Such a well-trained...pussy.”

Before the last word disappeared in the soft breeze, Santos’s arm shot out and landed a rock-solid punch to Porter’s gut. Porter sucked in air and retaliated with a mighty right jab to his brother’s chin.

Game on.

As the two brothers fell on each other in a tangle of flying limbs, vicious growls, and disparaging slurs, Andreas looked over their rolling and flaring bodies to Daisy.

Both man and horse shook their heads and went their separate ways, leaving the two shifters to thrash each other into the dirt.

Chapter Eight

Later that evening, Rachel paused on the bottom step of the sweeping staircase inside the main house, one hand on the smooth flare of the rail. Chatter and laughter rose in merriment, the cause of the hitch in her stride. Recalling Melinda’s comment, that the house was free of guests for a couple of nights, meant everyone in the dining room was family. Pack. And though her stomach growled at her to get a move on—the bedside menu listed shrimp or chicken linguine in a white cream sauce as the evening’s fare—she couldn’t bring herself to take another step.

Maybe she’d call Melinda later and see if there were any leftovers. Turning to go back to her room, one male voice became distinguishable from the others, the deep cadence a provocative lure to her sensitive hearing. Rich like dark chocolate with rough and gravelly undertones, as if he wasn’t quite tame and never would be, it beckoned in lascivious fascination. A lush wave of arousal flowed from her head to her feet, the slow intensity awaking every nerve into razor-sharp awareness. As if his voice triggered a sensitivity beyond her typical normal, she managed to separate his scent from the others. A drugging scent she wanted to roll around naked in until the decadent fragrance of amber and musk and male coated her skin.

Damn. Porter didn’t just act the sexy charmer, he
was
a sexy charmer. It exuded from him in seeking tendrils. Silent promises of forbidden pleasures in the deep velvet nights, entrapping the unwary, delighting the willing.

For one such as Rachel, who wasn’t given to bouts of promiscuity—she actually needed to know and care for a man before she gave her body into his hands—such a physical reaction was as bewildering as it was bewitching.

“I was just coming to get you.” Rachel’s eyes popped open to see Melinda walking toward her, a warm smile lighting her face. “You look stunning. I simply adore that dress.”

Rachel brushed damp palms over the soft cotton skirt that skimmed down her legs to the low-heeled open-toed sandals, on her feet. Her dress was white, sprinkled with tiny flowers in yellows, pinks, and blues. The straps were cut wide, the neckline high and square. Rachel always thought it ultra-feminine, demure, and cool for the hot summer months. Her hair was loose, the soft, blond curls flowing down to the middle of her shoulder blades in a soft waterfall. Blue and pink stones set in gold dangled delicately from her ears.

“Thank you.” Rachel brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “I forgot that tonight’s a family affair, since you don’t have any other guests. I don’t want to intrude, so maybe if I could get a plate and—”

Melinda brushed off that suggestion with a “bah” and wave of her hand. “Absolutely not.” She linked her arm through Rachel’s, much as Gwen had earlier, and tugged her not-so-gently toward the dining room. “Friends are not an intrusion and there’s plenty of room.”

Rachel dug in her heels, forcing Melinda to a halt. “Porter told me about the financial tracking Rome is doing and why you didn’t take my credit card last night.” Her eyes were steady and determined, even when Melinda raised a brow that reminded her all too much of her own mother’s certain look when Rachel knew she wasn’t about to get her way. “I’m still a guest and will pay for my stay.”

Melinda patted her arm and resumed walking. “Of course, dear.”

Feeling as if she’d only been placated, Rachel readied herself to forge on and insist when they passed through the archway into the dining room. Conversation sputtered to a halt.

This was exactly why second thoughts had hounded Rachel at the base of the stairs. She didn’t like to be the center of attention, hated having several pairs of eyes focus on her. It made her want to curl in on herself, despite already meeting most of those who were seated around the large table.

A loud
thunk
caught her attention and her gaze immediately sought out the source, only to see Porter in a chair, staring up at her slack-jawed, eyes so dark they appeared black. The bottle of beer wrapped in his hand lay on the table, liquid trickling down the sides to pool on the dark tablecloth. Annie and a gorgeous unknown woman with short hair, both flanking Porter at the table, scrambled to sop up the mess with muttered exclamations when he only jumped from the table as if poked with an electric prod and stalked toward Rachel.

Her eyes went wide when they locked on his face. She’d been concerned about his lip, after splitting it with her head and all, but the sight of his bruised cheek and black eye shocked her.

“Really, Porter.” With a cutting glance, Melinda left Rachel at the entrance of the room to assist the other women.

“Sorry,” Porter said offhandedly, his attention never shifting from Rachel. The look in his eyes as they swept over her, lingering on her unbound hair, was filled with molten heat. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Her belly flipped at the husky appreciation, her thighs clenching at the stark hunger clearly stamped on his features. She linked her fingers together in front of her before she could reach out and caress his battered face. “What happened?”

