Never the Twain (8 page)

"I...I don't know." She accepted his kiss, a kiss as different from the others as his behavior
tonight was from his earlier actions. It enticed without demand, cherished without threat, and
thrilled her beyond common sense. His lips were soft as they explored hers, and his tongue made
darting little forays into her mouth, barely sipping before retreating. Giving her the taste of him,
flavored with wine and fruit. His hands were light on her waist, not holding, but giving her a sense
of belonging, for this timeless instant, to him alone.

He murmured something against her mouth. Not understanding, she pulled away. "I beg
your pardon?"

"Can we start over?" He lifted pale eyes to hers, light blue eyes glowing with a heretofore
unseen warmth. Always before they had been blazing with anger or so cold they froze her very soul.
"Can we be friends, instead of enemies?"

Genny searched his face, his eyes, wondering if this was yet another trap. She read
sincerity, honesty, and hope. With desire lurking in the background.

That was what frightened her. She knew how mindlessly she reacted to his mere presence.
He seemed to suffer from the same malady. Could they ever be friends? Or would the passion they
aroused in one another always interfere always with whatever other direction their relationship
took?

"We can try," was all she could promise.

"Hmmm?" Rock nuzzled just under her ear, smelling the sweet, floral scent of her.

"Stop it, Rock. I can't think." She twitched under his hands and he felt her pulling away
from him.

"Don't think, then. Just feel." He nipped the exquisitely soft skin of her earlobe. "Feel
this." He let his lips drift down, along the base of her throat, where a pulse pounded frantically.
"And this." He licked the skin above that pulse, tasted sweat and perfume and soap. Tasted
woman.

She moved again, pulling back and away. "Rock, how can we be friends, when this always
happens?"

"Never like this," he murmured. "Never this good." He sought her mouth again. Kissing
Genny Forsythe had been good when they were both angry. Kissing her when they were at peace
with one another was infinitely more rewarding.

"Rock!" She moved quickly, scooting sideways on the counter and jumping down before
he could catch her. "Stop this, right now. Let's make some coffee, or do the dishes, or...or
something...."

"I like this something." He reached for her, but Genny was ready. She handed him a
dishtowel.

He stepped back and grabbed a dripping glass. It was the only way he could keep his hands
off her. "Kissing you was better. Drying dishes ain't nearly as much fun." Deliberately he leered at
her.

"Hmpf." She turned her back to him, seemed to be concentrating solely on something
stuck to the relish platter. But the faint blush over her cheekbones belied her concentration. He
found himself admiring her glowing skin, wondering if she was as golden under the shirt and pants
as she was on her shoulders and slim arms. He intended to find out. One of these days.

He picked up another glass. "I like your aunt. She's a truly gracious lady." He couldn't kiss
her, but he could feast his eyes on her. The white slacks fit her pert little bottom like a second skin,
with no panty line. Was she wearing anything under them?

His groin tightened at the thought.

He forced his attention upward. Her silvery hair was loose tonight, pulled up and away
from her face with two combs at her temples. It cascaded down her back, almost to her waist, like a
molten silver waterfall. It rippled and gleamed in the overhead light, tempting his fingers to touch, to
comb, to gather.

Rock was beginning to doubt his first impression. Perhaps the pale, gleaming crown was
natural, innocent of artifice.

Why did that possible misconception bother him?

"Rock?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry." He stepped aside so she could sweep under his feet. Somehow,
while he was engaged in contemplation of her various attributes, Genny had finished washing glasses
and had put away the remaining food. Operating on automatic, he'd even managed to dry the glasses
and stack them on the kitchen table.

"Let's go for a walk." As long as he could see her, he wasn't going to be able to do anything
but want his hands on her. Maybe if they got outside, in the fresh, cool air, they could talk.

"I can't. I'm the hostess, remember?" She leaned the broom behind the refrigerator. "Come
on. I've got to get back to my guests."

He followed, thinking that parties were a royal pain in the ass when a man needed to be
alone with a woman.

Most of the remaining crowd was preparing to leave. Several of the young women tried to
convince Genny to join them at their favorite watering hole, to top off the evening with dancing, but
she refused to leave her aunt alone.

