Intimate Strangers (Eclipse Heat Book 2) (8 page)

“Please don’t touch me again,” Lucy gasped. Had she not been dizzy, she would already have run from the room. When he’d stood in the doorway, bare-chested, looking at her as though he wanted to eat her up, she’d planned on raising his temper and cooling his ardor. Obviously she’d miscalculated.

She shouldn’t have been surprised at his attentions. She’d been aware of the lust in his gaze since the moment she’d stepped into the Double-Q ranch house and been ushered to his bedroom. She spent a lot of time worrying over it every day.

Steadying her voice, she tried to compose herself and smooth over the incident, but her words came out harsh instead of appeasing. “You’d think receiving the services of a housekeeper, cook and nanny would be enough to satisfy a man, but you had to go and get stupid.”

When he could talk, at the very least she expected him to tell her to pack her gear and go back to Buffalo Creek. If he was going to hammer her with his fists, it would likely happen when he came up off the floor. She braced herself for the moment and curled her palm around the gun in her pocket.

She’d had enough conversations with Brody to know that questioning Ambrose Quince about his business was like poking at a beehive. He crouched on the floor, breathing hard, but his expression wasn’t one of rage. He looked savagely determined.

For all of her bravado, Lucy’s voice came out sounding more like a whimper than a threat. She gripped her gun and warned him, “I don’t want to shoot you, Mr. Quince, because you’re Alex and Brody’s daddy, but if you think to lay hands on me again, be it amorous or violent, I might not be so reticent.”

“I’m their daddy just like you’re their mama. And we made those babies together. You’re my woman, Lucy. You’ll always be. Remember that.”

His fierce look turned into a savage smile and Lucy backed up a step. “No.”

He started to rise. “Yes.”

Lucy tensed, ready to flee the kitchen before he could make his next move. She didn’t know what might have happened if Alex hadn’t walked into the room just then.

”Pa, what’s going on?”

Ambrose stood, brushed off his knees and lied adroitly. “Slipped in the water I tracked onto the floor.”

“Why didn’t she clean it up?” Alex hooked his thumbs in the waist of his pants, teetering on his boot heels as he pointedly ignored the
she
he referred to.

Lucy answered him with her own half-truth. “I was making breakfast.”

Glancing cynically around the kitchen, Alex asked, “Then where is it?”

“If you’ll get your father out from underfoot, you’ll find out a lot faster.” Lucy turned away from both of them. Her hands were shaking so badly she spilled coffee beans on the floor and then stood looking at the mess.

Abruptly, she fled to the pantry, no longer able to stay in the same room with the two males. Leaning against the wooden shelf, she buried her face in her arms to cover her sounds of panic.

The door opened and shut. Fear coursed through her like a match following a trail of kerosene. “Go away,” she croaked without lifting her head.

“You crying?” he asked.

“No.”

When it became evident he wasn’t leaving, she turned around, smoothing her hair out of her face and looking past him at the door. “Mr. Quince, by unusual circumstances, we are perfect strangers with two children in common.”

“Yes and no. We made the kids together but you’re no stranger to me.” He was blunt, no give in him.

“Well, I don’t know you and I prefer to keep it that way.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes when he replied, “Nope.”

Lucy’s panic receded, replaced by renewed fury. “Don’t touch me again. I mean it. Leave me alone.”

“I’ll trade you
touch
for
talk
. Think of it as courting.” He mocked her, speaking formally like a gentleman would. “We’ll get to know each other when we converse.” He paused to emphasize his next words. “Then we’ll touch.”

“Ambrose Quince, stop it!”

“You told me that the first summer we met.” He shook his head slowly. “Nope. I didn’t stop then, and I won’t now.”

“Why?” She glared at him. “Why will you not quit this nonsense? You don’t even like me. I can see it in your face and hear it in your voice every time you speak to me.”

“What we had was a whole lot more than liking, Lucy. It’s still there and I want it back. Touch or talk. You decide which suits you—but leave you alone I will not.”