Porter’s lips cocked up on one side. “Disagreement.”

Rachel blinked at the understatement, frowning at the slight puffiness of his mouth, the bruised cheek and the vivid markings ringing his right eye. “Disagreement?”

“Means he was being an ass.” A sarcastic comment from a man who rose from his seat to the right of Andreas. His dark hair was caught back in a long tail, his face so like Porter’s Rachel figured him to be the eldest brother. He even sported similar bruises.

“Santos,” was Melinda’s sharp reprimand as she took a seat.

“Sorry.” Dark eyes so similar to Porter’s remained steady on Rachel as he approached, taking her measure. “He was being a jerk.”

Melinda’s exasperated sigh reached from the other end of the table. “Boys.”

“I’m Santos.” He stuck out a hand, enveloping hers as she automatically met his firm shake.

“Rachel. Pleased to meet you.”

Next to Santos, Porter bristled and bared his teeth. Santos did the same.

Rachel tugged her hand free and took a healthy step back, eyes flitting from one man to the other. She might be stronger than a human, but these two males were shifters, and obviously did not pull their punches. If she got caught in the crossfire, she’d wind up black and blue as well.

“And I’m Ria. The second jerk’s wife, I’m sorry to say.” The gorgeous short-haired woman who had helped clean up the spilled beer sidled up and bumped Santos to the side so she could squeeze in between the two posturing males. She was either very brave, or had a death wish.

Or a vampire. Belatedly, Rachel recalled Gwen saying Ria was part vamp.

“Nice to meet you.” As she met the other woman’s confident clasp, Rachel was opting for brave. Spine and spunk emanated from Ria like an icy tart treat.

“Don’t mind them.” Ria tipped her head, indicating the males on either side of her. “They’re acting like idiots, and you never argue with an idiot, else they’ll just bring you down to their level and beat you over the head with experience.”

“Hey.” The “idiots” in question wore identical scowls at the verbal assault.

“If the shoe fits...” Gwen said from across the table where she sat next to Rome.

Ria slipped her finger in Santos’s belt loop and tugged. “Quit crowding. Porter, leave Rachel alone and let her get a plate.”

Porter edged away with a wink, the jovial flirting back in place. “Better load up before it’s gone.”

Hesitant, Rachel went to the buffet laid out on the sideboard and filled a plate. To her relief, conversation started up immediately.

“I don’t believe you’ve met Bob, Annie’s husband.” Melinda said as Rachel took a seat between Katie and Gwen, which also happened to put her directly across from Porter. He was watching her with an intensity that made her nervous, and so after a slight frown in his direction, she kept her face averted from him and on Melinda. “He handles our maintenance and grounds.”

Rachel smiled with pleasure at the white-haired man sitting at the end of the table between Annie and Melinda. She’d seen him in the distance upon returning to the house from the barn earlier and had wondered then, due to the way he’d moved his stocky body with the fluidity of an athlete, if he’d wrestled or boxed in his younger years.

Unlike his wife, whose heavily-creamed coffee complexion didn’t bear enough lines to tout her as a great-grandmother, Bob’s face was rough and weathered, and was a striking contrast to his clear, light-blue eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Rachel beamed at the man. “You must hear this all the time, but I have to say your garden is simply lovely. So alive and magical. I almost expected fairies to appear and dance with laughter as they flitted from the sweet peas to the jasmine. And the wisteria over the lattice gazebo? It took my breath away.”

Twin spots of red appeared on Bob’s face. Shoulders that appeared to be able to take on the world lifted in a shrug. “Can’t take the credit. Melinda’s the one who designed it. I just keep it alive.”

Melinda laid her hand over his on the table. “Keeping my dream alive is no small feat. You know how much I appreciate your care of my flowers.”

Charmingly embarrassed, Bob dipped his head to his plate and let out a sound something like a grunt. “It’s no big deal,” he said gruffly.

Little Maddie, sitting in a highchair on the other side of Katie and across from Bob, clapped her hands in delight, eliciting a wink and grin from her great-grandfather.

Rachel felt herself relax as she silently watched the dynamics of this odd and extended family. She responded to any questions asked and, when prodded, spoke a little of her books and writing. Luckily no one brought up the subject of her stalker.

“I’m not a girly girl so it was a simple wedding. Laid back. Though we did write our own vows,” Gwen told Rachel as talk turned over a yummy dessert of banana cream pie to their recent ceremony.

“Except you laminated Rome’s vows onto a card so you can carry them wherever you go. That’s pretty girly, Gwen,” Porter teased.

It was a sentimental gesture Rachel would not have expected from the classically tomboyish woman sitting at her side. Then again, love made one do all manner of surprising and uncharacteristic things. Just look at her own father.

