Susan Amarillas (7 page)

He waited to see if she’d object, if she’d move away. She didn’t.

“It’s been such a long time, Becky,” he said, cupping her face lightly between his hands. “It’s been much too long.”

This time, when he lowered his head, he saw her lips part an instant before his mouth took hers in a demanding kiss that gave no quarter and accepted no retreat. She set off a hunger in him that plunged through his blood, heating, exciting. He leaned into her, wanting to feel her body against his, wanting to feel her, length to length.

His mouth slanted one way, then the other, and he felt her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt and the flesh beneath.

He groaned deep down inside at the longing that was consuming him. He wanted her. He wanted her naked, and he wanted her now.

Rebecca was lost in a world of desire. She leaned into him, feeling his chest pressed hard against her breasts, her nipples pulled into tight, aching nubs. She twisted against him, trying to assuage the ache there. She felt his hand curving around the side of her neck, his thumb hooked under her chin as though to prevent her escape.

She didn’t want to escape. She wanted exactly what he was offering. Longing, familiar as yesterday, unfurled within her, warm and pulsing, spiraling outward, touching every part of her, rekindling a fire she’d banked years ago.

It felt so good, so right, as though they’d never been apart. Her body awakened to his touch, nerves coming slowly to life with each passing moment, with each strong, steady beat of his heart and hers.

She made a small animal-like sound deep in her throat, and it was enough to send Luke’s control spinning. His arm curved around her slender waist, his fingers digging into the boning of her corset. Damn, he hated corsets, hated all the cumbersome layers of clothes women wore.

She was like flame-warmed brandy, the kind that flowed smoothly down inside to set a man on fire, inch by delicious inch. And he was on fire. Lord help him. Rebecca was the spark that ignited his passion.

His body tensed with urgency, and his mind flashed on images of her naked in his arms, her wild mane of hair loose and falling around both of them, her soft breasts pressed against his bare chest, her long legs, bare and silky-soft to his touch, curved around his waist.

Urgency and primal need overcame judgment. His hand drifted lower, past her bustle, to the gentle curve of her bottom, and he groaned, wanting her more than he’d ever thought possible.

“Woman, you’re setting me on fire. Do you know what you are doing to me?”

Maybe it was the momentary absence of his mouth on hers. Maybe it was the bluntness of his words. Whatever it was, warning bells went off in Rebecca’s head, loud and clear.

Stop this!
the faint voice of reason called, as though from a great distance.
Are you out of your mind?

She pushed at his chest. It was like pushing on a stone wall, she thought, and panic fueled her sudden alarm. She tried again, tearing her mouth from his.

“No, Luke! Stop!”

Luke lifted his head. His eyes were glazed with passion, his breathing was ragged and unsteady, and it took a full five seconds for her order to register.

Disbelief replaced the passion in his eyes. “Becky, I didn’t—”

“No.” She shook her head adamantly, her loose hair spilling across her shoulders. “Whatever it is. No. No!” She shook her head again. Her breathing was unsteady and labored. No one had ever kissed her like that, no one except Luke.

She kept her hands braced on his chest while she fought to regain control and to shake off the delicious feelings that saturated every fiber of her being.

What was wrong with her? What kind of a woman was she? Her son was missing, and here she stood kissing Luke Scanlin, the one man in the whole world she’d loved and trusted, the one man who had betrayed her in ways she’d sworn never to reveal, never to forget.

This could not be happening. She refused to let it happen. “I am not the same schoolgirl you knew all those years ago.”

“I can see that,” he said, and ran his tongue along his bottom lip in a provocative gesture.

She took a purposeful step back. “Don’t you
ever
do that again—” Her voice cracked, and anger sparked in her eyes. “You took advantage of me, Luke. It’s not the first time.” She hitched up her skirt and strode purposefully for the staircase. “You won’t do it again. Not
ever
again.”

With that, she turned her back and marched, military-straight, up the stairs.

Still breathing hard, Luke braced one hand on the smooth mahogany railing and watched her go.

He hadn’t meant to kiss her, and he sure as hell hadn’t meant to kiss her like that.

