The Reluctant Hero (6 page)

Abruptly she pulled back and studied him. He was breathing as harshly as she was. “You're trying to distract me,” she accused him.

“I'd say there was no trying about it. I succeeded.”

“Well, your reprieve is over. I'm here to observe your day.” She stood. “And observe it I will.”

After giving the dog a final pat, he got to his feet and gave her the smallest of grins, tilting his head back to the porch. “I guarantee that was a lot more interesting than what we'll be doing at my office.”

Seven

Andrea sat at the table in her room, her arms folded over the typewriter, her head resting on her hands as she gazed out the window into the darkness of the night. From her perch, she could clearly see the sheriff's office. A pale, faint light spilled out through the windows, and she wondered what he was doing. Was he reviewing more papers? Was he writing some sort of report? Was he reading? Was he sitting at his desk? Was he doing all the boring things that had occupied him all afternoon and had made her wish that they'd never left the Logans' porch?

Or was his long body stretched out on his bed? Were his boots resting at the foot of it? Was his shirt hanging from the peg on the wall? Did he sleep with his trousers on? Or had he simply put them on this morning so he wouldn't be embarrassed when he opened the door to her?

Had he known it was her this morning? And what would he do if she knocked on his door in the morning?

Would he hold her to the bargain they'd made of giving her only one day?

Or would he welcome her into his office, into his arms?

This man who took in strays, comforted children, helped out a widow, and, whether or not he was aware of it, had befriended Andrea with a compassionate ear.

From the moment Elliot Palmer had told her that her determination to pay off her father's debt was too much of a burden for any man, she'd accepted that love would always be an unattainable dream, that no man would be willing to accept the limitations that marriage to her would bring.

But this afternoon she'd had a taste of desire such as she'd never felt when she was with Elliot. And while she knew her time in Gallant, her time with Matt, would be fleeting, she was a twenty-six-year-old woman, spurned, traveling the lonely road to spinsterhood.

She deserved one night when she wasn't lonely. One night when she wasn't alone. One night when she could pretend that her dream of love was attainable.

She wasn't surprised to find herself getting up from her desk and extinguishing the solitary flame. She'd bathed earlier and washed her hair, as though her heart knew long before her mind that she wouldn't spend tonight alone.

With no hope for anything beyond this day, she walked out of the room, locking the door behind her. The hallway was shadowy and quiet. She did her best not to make a sound. She wasn't worried about waking up any guests, since she was fairly certain that she was still the only one. She was more concerned with waking up the hotel owner, Lester Anderson. How would she explain her wandering out so late at night?

She needn't have worried. Lester was nowhere in sight. A solitary lamp at the registration desk held the shadows back, but based on the snoring she heard, he was asleep in his office. She walked quickly and quietly through the lobby into the night.

 

 

Matt had sat on the bench outside his office, with Sammy lying at his feet, until the sun eased its way beyond the horizon and night crept in. He hadn't taken offense when Sammy headed off to the cemetery. Loyalty was one of the things he'd always longed to have. Loyalty and love. Loyalty, love, and a lady who could accept him, faults and all.

Instead he found himself falling in love with a lady who was looking for a hero. She might think she was only looking for a hero for her story, but he'd figured her out. She was looking for a hero for herself.

And he was about as far removed from being a hero as the devil was from heaven.

He'd sat on his bench until the lights of the town were lit. It was easy to determine which room in the hotel was hers. It was the only room with pale lamplight spilling out of it.

For a while he'd thought he'd been able to see her silhouette sitting there. He'd imagined that she was inviting him over, would welcome him. He didn't remember getting up from the bench or heading toward the hotel. He wanted another kiss. He wanted a night of just holding her, of listening to her, hoarding the final moments of the single day that he'd promised to grant her.

But in the end, he couldn't bring himself to do it, to cross the street to the hotel, to go up to her room and ask her to invite him in. She wasn't the kind of woman who gave herself easily. And he was the kind of man who only deserved the kind of woman she wasn't.

He'd knocked on the door at the closed general store until Tom had finally come out from the back where he was no doubt working on his ledgers, inspecting his inventory. With Tom grumbling the entire time, Matt had gone inside and bought that dime novel that Tom had been boasting about earlier.

Now he was stretched out on his bed, staring at words that Andi had written, wondering when she'd become Andi to him, wondering what words she might write about him. If there would be any truth in them.

