Maggie's Man (27 page)

He wanted that hair cascading over his lips,
his throat, his chest. He wanted to bury his face in it, inhale the sweet scent
of shampoo and drown in the vibrant life.

She stood so still, like a doe on the verge of
flight, he wasn't even sure she understood just how beautiful, how
extraordinarily strong she was.

He took one step forward, hooked his arm
beneath her knees and swung her against his chest effortlessly. Two more
strides and he tossed her onto the bed, listening to her breathless laugh of
surprise and anticipation, following her quickly onto the sinking, queen-size
mattress.

The bed dipped drastically beneath his weight,
conveniently rolling Maggie into his body. He saw her eyes, heavy-lidded and
luminescent. Her hands were half-fisted by her sides and he could tell she was
slightly nervous, slightly afraid. It grounded him enough to slow him down.

"I would like to touch you," he
whispered bluntly. "For a long time. May I?"

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes now wide.

He stretched out his body, supporting himself
on his right elbow as his left hand reached out and lightly touched her cheek.
She flinched and he frowned, beginning to realize just how wary and hesitant
she had become. He was a large man and he knew she was inexperienced.

He could take it slow. For her.

He brushed back her hair, fanning it around her
on the worn white pillow, combing his fingers through the strands until they
gleamed a deep, golden red. Then he traced his thumb down her oval face,
sliding his fingers down her throat, finally settling the base of his palm
against her pounding pulse point. Her small, high breasts rose and fell
rapidly. Her hips squirmed a bit against the bedspread.

His body began to truly ache. She was so warm,
so generous, and it had been so long since he'd felt like anything other than
stone. So long since he'd really let himself remember the simple pleasure of
human touch.

He ducked his head and found her lips. Her neck
arched instantly, her mouth opening, her arms curving around his neck. She pressed
her lithe body against his lushly and he almost fell apart.

Suddenly he was raining kisses across her lip,
her brow, her cheek. He nuzzled her throat, kissed her neck and drifted his
lips even lower to the soft, tender flesh he had to taste. She sighed his name.
She arched against him hopelessly, guiding his head to her breast, offering
herself to him so sweetly it stung his eyes and thickened his throat.

His lips curved around her nipple. He tasted
her, rose petal soft and dewy earnest. Her skin smelled of carnations and
rain-swept skies. Her flesh filled him, consumed, drew him down into sweet
places he'd never known.

He devoured her. He kneaded her breast, he
suckled her nipple as greedily as a child. She arched up, she cried out his
name, and his lips pursed harder.

His pulse thundered in his ear. He couldn't
think anymore. No more logic, no more chessboards or binary riddles. Maggie
filled him, and for a dangerous, hovering minute, he thought he might need her
as he'd never needed anyone. And a part of him wanted to plunge over the abyss
and surrender to her completely.

"Please," she whimpered,
"please."

He raised his head. Dimly he was aware of
moisture staining his cheeks but he wasn't sure how it had gotten there. His
hand moved down her body, his fingers splaying across her gently sloping belly,
then curving down to the warm apex of her thighs. Her hair felt soft and
coaxing. Her legs parted for him immediately, and she arched against his palm.

He cupped her. He moved his hand in stirring little
circles, his dark gaze watching the sweat bead her upper lip. Her eyes were
closed, her red-blond lashes glimmering like gold upon her flushed cheeks. Her
neck had arched back and she had surrendered herself to his touch completely,
with a fresh, guileless greed that squeezed his chest.

Her knees came up, her thighs spreading even
farther, letting him in even deeper. He dipped in one finger, then two, feeling
her unbelievably moist core. She contracted around him and it was too much.

He was a man, only a man and it had been so
long… He wanted her legs around his waist. He wanted himself impaled in her,
moving in her, dying in her.

Too much sentiment. Not enough logic. What had
happened to his control? To hell with it all.

He swept his body over hers, his mouth closing
upon her lips, suckling her tongue. Her arms swept around his shoulders, her
legs settled around his waist and he was lost.

One smooth thrust and he rent her asunder.

She stiffened immediately, her body suddenly
rigid, her nails sinking into his back. She was tight, too tight.

"Relax," he whispered tightly and
stroked her hip. "Relax, sweetheart. Trust me."

He heard her breath released as a sigh. Her
body sank around him, becoming supple and pliable. He stroked her hip again and
then again until he felt the last of the tension leave her and the pain washed
from her face to be filled with slow wonder.

"Yes," he murmured. "Like
that."

He moved slowly, gritting his teeth with the
effort, fighting his own impulses and desperate, maniacal need. She was so
tight and so moist. Hot and burning and she was killing him, absolutely killing
him, and he was defenseless against it.

His eyes closed. He couldn't bear to look at
her anymore, he couldn't bear to think. "You give me too much," he
whispered and sank into her as deep as he could go.

She sighed his name and urged him deeper.

His hips rolled, small rocking motions that
slowly built the tempo. Her breathing increased its pace and he heard her first
gasp as the pleasure overrode reason. He arched his hips back and her legs
tightened around him instinctively and thrust him back into her body.

His neck corded. His teeth bared and his biceps
bulged and suddenly the pace was out of his control. It was fast and urgent and
he wanted the release so badly that for a suspended beat of time, he couldn't
find it. It was too much, too grand, too brilliant, too overwhelming for one
man to take. It would shatter him and he hated being shattered. It would stand
out forever in his mind and he resented the binds that memory forged.

None of that mattered. Maggie cried out his
name, then screamed her release and he did shatter. Into a million sharp,
glittering shards, his body combusted. His head fell forward. His hips
collapsed into hers and he buried his lips against her throat and shuddered and
shuddered and shuddered against her body.

He whispered her name. She held him even
tighter and everything was all right.