Like what? Like some cowhand who’s been six months on the trail?

Heart racing, breathing shallow, he stood there for a moment. She was something, really something.

Spotting her hair ribbon on the floor, he picked it up. It slid across his palm and curled around his fingers. He could smell the scent of her rose perfume on the soft satin. He folded it carefully and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

Woman, I think you protest too much.

* * *

It was late. Nearly midnight, according to the clock on the wall of the guest room. He was stretched out on the bed.

Hell of a thing, a damned feather bed, he thought with a quirk of a smile. He’d heard about feather beds, but he’d never actually seen one, let alone slept on one.

He ran his hand lightly over the smooth white cotton covering. Feather beds were the best there were, like everything else in the room.

A lot different from the last place he’d slept before coming to San Francisco. That room over the Red Dog Saloon in Auburn had a rope-strung bed frame and a straw-filled mattress. The bureau had more gouges in it than a strip mine.

This bed was big. Big enough for two, and almost long enough for him to stretch his six-foot-two-inch frame out completely.

Abruptly he snatched up the two pillows and jammed them between his back and the walnut headboard. If he wasn’t going to sleep, he might as well sit up. The bed creaked with the shifting of his weight.

Wearing just his black wool trousers, he crossed his bare feet at the ankle, his toes brushing against the smooth footboard.

Any other time, all he had to do was lay his head down and he was asleep. He never lost sleep worrying. Tonight was different. Tonight he couldn’t get Rebecca and that kiss out his mind.

What the devil had he been thinking? Aw, hell, he hadn’t been thinking. How could a man think when she was looking at him with those luminous blue eyes of hers?

It wasn’t entirely his fault—the kiss. She could have stopped him. He’d expected her to. Instead, she’d kissed him back, and not some little tight-mouthed kiss. No, she kissed him as though she were coming apart in his arms, as though she’d been waiting for him, as though she were welcoming him home.

She had sent desire racing through him, faster than a prairie fire in July. All he’d known was that while she was in his arms, he wanted her, never wanted to let her go. Thoughts, images, lush and erotic, had flashed in his mind and sent his heart rate soaring. He’d wanted to give and take and please until they both went up in flames.

He dragged in a deep breath, and another. It didn’t help. When had it gotten so hot in here? Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he made to stand, but her hair ribbon, lying on the night table, caught his eye. He picked it up, letting the satin glide over his callused palm. Instantly he remembered pulling it from her hair, the cool smoothness of her hair entwined around his fingers.

No matter what she said, she’d liked that kiss, liked it as much as he did. He might not understand a lot of things, but he understood when a woman wanted him, and she did. She absolutely did.

But there were a few small obstacles; she’d made it clear she wasn’t about to cooperate, and, of course, she was distraught over her son’s disappearance. Then there was the little matter of their past history.

Okay, Scanlin. What are you going to do about it?

“How the hell do I know?” he muttered to the empty room.

She had money, position, power. He had the horse he rode, about five hundred dollars in the bank, and no more clothes than he could stuff in a couple of saddlebags. Not exactly the sort of man she was used to, he thought with a rueful glance around the tastefully furnished room. He squirmed; the damned feather bed was starting to make him uncomfortable.

He’d been a loner most of his life. Being with Becky, he was having thoughts about things like settling down, having a son. Yeah, a son. He’d like that. He’d like it even more if it was Becky’s son. He’d be a good father, too, not like his old man.

He’d been fourteen when his mother died on that dirt-poor ranch they had down in Amarillo. A week later, his father had stopped coming home. Not that Luke had minded much, considering his old man had spent most of his time either drinking or beating on Luke. So Luke had waited two days, and when he asked in town, the bartender had said Luke’s father had taken the afternoon stage for Lubbock with one of the girls from the Gilded Garter. He had never seen or heard from his father again.

Ain’t fatherly love wonderful?

His muscles tensed abruptly, and he felt suddenly edgy. Standing, he crossed over to the white porcelain warming stove tucked neatly in the corner of the room, near the window. The carpet was green as grass and just as smooth against his bare feet.

