Sleepless in Montana (25 page)

“Carley, take it easy.” Mitch trapped her
arms with his, holding her tight.

How many years had he loved her?
From
that first sight of her riding a horse far too spirited and too big
for her, her pale hair blowing in the wind as she stood on the
horse’s bare back, riding him around the arena?

While her silky hair webbed across his cheek,
Mitch looked out into the night. He detested the lie that had
brought and kept her here, but Carley’s stalker had a big
advantage— time and invisibility. They’d have to find a way to take
away that advantage.

“Jemma’s worried about something. She’s
started talking in her sleep again, and last night, she damned
Hogan well and good. Now she’s out there with him, and he’s in that
dark stormy nasty temper again, keeping to himself. They’re certain
to be fighting, and no telling what Jemma will do.”

“Why don’t you worry about yourself for a
change?” Mitch asked, then he lowered his lips to Carley’s sweet
ones.

Two heartbeats later, he found himself flat
on his back, looking up at the horse and the starlit night.

“That’s my girl,” he said, gingerly easing to
stand, and watching Carley’s round backside as she stalked toward
the house. He kissed the horse. “Ah, old Snake still has it,
huh?”

Mitch watched a horse with two riders
crossing the field on a path for Hogan’s house. “He’s doing better
than I am. This should be interesting. He’s had her on the run, and
now the noose is closing.”

He kissed the horse again. “But we’ve got
each other, babe.”

*** ***

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Jemma cried out as Hogan
massaged her foot. “Oh!”

She fell back onto the soft thick rug in
front of Hogan’s fireplace, a graceful feminine sprawl. She sighed
as he began to work on her other foot. “I’ve got to get back to
your office and check my e-mail. Oh! That feels so good,
Hogan.”

When Hogan had asked her if she wanted to
ride back to his house, her pride said No and her lips said Yes.
Using his office was just an excuse— Jemma wanted to be close to
Hogan, and since his horse was the only transportation... She’d
wanted him holding her close, pressed against her back and legs as
they rode.

“You look tense,” he’d said after she’d used
his fax machine. Jemma had cursed herself for not resisting the
relaxing massage he’d offered.

Jemma had never given herself to the luxury
of relaxing. Even after a professional massage, she would be tense
by the time she walked to her car. Her mind would splinter into a
hundred little have-to streets and calculating lucrative buys and
sells.

“Mmm.” Jemma let Hogan’s large, strong hands
take away her problems. The small warm fire, the wine Hogan had
poured after the first bottle at the stream, and his hands— his
marvelous strong hands massaging her feet, her calves, had made her
feel limp and floating happily.

She’d known from the moment that she’d seen
him lying on that horse blanket with that expensive bottle of wine
in his hand that what he offered was too good to pass up.

She’d wanted to see Hogan without his
defenses, and she’d refilled their glasses several times. She’d
always known that Hogan had something unique to offer her and when
the time came, she’d take it— the massage was worth her aching
casting arm.

He’d offered to take her home, but Jemma
wanted more of him— that low soft chuckle that she suspected had
been loosened by wine. Filled with the pleasure of his massaging
hands, she sighed again as he turned her onto her stomach and began
massaging the sensitive arches of her feet, sliding his firm hands
over her calves.

Hogan leaned close to her ear. “I could do
this a lot better if you were wearing something less restricting.
Wouldn’t you like your back massaged?”

“Hmm?” She allowed herself to drift on the
clouds, pleasantly warm as Hogan’s hands slid up to start working
on her back. “Oh, Hogan, don’t stop. Ohhh!”

That purring, pleasured sound of a woman near
the peak of her riveting climax, jarred him. His hands paused just
over her wiggling bottom, and the need for Jemma ran through him
like a hot stake.

Hogan swallowed and scrubbed his trembling
hands over his face. He’d wanted women before, to serve a basic
need, but Jemma excited him on another level. He wanted her, but
not like this.

He’d had his fantasy ride with her on the
saddle in front of him, carrying her to his lair, her hair blowing
back against his face.

Hogan didn’t like the primitive needs she
drew from him. He’d needed to claim her, take her to his lair and
have her. He’d set out to see what Jemma was like with all the
tense edges smoothed away, and now he knew— She was vulnerable to
his touch, responding immediately to the control of his hands on
her feet.