Lucy snapped, “I need to fix breakfast. You’re in my way.”

He moved enough to let her through the pantry door but she was forced to turn sideways, brushing her breasts against his chest when she squeezed past.

Clearing the neglect from the house became a project that Lucy and Brody shared while Lucy dodged Ambrose whenever he found a reason to come in.

Brody talked and Lucy became the girl’s devoted audience, listening to her stories as she handed her a dusting cloth. The child was obviously starved for female company.

Alex was a much tougher nut to crack. He made it clear he didn’t want to know her. One day he stood on the porch steps glaring at her over the dust billowing from the blue pillows she and Brody carried to the outdoors from the sitting room.

Lucy shook a cushion, smiling at Alex over the swirl of dirt as it hit the air. “Your sister and I will have that room looking good as new soon.”

Lucy understood that he didn’t like her growing relationship with Brody. From the first day he’d been angry. Now his rage took words. “You ain’t our mama, you’re an impostor. To save Pa, we let you get away with fooling the town, but don’t go gettin’ ideas about stayin’.”

Lucy pinned him with a reproving look. “Did your mama teach you to treat strangers this way?”

He flushed bright red and stalked away, muttering, “Sorry.”

Anxiously, Brody nodded at the ragged clumps that dotted a spot of color here and there in the yard. “You and Alex planted those flowers.”

Struggling to explain something that eluded her, the eight-year-old mumbled, “It’ll be all right. Don’t worry about Alex. Someday he’ll remember.”

“Remember what?” Lucy asked.

“How much you love each other.”

The innocent words sent a shaft of despair through Lucy. She didn’t need to remember the time from before. She already loved her children with a depth that defied explanation.

“Grab those pillows and come on.” Lucy led the way back into the house, hiding from things left unsaid. She continued cleaning, giving herself an excuse to look under every cushion, leaf through every book, read every paper and forget about thinking.

Brody chattered away as they washed the glass knickknacks that to Lucy seemed to serve no purpose other than keeping the room empty of people. After cooking in a kitchen the size of a postage stamp, she hated wasted space, and this clutter of breakables was enough to discourage man or beast from entering.

“Brody,” she asked. “Did these figurines and such belong to your Grandmother Quince?”

“These belong to you, Mama. After you married Pa and moved here, you decorated this room like your home in Boston. This is the Blue Room.” Soap suds splattered on Lucy as Brody gestured grandly, clearly in an imitation of someone she’d seen before.

“It’s more like the gray room or the brown room these days, what with all this dirt. Why don’t you let me finish these things while you care for the ladies?” Lucy gestured at the four porcelain dolls perched on the stone fireplace mantel.

Brody needed no other invitation. One by one, dust floating in the air about them, her daughter took down the dolls, reverently touching each dress, straightening flounces and tidying each hairstyle.

Lucy knew from the gentle way she held them her daughter had been cautioned to handle them with care. “Do you have dolls like these, Brody?”

Brody’s headshake left Lucy wondering if her daughter had playthings at all. So far, none had been sighted. “Well, now you do.”

Brody tenderly gathered the four dusty figures into her arms and rushed off to her room.

Lucy was left alone wondering what kind of woman bought herself expensive dolls and her daughter none. She’d come to the Double-Q on a quest for knowledge but it was showing her things she didn’t want to see. Most of the secrets she’d uncovered so far contributed to the mystery of Lucy Quince, but offered little help in finding the man who had tried to kill her.

* * * * *

Lucy staunchly avoided conversations with her husband, but that meant issues accumulated before she approached Ambrose. She chose a moment when they were surrounded by others and leaned slightly toward him at the supper table, speaking to the air above his ear. “Mister Quince, do you have any objections to my putting away the glassware in the front room, and is there a place I can use for practicing with my guns?”

