Heartbreaker (11 page)

Michelle woke early, just as the first gray
light of dawn was creeping into the room. The little sleep she'd gotten had
been deep and dreamless for a change, but she was used to sleeping alone; the
unaccustomed presence of a man in her bed had finally nudged her awake. A
stricken look edged into her eyes as she looked over at him, sprawled on his
stomach with one arm curled under the pillow and the other arm draped across
her naked body.

How easy she'd been for him. The knowledge
ate at her as she gingerly slipped from the bed, taking care not to wake him.
He might sleep for hours yet; he certainly hadn't had much sleep during the
night.

Her legs trembled as she stood, the soreness
in her thighs and deep in her body providing yet another reminder of the past
night, as if she needed any further confirmation of her memory. Four times.
He'd taken her four times, and each time it had seemed as if the pleasure
intensified. Even now she couldn't believe how her body had responded to him,
soaring wildly out of her control. But he'd controlled himself, and her,
holding her to the rhythm he set in order to prolong their lovemaking.Now she knew
that all the talk about him hadn’t been exaggerated;both his virility and
his skill had been if anything, underrated.

Somehow she had to come to terms with the
unpleasant fact that she had allowed herself to become the latest of his
one-night stands. The hardest fact to face wasn't that she'd been so easily
seduced, but her own piercing regret that such ecstasy wouldn't last. Oh, he
might come back…but he wouldn't stay. In time he'd become bored with her
and turn his predatory gaze on some other woman just as he always had before.

And she'd go on loving him, just as she had
before.

Quietly she got clean underwear from the
dresser and her bathrobe from the adjoining bath, but she went to the bathroom
down the hall to take a shower. She didn't want the sound of running water to
awaken him. Right now she needed time to herself, time to gather her composure
before she faced him again. She didn't know what to say, how to act

The stinging hot water eased some of the
soreness from her muscles, though a remaining ache reminded her of John's
strength with every step she took. After showering she went down to the kitchen
and started brewing a fresh pot of coffee. She was leaning against the
cabinets, watching the dark brew drip into the pot, when the sound of motors
caught her attention. Turning to look out the window, she saw the two pickup
trucks from John's ranch pull into the yard. The same men who had been there
the day before got out; one noticed John's car parked in front of the house and
poked his buddy in the ribs, pointing. Even from that distance Michelle could
hear the muffled male laughter, and she didn't need any help imagining their
comments. The boss had scored again. It would be all over the county within
twenty-four hours. In the manner of men everywhere, they were both proud and
slightly envious of their boss’ sexual escapades, and they'd tell the
tale over and over again.

Numbly she turned back to watch the coffee
dripping; when it finished, she filled a big mug, then wrapped her cold fingers
around the mug to warm them. It had to be nerves making her hands so cold.
Quietly she went upstairs to look into her bedroom, wondering if he would still
be sleeping.

He wasn't, though evidently he'd awoken only
seconds before. He propped himself up on one elbow and ran his hand through his
tousled black hair, narrowing his eyes as he returned her steady gaze. Her
heart lurched painfully. He looked like a ruffian, with his hair tousled, his
jaw darkened by the overnight growth of beard, his bare torso brown and roped
with the steely muscles that were never found on a businessman. She didn't know
what she'd hoped to see in his expression: desire, possibly, even affection.
But whatever she'd wanted to see wasn't there. Instead his face was as hard as
always, measuring her with that narrowed gaze that made her feel like
squirming. She could feel him waiting for her to move, to say something.

Her legs were jerky, but she managed not to
spill the coffee as she walked into the room. Her voice was only slightly
strained. "Congratulations. All the gossip doesn't give you due credit.
My, my, you're really something when you decide to score; I didn't even think
of saying no. Now you can go home and put another notch in your bedpost."

His eyes narrowed even more. He sat up, ignoring
the way the sheet fell below his waist, and held out his hand for the coffee
mug. When she gave it to him, he turned it and drank from the place where she'd
been sipping, then returned it to her, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Sit down."

She flinched a little at his hard, raspy,
early-morning voice. He saw the small movement and reached out to take her
wrist, making coffee lap alarmingly close to the rim of the mug. Gently but
inexorably he drew her down to sit facing him on the edge of the bed.

He kept his hand on her wrist, his callused
thumb rubbing over the fine bones and delicate tracery of veins. "Just for
the record, I don't notch bedposts. Is that what's got your back up this
morning?"

She gave a small defensive shrug, not meeting
his eyes.