“I’m ready,” she murmured sleepily in the
manner of a woman used to giving orders. “Do it.”

Hogan allowed himself a smile and lay down
beside her. Jemma was too used to getting what she wanted from men,
and he didn’t intend to be one of the crowd. She lifted her head,
peering sleepily at him. “I can’t move, you know. I feel like a
limp noodle. You’re very good. I could get you a job at my
spa.”

“You’ve had massages before. You’re wound too
tight, Jemma. Someday all the pieces are going to fly apart.”

He wondered what she would feel like under
him, around him when she did just that. He reached out to stroke
her hair, to twine his finger in the silky strands and Jemma’s eyes
drifted closed.

“Hogan,” she whispered sleepily, and he
longed for her to touch him, to hold him. The quiet sound of a
Native American flute played in the background, and for just that
instant, Hogan’s shadows were quiet. Being near Jemma, lying at her
side, gave him peace.

The oddity of seeking warmth from a woman
stunned him, even as Jemma sighed and plopped her hand on his
chest. It wasn’t a lover-like move, but Hogan settled for massaging
her palm and fingers. He drifted in his thoughts, and examined a
peace that he’d never had— with Jemma relaxing quietly beside him,
her hand soft and pliable within his.

Taking care not to disturb her, Hogan turned
on his side and braced on one elbow to study Jemma.

Lying on her stomach, her arms at her sides
and her face turned toward him, Jemma was nothing like the pushy
woman who shot through life, dedicating herself to profit. She
fascinated him, even drowsing without all her usual fire.

He eased aside her hair, found the still taut
cords at her nape, and slowly drew his fingers down them. The
sensual wave of her body, flowing from the arch of her head, down
her shoulders to her hips and legs, startled him. He’d wanted her
like this, the barriers down, and now he wanted to make slow,
gentle love to her. His unsteady emotions nettled him, the
tenderness he felt for a woman who had interfered and pushed and
fought with him for years.

Jemma could match his dark moods with her
own; she could lift his heart and pierce the shadows. He’d mocked a
lover’s eternal quest for a mate, and now he was faced with his own
uncomfortable driving needs.

“You think too much,” Jemma murmured
sleepily, one eye opening slowly. “I can hear your thoughts
humming. What are you thinking about? A new design?”

“Something like that.” The design of his
life, he thought, as he smoothed her cheek with his fingertips.

“I can’t move,” she whispered again, as he
massaged her tense shoulders and the slope of her back.

He smiled again and let his hand rest upon
her hip for a moment, claiming her softness. In the morning, Jemma
would be furious and aware that he’d used wine to relax her. But
then, he’d known that she was trying to do the same to him.

“That’s beautiful music,” she whispered, and
sighed deeply. “Are you going to do my back? You could sit on my
thighs to get a better angle.”

“Can’t. Too many clothes.” Hogan wanted to do
more than kneel over her thighs. He wanted to reach down and lift
her hips and touch her where she was dark and scented and made for
him. He wanted to be a part of her when she came apart in a fiery
storm— He toyed with her hair, the edges feathering across his
skin, gleaming brilliantly on the dark rough surface. In his
creative mind, he saw her in the wind, dressed in little but a
shawl, the fringes lying gracefully around her pale body.

As a man, he saw her wearing nothing at all.
The eagerness was there, the hunger and a need he couldn’t
define.

“Do something, Hogan,” she whispered
sleepily. “I feel like I’ve melted. I’m feeling too relaxed—ohh,”
she crooned as his thumb found a tight spot by her shoulder blade,
smoothing the knot gently.

“You should go home. I’ll drive you.” The
admission that he couldn’t trust himself with Jemma as she was now,
caused Hogan to smile. Maybe a scrap of his honor remained when it
came to a woman he respected... He did admire her; she’d struggled
against life and stood by those she loved— even if they didn’t like
her meddling.

“You’re not so bad when you look like that,”
she said, lifting slightly to study him.

Hogan bent to brush her lips with his, to
taste the wine on her lips, the softness between them. Jemma’s lips
lifted to his, an experiment, he thought, answering and questioning
his.

Her lips parted slightly, following the
contours of his, and Hogan closed his eyes, savoring the unique
experience of Jemma delicately exploring him. She reached to smooth
his face, to trace the ridges and the scar, and time stood still
for that heartbeat as Hogan allowed himself to be studied.