He looked up, interrupted from mopping gravy from his plate with a second piece of her fresh bread. She took great satisfaction knowing the family enjoyed her food. She measured the quality of the meal by watching Ambrose’s expression when he ate. Now he held her gaze and continued chewing while he thought about her question.

Hamilton answered for him. “Let the young’uns throw all that bric-a-brac in the air for you. You can use that for target practice and solve both problems.”

Alex snickered but Brody gasped and glared at her uncle, her scandalized frown mimicking Lucy’s.

Ambrose finally quit eating, brushing the crumbs from his hands as he said, “Put the doodads wherever you want. They’re your buys, not mine. As to the shooting practice, we’ll get you fixed up after supper.”

Lucy felt like a freak in a sideshow when she found herself with an audience after the meal. Ambrose set up targets for her and she tried to ignore the gallery while she practiced with her revolver. If she had to defend her life and that weapon was the only thing available, she’d be just as well off throwing it at her attacker.

When she missed for the fourth time in a row, Ambrose drawled, “Damn, Lucy. I’m glad that wasn’t your weapon of choice when you aimed at the hangman’s rope.”

Stepping to her side, he inserted himself further into her business. “You might have to hit something bigger than a barn with this weapon, Luce. Steady, now.”

With that, he reached around her, covering her hand in his big paw. She wanted to put down the handgun and take up the rifle with which she was expert. Or maybe she wanted to shoot Ambrose in the foot to prove her success was better when aiming at closer targets.

What she didn’t want to do was stand cheek-to-cheek with this man as he wrapped his body around hers. Lucy couldn’t concentrate on the tin can on the fence because she was so distracted by the feel of his whiskers against her skin.

She had a gun in her hand and a man hugging her neck. “This is not a good idea,” she muttered.

He squeezed her shoulder lightly, stepping so close his hips cradled her rump and his chest rested against her back. His voice, laced with smug satisfaction, rumbled in her ear. “Sure it is.”

Lucy gritted her teeth and refused to quit practicing, hoping her audience would get bored watching her miss the target again and again. She continued, even after Ambrose made himself her instructor, guiding her under the watchful eyes of their children. Every time she missed he’d chide her, whispering advice in her ear. “Ease back and brace yourself on me, sweetheart.”

She turned her head  ’til his face was so close her lips brushed against his cheek. She thought about biting him. He turned, letting his lips hover above hers.

Holding his gaze, Lucy murmured for his ears only, “Why don’t you walk toward the fence and we’ll see if you’ve taught me how to steady my aim.”

Looking at him was a mistake. His right eye drooped, closing in a sly wink. Rattled, Lucy twisted—shooting at the can without aiming, sending it flying into the air.

“There you go,” Ambrose laughed. “Quick-draw Quince is what we’ll call you now.”

Shrugging out of his embrace, she told the kids, “I’m done. Good night.” Lucy hurried away from her mentor as if the devil nipped at her heels.

Her emotions remained in an uproar later that night when she lay awake in her bed. Even after her bath, the scent of Ambrose Quince remained with her like an unwelcome tune in her head.  She tossed and turned, unwilling to get up and go down to the kitchen.
The devil would follow me.

Frustrated, her nerves drawn to a fine edge, her head aching abominably, she grabbed the second pillow from where it rested against the headboard and buried her face in it.

She’d changed the bedding and aired the room, but nothing seemed to eradicate his presence. Inhaling deeply, she pulled the scent of Ambrose Quince from the pillow and when she fell asleep, holding his essence close—she dreamed.

Light flickered eerily, casting his face in shadow. She trembled in his arms as he drew her closer and brushed her lips with his. “Open for me, Lucy.”

She melted against him, his male scent and gruff tones intoxicating her senses as she returned his kiss, stroking his tongue with hers.

“You taste so sweet.” She turned away from his growled words, only to find herself gone from the cave and in a barn, naked and writhing under him, his knee pressing her thighs wider. “Wrap your legs around me, Lucy.”