Rachel glanced at Gwen to see her shielding one hand from the right side of the table as she gave Porter a one-finger salute.

“I don’t think that’s girly at all,” Rachel said truthfully. It wasn’t as if Gwen was walking around wearing a tiara all day. “My dad carries a strip of fabric that used to be part of my mom’s scarf. It was from the first day they met. When my dad knew my mom was the one for him.” She cocked her head at Porter. “He doesn’t care who knows.”

“That’s so sweet.” Gwen shot Porter a smug smile. “See? Not girly. Romantic.”

Porter rolled his eyes. “No offense to your father, Rachel, but it’s not exactly manly.”

“You really want to go there?” Andreas muttered with a hard, sidewise look at his son.

“Do you carry something of Mom’s around?” Rome asked with avid curiosity.

The Felix patriarch simply lifted his left hand, a dark metal ring circling the third finger.

“Oh.” Porter eased back in his chair. “I get wearing your wedding ring, but that’s not the same thing.”

“So only romantic fools or pansies do something as silly as carry their spouse’s wedding vows or a strip of fabric that reminds them of the first time they met the love of their life?” Melinda asked, her tone dry.

As if sensing impending danger, Porter hesitated and darted his eyes from his mother to Gwen, who raised a brow as if daring him. He finally settled on Rachel. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But you said it wasn’t manly. So only men who are less than macho would do something that unmanly?” Ria put in just to be ornery.

“Kitten,” Santos said, “he was just stating that most men don’t do something like that. It’s...soft.”

Ria glared at her husband. “And you don’t have a soft side?”

Santos chuckled. “Not when it comes to you.”

Ria whacked him on his chest with the back of her hand. “Idiot.”

“But true,” Rome piped in, earning a narrow look from his wife. “You know I love you more than life itself, and I mean every word of my vows, so don’t go all irate female on me when I say I have to agree with Porter. Men just don’t do that type of thing. If they even thought of it in the first place, they wouldn’t because they’d probably lose the respect of those who’d consider it foolish or, well, girly.”

“Oh, so you’re more worried what other people think of you than what
I
think?” Gwen crossed her arms over her chest.

Rome ran his tongue over his teeth. “Uh, no.”

“Hold on now, before we get into a battle of the sexes,” Melinda said calmly. “I think what my boys are trying to say is that a man wants respect, and in a man’s viewpoint—a strong, alpha type man’s viewpoint—such a sentimental action would be construed as weak or feminine in nature and thus something to be avoided.” She looked at each of her children. “Is that what you’re getting at?’

With several pairs of female eyes upon them, all the males except Andreas and Bob looked at each other and said, “Yes.”

Bob rolled his lips in as if struggling not to laugh and winked conspiratorially at Rachel, then he made a familiar hand gesture that caused her brows to rise. She’d been right. If the man hadn’t been a wrestler, he’d at least watched it. Her lips trembled with amusement.

Andreas, for his part, settled back into his chair and closed his eyes, his head slowly shaking side to side. “And here I thought my sons were smart.”

“Rachel?” Melinda queried. “You said your father didn’t care who knew about the sentimental side of him, correct?”

Because of Bob’s forewarning, Rachel knew what Melinda was up to. She also realized Rome’s investigation into her background only went so far. As she answered Melinda’s seemingly innocent question, she struggled to keep her face devoid of emotion.

“That’s correct. His family, friends, coworkers, and students know. I mean, he doesn’t pull it out and flash it around, but if it’s seen and asked about, he has no problem telling the story behind it.”

“Students?” Rome leaned forward and shared a very male, very arrogant look with his two siblings. “So your dad’s a teacher?”

“He is,” Rachel told him, her eyes wide and full of naivete. “High-school drama.”

This produced another round of all-knowing, smugly masculine smiles that Rachel wanted to smack off. “He also teaches wrestling,” she added.

Rome eased back into his seat with a grunt. “That’s an odd combination.”

Rachel scooped up the last of her desert. “Not when you wrestled professionally for more than a dozen years.”

Shocked silence as the younger generation of Felixes stared at her and the females laughed. Then Santos hunched over the table in her direction, his eyes narrowing into leery slits. “Where exactly did you say your father carried the scarf?”

Rachel reached for her glass of tea. “Well, when he wrestled, he actually wore two strips, one around each bicep. The rust color very nearly matched his hair, which he kept in a tail down his back. Much like you, Santos. Very warriorish, don’t you think?”

Rome leaned around his wife to gape at Rachel. “Your father is the Red Warrior?”

“Was.” Rachel eyed the brothers with a smug smile all her own. “Still think it’s girly?”

More feminine laughter as Melinda said, “None of you thought it girly when you ran around half naked, wearing torn pieces of my red sheets around your skinny arms, jumping and wrestling with each other.”