Miss Enderby didn't seem sorry to see anybody go. She was so engrossed in a conversation
with Pancho that her farewells were perfunctory. Rock had a hunch her behavior was atypical. She
had struck him as a woman to whom manners were of utmost importance.

Had his cook made a conquest? He hoped not. It was bad enough he had fallen tail over
teakettle for Genille Forsythe. He was mean and nasty, and no woman was going to lead him a
merry chase.

Not unless he wanted her to, that is.

Pancho, on the other hand, was relatively naive. He'd been married, once. Rock couldn't
remember Luisa, but he'd heard all his life what a wonderful woman she'd been. Her death, from
cancer, in her mid-twenties, had sent Pancho into a tailspin of destructive behavior that had lasted
for almost ten years. Rock's Pa had pulled his wife's distant cousin out of the gutter and set him back
on his horse, and had ended up with the best damn cowhand in Owyhee Country.

To Rock's knowledge, Pancho hadn't looked at a woman since Luisa's death. He hoped
Miss Enderby was as much a lady as she looked. She wasn't so apt to hurt the old man.

"Rock, I have invited Miss Enderby to accompany us to the Daniels' barbecue next
Saturday. Perhaps Miss Forsythe would care to attend, as well."

Hoo boy! When Pancho fell into the overly formal speech of his youth, he was gettin'
pretty serious. That thought was the only thing keeping Rock from laughing out loud at how thick
the older man's accent had become. Pancho's Mexican ancestry usually could only be inferred from
his name.

He decided to play along. Cocking an eyebrow at Genny, he asked, "How about it,
Miss
Forsythe? Care to see how the natives play?"

Before she could answer, Miss Enderby spoke. "Oh, yes, Genille, you must go. Mr. Ruiz
tells me that there will be real western square dancing..."

"Not that tame stuff you see in town," Rock interrupted.

"...And an impromptu rodeo, as well as the barbecue."

Rock bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. "Ro-day-oh" indeed!

"Well, I don't know..." Genny waffled.

"Come on, little lady. Most everybody in Owyhee Country comes to Daniels' shindigs. It'll
be a good chance for you to meet more of the ranchers with grazing rights on your District."

"Well...."

"You did ask me what I wanted to do next weekend, Genille. I choose to go to the
barbecue." Miss Enderby's positive tone closed the subject. Genny just nodded, and busied herself
with picking up the last of the party debris.

Rock moved to help. His cook and her aunt sure didn't look like they needed any help
gettin' acquainted. He and Genny were superfluous, as far as he could tell.

* * * *

"Sophie, why did I let you manipulate me into this?" Genny tried to twist her head around,
but her aunt's grasp on her hair prevented it. "Ouch! That's attached to my head, you know!"

"Sit still then. I'm almost finished."

"I don't think I'm going to like this," Genny muttered. "My ordinary French braid was
enough."

"You are going to look elegant and glamorous when I am through with you, dear. Now
stop complaining." Sophie seemed to be pulling all of Genny's hair up onto the top of her head,
then over to one side. Genny wished she had a mirror, but her aunt had refused. "I want you to be
surprised," she had insisted.

Genny supposed she shouldn't object. Sophie was always in demand as a hairdresser
among the family. It was an ongoing joke that if she ever got tired of being an executive secretary to
the president of one of Boston's larger corporations, she could always open her own beauty
salon.

Genny fidgeted, but she held her head still. It was that, or be scalped. "Are you positive
you want to wear that dress?" she asked, for the fourth or fifth time.

"Of course, dear. It's very comfortable and cool, and not too dressy. I understand
barbecues are fairly informal."

Stifling a laugh, Genny said, "You might say that." She was planning on wearing her dress
jeans, the new boots she'd bought last week, and a western-tailored shirt. Brenda, at work, had said
that many of the women wore such garb to Daniels' annual party. Those who didn't wear square
dance costume.

Genny looked again at the boots. Gleaming black, with white inserts and red and blue
stitching, they resembled the worn, unadorned boots Rock and the other cattlemen wore daily about
as much as a patent-leather dancing pump looked like a steel-toed work boot. She knew she would
feel self-conscious all day long.