There was already a fire going in the stove—the maid, he figured. There was a maid, an upstairs maid, he’d learned. There was also a cook, and a housekeeper, who was down with a cold, which was why no one had answered the door this morning.

He’d felt a little disconcerted at finding his bed turned down when he walked in tonight. It was all very foreign, the thought of having people actually wait on him, except maybe in a saloon.

He rubbed his bare arms against the chill, turning his back for a little extra warming. He had to admit this was a pleasant luxury. He’d spent a lot of time cold and dirty, and there sure hadn’t even been anyone to light a stove for him or turn down his bed. Maybe that was why he’d barged in when he heard the boy was missing. If that kid was out there—and he was determinedly hanging on to that notion—then the little guy must be scared to death. Becky had said he was only seven. Poor little guy.

Whoever had him had better be taking real good care of the lad. Yeah, real good, he thought fiercely. If they hurt him...well, Luke wouldn’t take too kindly to that.

He knew firsthand about being alone and so scared that he cried himself to sleep, curled up in the back of some stable.

That first year after his old man ran off, Luke had scrambled for work. He’d swamped out saloons, mucked stables and even dug outhouses, anything for food and a place to sleep.

And scared—he’d never known a person could be so scared. Then, one day, it had been as though he just couldn’t be scared anymore. Pride had welled up inside him. He might be digging outhouses, but he wouldn’t take the cursing or the snide remarks anymore.

He’d decided he was never going to be put down again, by anyone. He gave an honest day’s work for an honest day’s wage, and he expected to be treated with respect, same as anyone else.

But respect, he’d quickly discovered, came faster when he could demand it—and a six-gun was a great equalizer. Luke was a natural with a gun, men said. Fast, others added.

As he got older, he’d done a little scouting for the army, but he hadn’t liked all the rules. He’d done some bounty hunting later, and he’d been better at that—no rules and being on his own, he guessed.

He’d met Tom Pemberton in a saloon in Dallas. Tom had been having a little trouble with a gambler—apparently Tom had called the gambler a cheat, and the man had pulled a .32 out of his coat. Not liking gamblers much, and feeling sorry for the greenhorn who was about to have his head blown off, Luke had stepped in and laid his .45 upside the gambler’s head.

Tom had been grateful and persuasive, and when he went back to California, Luke had gone along. He’d never seen San Francisco or the Pacific Ocean. He’d figured he would stick around a few weeks, then head on back to Texas to meet a friend who was joining up with the Texas Rangers. Luke had thought he might give it a try, too.

He hadn’t known a man’s world could be turned upside down in a month.

He’d met Rebecca at a party. They’d danced, and talked, and danced again. Tom had told Luke she was practically engaged. But Luke had been young—okay, arrogant—and he hadn’t cared about rules, he admitted to himself now. She hadn’t been married and that was all that had mattered. Apparently it was all that had mattered to her, also, because she had come out to meet him every day during the next week.

He’d never known anyone like her. She’d been so beautiful—not as beautiful as she was now, but beautiful. She had been smart, and funny, and so alive. Everything had been an adventure with her. The most ordinary things had been exciting when he was with her. All he had known was that he couldn’t get enough of her, so it was no wonder that eventually he’d made love to her.

Seduced her, you mean,
his conscience chided, none too gently.

Okay. Maybe. Anyhow, that was when everything had changed. Being with Rebecca hadn’t been just having sex, satisfying a physical need. No, with Rebecca he’d wanted to please her more than himself, to give more than he took. Feelings so new, so intensely powerful, had rocked him to the very core of his being, and he’d panicked.

Yeah, Scanlin, you son of a bitch, you ran off in the middle of the night like a skulking dog.

But it seemed there was no peace and no escape from those feelings.

His eyes fluttered closed, and instantly the memory of their kiss flashed in his mind and ricocheted through his body like a shot.

It felt as though he’d been doing penance for the past seven years. Deep down, he’d figured he deserved every long, guilt-ridden, stupidity-cursing moment of it.

But along the way he must have done something right, because the Lord was giving him a second chance. A chance to free himself, he’d thought when he walked in here. Obviously he’d been wrong.