She'd withdrawn from him again; his face was
grim as he watched her, trying to read her expression. He remembered the fear
in her last night, and he wondered who'd put it there. White-hot embers of rage
began to flicker to life at the thought of some bastard abusing her in bed,
hurting her. Women were vulnerable when they made love, and Michelle especially
wouldn't have the strength to protect herself. He had to get her to talk, or
she'd close up on him completely. "It had been a long time for you, hadn't
it?"

Again she gave that little shrug, as if
hiding behind the movement. Again he probed, watching her face. "You
didn't enjoy sex before." He made it a statement, not a question.

Finally her eyes darted to his, wary and
resentful. "What do you want, a recommendation? You know that was the
first time I'd…enjoyed it."

"Why didn't you like it before?"

"Maybe I just needed to go to bed with a
stud," she said flippantly.

"Hell, don't give me that," he
snapped, disgusted. "Who hurt you? Who made you afraid of sex?"

"I'm not afraid," she denied,
disturbed by the idea that she might have let Roger warp her to such an extent.
"It was just…well, it had been so long, and you're a big
man…" Her voice trailed off, and abruptly she flushed, her gaze
sliding away from him.

He watched her thoughtfully; considering what
he'd learned about her last night and this morning, it was nothing short of a
miracle that she hadn't knocked his proposal and half his teeth down his throat
when he'd suggested she become his mistress as payment of the debt. It also
made him wonder if her part in the breakup of Mike Webster's marriage hadn't
been blown out of all proportion; after all, a woman who didn't enjoy making love
wasn't likely to be fast and easy.

It was pure possessiveness, but he was glad
no other man had pleased her the way he had; it gave him a hold on her, a means
of keeping her by his side. He would use any weapon he had, because during the
night he had realized that there was no way he could let her go. She could be
haughty, bad-tempered and stubborn; she could too easily be spoiled and accept
it as her due, though he'd be damned if he hadn't almost decided it
was
her due. She was proud and difficult, trying to build a stone wall around
herself to keep him at a distance, like a princess holding herself aloof from
the peasants, but he couldn't get enough of her. When they were making love, it
wasn't the princess and the peasant any longer; they were a man and his woman,
writhing and straining together, moaninig with ectasy. He’d never been so
hungry for a woman before, so hot that he’d felt nothing and no one could
have kept him away from her.

She seemed to think last night had been a
casual thing on his part, that sunrise had somehow ended it. She was in for a
surprise. Now that she'd given herself to him, he wasn't going to let her go.
He'd learned how to fight for and keep what was his, but his single-minded
striving over the years to build the ranch into one of the biggest cattle
ranches in
Florida
was nothing compared to the intense possessiveness he
felt for Michelle.

Finally he released her wrist, and she stood
immediately, moving away from him. She sipped at the coffee she still held, and
her eyes went to the window. "Your men got a big kick out of seeing your
car still here this morning. I didn't realize they'd be back, since they put up
the fencing yesterday."

Indifferent to his nakedness, he threw the
sheet back and got out of bed. "They didn't finish. They'll do the rest of
the job today, then move the herd to the east pasture tomorrow." He
waited, then said evenly, "It bothers you that they know?"

"Being snickered about over a beer
bothers me. It polishes up your image a little more, but all I'll be is the
most recent in a long line of one-nighters for you."

"Well, everyone will know differently
When you move in with me, won't they?" he asked arrogantly, walking into
the bathroom. "How long will it take you to pack?"

Stunned, Michelle whirled to stare at him,
but he'd already disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of the shower came
on. Move in with him? If there was any limit to his gall, she hadn't seen it
yet! She sat down on the edge of the bed, watching the bathroom door and
waiting for him to emerge as she fought the uneasy feeling of sliding further
and further down a precipitous slope. Control of her own life was slipping from
her hands, and she didn't know if she could stop it. It wasn't just that John
was so domineering, though he was; the problem was that, despite how much she
wished it were different, she was weak where he was concerned. She wanted to be
able to simply walk into his arms and let them lock around her, to rest against
him and let him handle everything. She was so tired, physically and mentally.
But if she let him take over completely, what would happen when he became bored
with her? She would be right back where she'd started, but with a broken heart
added to her problems.

The shower stopped running. An image of him
formed in her mind, powerfully muscled, naked, dripping wet. Drying himself
with her towels. Filling her bathroom with his male scent and presence. He
wouldn't look diminished or foolish in her very feminine rose-and-white
bathroom, nor would it bother him that he'd bathed with perfumed soap. He was
so intensely masculine that female surroundings merely accentuated that
masculinity.