"There. That should do it." Sophie gave her hair a final sharp tug, and patted the top of her
head. A hand mirror appeared in front of Genny. She looked and saw a stranger. The mass of braids
and curls atop her head made it look too heavy for her neck, made her neck appear delicate and
nodding, like the stem of a dainty flower. Genny turned one way and another. Sophie had woven
dozens of tiny braids together into an intricate pattern. The ends of the braids were loose for several
inches, and curled. The result was sophisticated, elegant, and oh! so feminine.

"This is going to look peculiar with my outfit," Genny said, eyeing the hairstyle
dubiously.

"No, it won't, dear. Trust me." Sophie smiled reassuringly. "Now, I must hurry, or we'll be
late. Mr. Ruiz will be here in less than half an hour."

And that was another worry. "Sophie, Pancho Ruiz isn't like the men you're used to," she
began, not wanting to meddle, but worried about her aunt. Sophie didn't seem to realize that western
men weren't like those she was used to dealing with. They weren't tame.

"I know that dear," Sophie answered through the half-open bathroom door. "That's
precisely why I find him interesting."

Genny dropped her robe on the bed and picked up the new jeans. Prewashed, they were
soft as a baby's blanket, and faded just enough to make them look well worn. She pulled them on,
liking the way they fit. Tight enough to be attractive, yet not so tight she couldn't sit. Padding to the
closet, she pulled out her shirt, a red plaid perfectly matching the shade of her new fingernail polish.
"But Sophie, he's a cook!"

"Genille! I've never heard you sound like a snob before. Cooking is an honorable
profession. Remember Brillat-Savarin, after all!"

Genny slipped into the elaborately decorated shirt, liking the feel of the fine cotton against
her skin. She buttoned the front, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror on her dressing table.
Sophie had been right. The hairdo, elaborate as it was, suited her outfit perfectly. "I'm not being a
snob, and you know it. I'm just worried. You're used to dealing with businessmen, gentlemen...." As
soon as the word was out of her mouth, Genny knew it was wrong.

Sophie peered around the bathroom door. "Now Genille, that is really going too far. You
have no reason to believe that Mr. Ruiz is any less the gentleman than any of the men I work with."
She disappeared. In seconds, she spoke again, her voice raised over the sound of running water.
"And speaking of men one is unused to, Mr. McConnell is not your common sort either. Now there
is an old-fashioned, courtly gentleman. So unusual in one so young."

"I guess it all depends on one's definition of a gentleman," Genny said, doing her best not
to snort at Sophie's lack of perception. "I've seen another side of him."

"Of course you have. That young man is enormously attracted to you, Genille, but he
doesn't quite trust his feelings." Sophie's smile was reassuring. "There! I'm ready to go." She turned
on her heel, letting Genny see all sides of her attractive silk print dress. "Am I not suitably attired for
a picnic?"

On Boston Common, perhaps
, Genny thought, but she only smiled and nodded.
Sophie was going to be quite an experience for the ranchers of Owyhee Country. The wide, pale
blue straw hat, with its garland of mauve silk roses and trailing chiffon scarf, would certainly cause
its share of comment. Genny just hoped no one laughed in her aunt's face.

"Allemande left with yore left hand. Swing yore pardner and a right-and-left grand..."
Someone grabbed Genny's right hand and pulled her forward, then someone else grabbed her left.
Giving up, she just let the men in her square toss her where they wanted her. This was all much too
complicated for her.

Across and around she went, passed from man to man like a bag of spuds. When she
heard, "Bow to yore pardner and that's all boys!" she gasped in relief and nearly collapsed onto the
floor. All that kept her upright was pride.

She staggered across to where Sophie was sitting with half a dozen matrons, fitting in as if
she'd always been a part of them. Somehow her expensive silk dress failed to look at all incongruous
among the jeans and polyester slacks and cotton print dresses worn by her companions.

And the hat! It had been a great hit among the youngest contingent at the party. Genny
wondered in what condition it would be, when and if Sophie got it back. First the littlest McCarthy
girl had asked to wear it. Sophie had graciously consented. Then one of the almost teenagers had
snatched it, declaring it the coolest thing she'd ever seen. Genny had lost track of the hat after that,
but Sophie hadn't seemed at all distressed. "Let them enjoy it," she'd said, smiling benignly.