The Heart Breaker (15 page)

Swiftly Heather poured a mug of steaming coffee and wrapped a dishcloth around it, then forced it into his hands. His frozen fingers curled stiffly around the cup, seeking warmth.

“Let me get some blankets,” she murmured.

When she returned from upstairs, however, Sloan still hadn’t managed to pull off his chaps or boots but had collapsed in a chair beside the table. Evidently he would need help undressing.

She knelt beside his chair and worked to unfasten the hooks that ran down the outer seams of his chaps. When she had unbuckled the belt, the garment fell to the floor in a puddle. With effort she dragged off his boots, then his denim trousers, leaving only his woolen drawers and undershirt and socks.

Solicitously Heather wrapped two blankets around his shoulders and took his hand as she would a child’s. His flesh was so cold, it frightened her.

“Come to the study, Sloan. The fire will warm you.”

Surprisingly he allowed her to lead him. When he reached the hearth, he sank to his knees on the bearskin rug. For a long moment he stared into the flames. In the firelight she could see the stark lines of weariness etched into his face.

“We found two dozen dead steers today,” he said, his low tone dark with despair.

Heather didn’t know how to reply. Her heart ached for him.

“The hell of it is, I can’t do one goddamn thing to save them.” He laughed harshly. “If this keeps up, there won’t be anything left of the Bar M.”

Unbidden, a fierce protectiveness welled up inside her. Sloan didn’t deserve such hardship. He’d been hurt too much already.

The need to reach out to him was strong. Kneeling beside him, she hesitantly raised a hand to his face, her fingertips brushing the shadow of stubble on his lean cheek. “I wish I could help.”

Wincing, he turned to look at her, his eyes dark and distrustful. He was too proud to accept pity, too bitter to accept compassion. She longed to rid him of that bitterness. She longed to offer him comfort. Her palm softly cradled his jaw.

Every muscle in his body tensed in rejection, the sinews cording his neck so rigid they stood out visibly.

A stillness came into the room as their gazes locked, a sense of breathless waiting.

Heather watched him, her urge for self-protection vanishing. This was a man in need.

To his dismay, Sloan couldn’t break the connection with her golden eyes, so warm with concern. He wanted to move away from her, away from the dangerous seduction of her compassion. He was too vulnerable just now. He felt so raw, so tired from the war he was waging. He couldn’t bear to have her this near.

“You’d best go,” he whispered, his voice raw and cracked.

She didn’t stir.

Nor did he. He couldn’t manage it. In his chest he felt that strange swelling, twisting sensation again. He didn’t like it. It
hurt
to feel. It was easier,
safer, to keep himself isolated, remote, his rampaging emotions under tight control.

Yet he had no defense against her. He couldn’t save himself.

He remained perfectly still, a terrible tension vibrating through him. He didn’t want to acknowledge the need tightening in his belly and churning in his soul. Her feminine scent taunted him. His hands actually hurt from wanting to touch her.

Sloan swore a silent oath. He couldn’t stop himself from wanting her.

Raising his hand, he touched her face. That was all he meant to do, and yet … He found himself following the sensual line of her mouth with his fingers. She had the face of an angel but lush lips made for sinning.

They were parted now in unconscious invitation, so damned tempting....

He wanted to accept. God, how he wanted to.

Telling himself he just needed a taste of her, he bent his head. When their breaths mingled, though, he knew he was lost.

Closing his eyes, Sloan inhaled sharply at the powerful desire streaking through him. He wanted to pull her beneath him and drive himself into her body until he was mindless. He wanted to take until the ache in his soul had been eased.

This was what he needed tonight. A willing woman. This woman. The solace of her body.

“Warm me, Heather,” he whispered hoarsely before his lips covered hers.

T
he fire crackled as he pressed her down upon the bearskin rug. Heather wrapped her arms around Sloan, sharing her body heat, pleading silently with him to take the comfort she longed to offer.

He was shaking, this beautiful man with his hardened soul. She could feel the tension in his body, the tightly leashed power in his muscles as he raised himself up. She could see the raw emotion in his eyes. His face was hard, taut, like a man on the verge of agony.

His hand slid under her nightdress. Wordlessly, he pushed up the skirt, bunching the fabric at her waist, and encountered the barrier of lacy drawers she wore for warmth. Without pause he tugged down the layers of underwear, stripping them from her legs along with her slippers and stockings.

Stretching over her again, he covered her with his weight. His mouth took hers feverishly, in a kiss that plunged something sharp and searing into her soul. Her body responded at once, flaming with sudden heat.

Sloan heard her low moan, but he was blind to
any need but his own as he sought solace in her body.

Just tonight,
he promised himself. Just tonight he needed to ease himself in the soft magic of a woman’s flesh. With one hand he tore at the folds of his own drawers, setting his stiffened shaft free. Spreading her legs, he put himself between them.

Heather stirred uneasily as his powerful thighs pushed her own apart, her body tensing as she felt his probing shaft tease her entrance. When he pressed harder, pushing deep, she gasped at the shock of his naked flesh penetrating her.

“Am I hurting you?” he rasped.

“No,” she said, a lie. She bit her lip to hold back a moan as she tried to accustom herself to his sudden invasion, his unexpected size.

As if realizing his fierceness, Sloan halted. He held himself still inside her, until the line between pain and pleasure blurred, until desire suddenly rippled through her body, flaring and tightening every nerve ending.

His eyes burned into hers as he began slowly to move. Heather’s breath shallowed as her flesh responded with quickening need, throbbing with heated sensation, her skin aflame. Closing her eyes, she fought to hold back a ragged sob. Her body was straining to open for him, while wanton sounds of urgency came from her throat.