Her gasp was both pleasure and distress as his manhood tunneled through her tight passage, finding its way to her core. He leaned above her, holding her gaze as he commanded, “Come for me, sweetheart.”

Raising her hips to meet his driving thrusts, Lucy hugged her arms around his neck, hanging on as she obeyed, crying out his name as the powerful orgasm swept through her. “Quin-ceeee…”

Lucy came awake, her sex clenching as beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and her nightgown clung damply to her breasts. She stared at the bedroom door, afraid her cry of passion had been heard.

“I need to go back to Buffalo Creek.” But she didn’t want to.

I have unfinished business. It’s too soon to leave.
Her feeble excuse didn’t fool her. Whether she remembered them or not, she’d found her family—Alex, Brody and Ambrose—the man who’d loved her in her dream.

The real man was more like a nightmare.  He was horrible—pushing, pushing—always pushing. He called it
courting
her, using every gesture, expression and touch he could employ to get around her defenses.

The real man wasn’t the lover in her dream. Ambrose lusted after her as if he were a randy stallion
entitled
to his mare.

She resented the fact that he aroused her because his attentions were underscored with the belief that she’d been unfaithful to him. That she deserved whatever had happened. Lucy touched the mark that started on her scalp, tracing its length down neck, nape and shoulder, ending with the puckered scar and ugly burn.

She closed her eyes and shook her head. Anger erased the final fragments of her dream. She rose early, determined to get on with why she’d come to the Double-Q. “I don’t know what happened to me, Mr. Quince. But I know I never played you false. That you think different… I guess when I find out what happened to me, you’ll have to admit you were wrong.”

Ambrose wanted to believe he was making progress with Lucy, but his gut told him it was false hope. Before sex had been their solace, their escape from grim realities. Now grim realities were all they had.

Worse, I’m hanging around sniffing her skirts like a schoolboy.
At night, he listened to her restless movements in the bed,
their
bed—in the bedroom he’d been evicted from—and he wanted to pump his cock and spend his seed. But he didn’t. 

Last night… He groaned. He’d finally been drifting toward sleep when—swear to God—down the hall, Lucy’d moaned
Quincy
as she once had when they’d coupled. His cock had stood straight up.
I’m losing control, dammit.

He knew he’d showed signs of frustrated lust when he’d stood next to her in the kitchen this morning. He was pretty damned sure Lucy had seen the ridge of his arousal. She’d given him one of her frosty stares, allowing a hint of contempt to show in her eyes.

But he had eyes too, and he’d seen the way her face got flushed and her nipples tented her dress like hard bullets poking up.
Good. She won’t open up her mind and accept me as her husband but her body remembers.

His strategy was simple. Forgive and forget her past actions, be glad she was back and resume their lives together. But he wanted to know, goddammit. He wanted to know who she’d run off with, and when he found out, there wasn’t enough forgiveness in the world to protect that sonovabitch.
But the most important thing is Lucy staying.
We can’t lose her again.

Every day Ambrose watched Brody wrap her heart tighter around her mother and Alex become more aloof. The kid could barely conceal his astonished disgust when Ambrose and Brody didn’t denounce Lucy as an impostor.

It seemed certain that, anticipating a day in the future when his mama might decide to flit again and not wanting to go through another hell, Alex had decided to protect his heart. It was too late for Ambrose. His was pumping blood straight to his groin and there was no way he intended for Lucy to forget she owned both his cock and his heart.

* * * * *

Ambrose was an irritant at breakfast, standing too close and reminding Lucy of her carnal dream. She finished her chores in the house quickly when he announced he’d be hiring drovers. That meant he wouldn’t be underfoot and she could get Sheba ready for a trip to town.

Lucy groomed Sheba while Brody stood at her side, handing her the tools she requested and discussing the coming fall and school.

She was aware of Alex loitering in the shadows instead of joining the men in the bunkhouse. He announced, “I ain’t goin’ back to school. Ranchers don’t need that much book learnin’.”