Chapter 12

«
^
»

S
even-fifteen
a.m.

The battered blue '79 pickup truck rumbled
along the road, the fan belt held on by baling twine but the tires brand-new
and bought just for this trip. It was a Chevrolet, of course—you should always
buy American. On the left of the rear bumper a sticker proclaimed, My
definition of gun control is hitting the target with every shot. On the right a
second sticker emphasized, You can have my gun when you pry it out of my cold,
dead hand.

Since Abraham Cannon had always believed talk
was cheap, he backed up both stickers with a gun rack sporting two rifles in
the cab of his truck. The gun rack was also new; he'd carved it with his own
two hands from an oak that had been hit by lightning. The grain of the wood was
fine and well polished. He'd already taken offers to build several more racks
for others, which didn't surprise him. He was good with his hands and he took
his work seriously. In this day and age, a man had to be prepared.

Abraham was prepared now. He wore his orange
hunter's vest over a khaki T-shirt and desert camouflage pants. His utility
belt held an army knife, compass, waterproof matches and rudimentary first-aid
kit complete with needle and thread should a man have to stitch up a
wound—which he'd done twice, as one scar on his lower left calf and one scar
across his chin proved. Above the stiff leather of his steel-toed combat boots
he'd strapped his hunting knife.

In addition to the two rifles sitting in his
gun rack, he carried a sawed-off shotgun beneath his seat and a crossbow on the
seat beside him. The crossbow was his weapon of choice and he was one of the
best shots in Idaho. He'd the eyes of an eagle and steady hands guided by God
himself.

Abraham was not a person who harbored doubts.

Now he listened to the police scanner on his CB
with half his attention, while the other half minded the road. Cool morning,
damp morning, but the sun was coming out now and the water steaming off the
pavement in a beautiful, misty display. It was too brown here, a little too
stark for a man who loved mountains. But the red hills carried their own beauty
and it was all God's land.

The scanner crackled to life.

Heading westbound on I-26, Abraham paused on
the lonely highway and listened with full attention. His face didn't change.
His lips never moved.

Finally, after two minutes of listening, he
simply nodded to himself.

Seven-eighteen a.m.

He picked up the pace. He'd catch 395 south to
I-20 and head to Bend. He didn't think he'd have to get that far. No doubt,
he'd meet Cain somewhere in between.

A man had to do what a man had to do.

Especially in war.

"It's time to move."

Cain spoke softly, but his voice was firm.
Lying beside him, Maggie nodded against the white pillow but didn't meet his
gaze. Instead, she was staring at his hand with rapt attention. She'd splayed
his fingers, turning his hand palm up. Now she pressed her own hand against
him, her pale skin stunning against his dark complexion, her delicate fingers
emphasized by his long, strong digits and thick ridges of yellow calluses. His
hand dwarfed hers. It looked as if his grip should crush the fine structure of
her bones or snap her wrist. But he wouldn't do something like that, which they
both knew.

He wanted to touch her hair. He wanted to draw
down her head and kiss her full, swollen lips once more. He wanted to feel her
pulse begin to pound at the base of her graceful throat and listen to her sigh
his name.

His gaze returned to her hand, so tiny and
delicate and entwined so trustingly in his own. His chest tightened. His throat
thickened.

And he felt it all over again, that primal urge
to roll her onto her back, to slide into her body and make her his. It was
crazy, but he wanted her as powerfully as a man could want a woman. He wanted
her to be his in every blatantly chauvinistic sense of the word. He would walk
down the streets with his arm around her shoulders so the world would know she
was his girl. He would buy her dinner so he could watch the wine redden her
cheeks and the food bring delight to her eyes. He would build her a home, give
her anything she desired. He would protect her with his body and give his last
breath to keep her from harm.

He would give her every part of him, body,
heart and soul.

If he had been in the position to give her such
things at all.

He repeated quietly, "It's time to
move."

She looked up at last. "I love your
body," she said simply.

He rolled out of the bed, his body already hard
and his hands in fists at his sides. If he'd thought he was strong before, he
realized now how weak he could be. And he wasn't a man who could afford
weaknesses.

He stole a glance at the bedside clock. Big red
numbers glowed 7:22 a.m. They were still nearly 150 miles from Idaho, with no
immediate means of transportation. While Maggie's shopping venture had saved
them prep time, they'd also stayed in bed twenty-two minutes longer than
scheduled. They needed to get moving.

Once they were in Idaho, he could let Maggie
go. She would be safe from Ham. Cain would return to the mountains he knew
better than his own hands, and he would be safe for a bit, too. In the open, he
was vulnerable. In the mountains, there was nothing he couldn't do.

"We leave in fifteen minutes," he
said, not looking at her because the image of her lounging on the bed wearing
only her tangled red hair was too potent. He picked up his mud-encrusted jeans.

Behind him, he heard the rustle of her finally
sitting up on the bed.

"Do you want to have children?" she
asked curiously.

His hand immediately froze with his jeans
pulled halfway up. "Not today," he said at last, his voice
surprisingly steady.

"I'd like to have four," she
continued unperturbed, finally crawling out of bed and reaching for her
underwear. "I used to think two, but really I would like to have four. One
is too lonely. I hated being an only child. I wanted Stephanie to have other
children, but she said she'd already sacrificed enough of her figure to have
me. I thought I would be alone forever, then one day Maxmillian was gone, and
Stephanie was telling me I had two brothers. Actually, she always refers to them
as my half brothers. But how can you be half a brother? Are you the right half
or the left half? The top half or the bottom half? They're just my brothers,
and I'm their sister. I also have three step-siblings from Stephanie's later
marriages, but they're still young children. I'm never sure what to call them.
I mean the marriage made them my step-siblings, so does the divorce make them
strangers? Or once you are a step-sibling are you always a step-sibling?"