Sloan gritted his teeth as he tried to keep a grip on his fierce need. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he feared that if he lost control, he would never get it back.

When the impassioned woman beneath him twisted helplessly, the fever escalated, gathering and surging relentlessly, enveloping him in tumult. He felt himself going under, losing himself. Burying his hands in her hair, he ground his mouth
against hers, catching her soft, wild sounds, ruthlessly driving her on and on, until she clawed at his back, frantic for release. Until with a cry, she arched and convulsed around him, finding her own trembling ecstasy.

There was no way he could restrain himself now. He was beyond words, driven by savage need. He kept thrusting heavily into her, again and again, until with a hoarse groan of desperation, he exploded within her, embers bursting, white-hot with light. For an instant, all the darkness was banished from his soul.

Afterward it was she who held him. She felt the shudders ripple through him, felt the clenching and unclenching of his muscles, felt the pain-sharp breaths he dragged in.

When he tried to withdraw, Heather tightened her arms around him, despite his crushing weight, despite the ache between her thighs and in her heart.

She counted his heartbeats as they slowed to beat in rhythm with hers.

“Ah, damn…” His curse was quiet, raw.

For a long moment he was silent. When he shifted his weight, Heather winced.

“Are you all right?”

She couldn’t answer honestly; he wouldn’t want to hear the truth. She lay there, frightened and stunned by what she felt for this enigmatic man. She was not afraid of
him.
She was afraid of herself, her shameless response to him. She hadn’t expected that wild hunger in herself, that wanton need. With barely a touch, Sloan had ignited the same fierce passion that had blazed between them once before.

When she gave no reply, Sloan withdrew himself from her and rolled on his back, one arm covering his eyes.

“That was unforgivable,” he said, his voice low and rusty. “It won’t happen again, I swear it.” It was the best he could offer. A promise not to touch her again.

He had never acted so savagely with a woman, never lost control like that. His need had been blind, desperate.

He should never have taken her that way, with such raw, unbridled lust. He had fucked her on the floor, with no pretense at finesse, with no thought to her pleasure or inexperience. Hell, he would show a whore more respect.

Cursing himself for his weakness, Sloan drew a ragged breath. He should never have let himself get so near. He’d promised himself he would keep his distance. What had happened to him that he should lose himself in her arms? That he should turn into a savage animal? With Doe he had never lost command of himself—

Doe.

He squeezed his eyes shut. He tried to summon Doe’s face, but only succeeded in gaining a hazy, indistinct image. An empty ache throbbed in his chest. Why couldn’t he remember?

His anger at himself shifted to the woman lying beside him. His new bride.

Damn her, how had she made him forget his beloved wife, even for an instant?

Suddenly he was unreasonably angry with her. She didn’t belong here, and he didn’t want her here. Didn’t want her in his life. Didn’t want the savage reminders of the past she brought him.

He turned his head to find Heather watching him, her golden eyes wide with uncertainty. That look smote him. Her lips were still dampened and reddened from his mouth, her naked thighs glistening with the sheen of his seed. Even now, after
he’d sated himself with her, her pale sensuality made his loins swell. He could smell her scent… heated feminine flesh mingled with the musk of their coupling.

With an oath, Sloan reached over and roughly tugged the hem of her nightdress down to cover her bareness. Averting his gaze, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

He needed to get away. One hand over his eyes, he stumbled from the room, seeking escape from his devils and the ghost that haunted him. Seeking escape from
her.

Stunned, Heather lay there unmoving. She tried to tell herself not to feel wounded. Sloan was hurting, and lashing out was a natural response. Yet any slim hope she’d held out for closeness had just been shattered. It made her ache with sadness.

Shivering, Heather turned to stare at the fire. She had to make allowances for the haunted, complex man she had wed. For the anger and bitterness and hatred she knew he harbored inside.

But it wasn’t easy.

A hard chill shook her. Self-protectively, she curled herself into a ball, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, trying desperately to get warm.

The stone-piled grave was buried under two feet of snow, but by dawn’s first light, Sloan unerringly directed his bay saddle horse to the place beneath the giant fir. The gelding’s frosted breath came in puffs of steam as he struggled through the uneven drifts.

The winter blizzard had vanished with the night, but the bitter cold remained. The rising sun hung low in an ice-blue sky, casting glittering rays over a meadow that glistened pristine white, the reflection brilliant enough to hurt the eyes.

This was a private place, a hidden glade secreted in the foothills of the Rockies, surrounded by bare, white-trunked aspens. Doe had first brought him here on their wedding day. In summer, Sloan knew, the meadow would be blanketed with blue columbine; in autumn it would shimmer with the fiery gold of the aspens.

They had consummated their love here. Doe was buried here.

Reining to a halt, Sloan dismounted slowly and hunkered down beside the concealed grave. With his gloved fingers he gently brushed the snow from the granite headstone, reading the inscription carved there:

Here lies Doe Who Sleeps
Beloved wife of S. McCord

Tugging off his hat, Sloan bowed his head. The pressure in his chest was heavy; his heart ached with a sense of loss.

He shut his eyes, trying to recall Doe’s smile. It was her shy smile that had captured his heart from the first. So soft and gentle and filled with promise, it touched something deep inside him.

Yet, hard as he tried, he couldn’t picture her face, her smile. All he could see was her grimace of pain from the bullets that riddled her slim body.

Suddenly he was awash in memories, the savage images assailing him, razor-sharp, as if it had been yesterday.

The last moments of Doe’s life, when her shallow breaths had dwindled to nothing. The bright blood that soaked the ripped bodice of her gown and seeped between her legs. The harsh sobs that tore out of his body in great shudders as he clutched her still form to his chest.