She traced his eyebrows and the soothing calm
within him spread an ease he hadn’t known. He allowed himself to
drift beneath those feather-light touches, the scent of her hand a
seduction. Had he captured her, or were the roles reversed now and
he was under her spell?

A tiny shower of sparks burst from the
firewood and Hogan pushed away the disturbing thought. He didn’t
want to be pushed and maneuvered, and anyone close to Jemma didn’t
lead an easy life. He studied the very sensual woman dozing at his
side.

Without her drive-for-success persona, Jemma
was warm, feminine, pleasing, soft, and soothing. Hogan saw her as
Everywoman, one hand upon a rounded belly, a slight curve to her
lips. He saw her running in fields, long legs flashing as she
chased a child. He saw her as a fierce, demanding lover—

Her voice was as soothing as her touch, this
gentle quiet Jemma he was exploring.

Then she asked, “You gave away bits of
yourself when you were away all those years, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully as a flash of
distasteful memories burned him. He’d been the show animal, the
Native American model that wealthy women wore on their arms like an
expensive fur stole, or a piece of jewelry. The art world was
cruel, harsh, but his training as a Kodiak had served him. He’d
managed, and he’d survived.

“You want something more now, don’t you?” she
asked, surprising him in the role of the eternal knowing, soft
woman, her fingers threading through his hair. Hogan closed his
eyes and allowed himself to drift.... He’d never allowed a woman to
see into him as Jemma was doing now.

“Yes, more. I want more.” He wanted what he’d
never had— peace.

“You’ll have what you want, Hogan. It’s just
out there, waiting for you.” She was dozing now, smoothing his
hair, already sliding away into sleep. This was the woman whom
Carley loved, who loved back and whose basic nature when she let it
be seen, was to comfort and understand.

“What if I said, what I wanted was here—
you?” Hogan asked, bending to kiss her, to taste her mouth, to
gently suckle her tongue. The taste of her shot to his loins,
filling his need painfully.

Jemma’s lids fluttered, but didn’t open, her
smile wry. “You’re not playing fair. Wait until I’m awake and not
massaged into a limp noodle.”

“But I’d lose my advantage then, wouldn’t I?”
he murmured. “You’d pull back into that demanding, hot-tempered
woman, and I’d be left wondering if this warm soft one was a
mirage.”

“You’re sweet-talking me, Hogan,” she
returned warily. “And I’ve never been seduced.”

“Neither have I.” But he already had been
...

*** ***

At six the next morning, Jemma awoke to the
slap on her butt and Hogan’s cheerful smile. “Let’s go
fishing.”

She flopped over, drawing the blanket up over
her head, and Hogan chuckled. She groaned as he placed his hands on
the bed to bounce it in time to his words. “Biggest cutthroats
you’d ever want in that mountain stream. I’m headed out now, and
I’m staying a few days. You can come, but I’m not waiting, city
girl.”

“Get lost.” Her plan to relax Hogan with wine
had backfired. She’d wanted to release his secrets and instead she
remembered wanting to soothe him, to hold him close all night long.
But instead she’d fallen asleep.

“Okay. There just might be a big brown there,
waiting for my lure... a real trophy catch.”

Jemma opened her eyes and knew that Hogan
would leave her and she’d never get another chance to learn what he
could teach her.

She sat up with a groan and realized she was
still dressed in her clothes from the day before. She cursed Hogan,
jammed on one boot, and hopped along as she drew on the other. In a
temper, she ripped the blanket off the bed.... She was going to
sleep after she caught her trophy fish.

Jemma grabbed a biscuit, then looked at the
others in the pan. She hurriedly scraped the butter from its dish
onto the biscuits, and holding the pan, blanket, and toilet paper,
hurried after Hogan. Along the way, she grabbed her jacket from a
wall hook and hung it from her head.

Outside in the cold air and predawn light,
she staggered and grabbed the back of Hogan’s denim jacket. “You
know darned well that I want to learn how to fish and camp. But,
oh, no, you can’t wait until I’m up to it. You have to choose now.
You’re absolutely perverse. Hogan, I’ll pay you a thousand, just to
wait until I can take this better.... Oh, I hate it when you don’t
talk. I’m dying, Hogan. On my last feet, you coldhearted—”