He heard the door to his office open and close.

Very slowly, he reached beneath the pillow and wrapped his fingers around the cold ivory of his Colt. He released his grip when he saw her standing in the doorway to his room.

Swinging his legs off the bed, clutching the book, he came to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

His voice was raspy, strangled.

She licked her lower lip, and he could see the doubts harbored in her eyes. “You promised me today,” she said quietly. “It's not yet tomorrow. We've got a couple of more hours.”

Reaching out, he set the book on the table beside his bed, then took three steps closer to her. “I don't work at my desk at night.”

“I didn't think you did.”

“I don't leave this room—”

“I know.”

With a low feral growl, he drew her into his arms, slanted his mouth over hers, and kissed her deeply, hungrily, holding nothing back. He was wearing only trousers. He inhaled sharply as she explored his back, the first touch of a woman's hands against his bare skin in so long that the pleasure of it nearly drove him to his knees.

Drawing back from her mouth, he cradled her face and held her gaze. “If you're not wanting any more than kissin', tell me now.”

“Are you going to send me away if that's all I want?”

“I couldn't send you away if my life depended on it, but if kissin' is all you want, I'll keep my pants on.”

“And if it's not?” she asked, almost shyly.

“Then my pants are coming off and so is your dress and anything that you're wearing underneath it.”

He saw the heat of desire flare in her eyes. “I'm not wearing anything at all under my dress.”

He felt as though she'd delivered a kick to the center of his chest. “God Almighty.”

Then her boldness retreated, and her hesitancy returned. She cupped his jaw, stroked her thumb over his mustache. “Matt, I've never . . . lain with a man before. I'm not afraid of you, but I am—”

“Shh.” He placed his thumb against her lips. “I'll make it good for you, darlin'. We've got until the sun comes up.”

He lowered his mouth to hers, knowing that if he were indeed the hero she so desperately wanted, he'd send her away.

He wouldn't loosen her buttons, one by one.

He wouldn't part the material and move her dress off her shoulders. He wouldn't watch with rapt fascination as it slid down her body and pooled at her feet.

He wouldn't feel his body tighten with wanting, wouldn't rasp, “You're so beautiful.”

He wouldn't take her hand and lead her to the bed, sit her down, and kneel before her to remove her shoes.

When she was completely revealed, he wouldn't ask her to lie back; he wouldn't stand up and unbutton his trousers. He wouldn't take fierce pride in the appreciation he saw in her eyes.

If he were a hero, he wouldn't have done any of those things.

Thank God, he'd never been a hero.

Andrea thought she'd never again in her life see anything or anyone more magnificent than he was. He was beautiful, quite simply beautiful, but Andrea didn't think he'd appreciate the sentiment, and she thought it a shame that she'd never be able to describe the beauty of this moment. It was beyond mere words, beyond telling. It was at once glorious and humbling, to have this man looking at her with such unmasked appreciation in his eyes.

He stretched out beside her and rolled over onto her, raised up slightly on his elbow to keep some of his weight off her, but she wouldn't have minded the pressure. He skimmed his hand along her bare hip, up her side, his gaze following the trail marked by his fingers. He looked so different from this angle. Then she realized with sudden clarity and joy—

“You're smiling,” she said softly.

He swung his head around, and the smile made him look so much younger. She thought she could come to love that smile.

“Why wouldn't I, darlin', when you're offering me heaven?”

With his hand, he cradled her breast, a touch that sent desire spiraling through her. He lowered his head and the kiss he delivered to her flesh was as hot as any he'd delivered to her mouth. She scraped her fingers through the thick strands of his hair, dug them into his shoulders, heard him growl, was aware of her own moans.

He was as gentle as the falling of night, as warm as the coming of summer. His hot mouth and skilled fingers teased her, almost unmercifully, until she was begging for release, writhing against him, kissing any part of him that she could reach—his throat, his shoulders, his chest—while he took a leisurely journey over every inch of her flesh.

“So beautiful,” he murmured, over and over, a raspy refrain.

Then he was raised above her, his eyes holding hers, and she felt the pressure building as he sought to finish what she'd begun. She saw the strain in his face, felt the quivering in his arms as he fought to hold back, fought to go gently, but her body was beyond the need for gentleness. It was demanding—

“Now,” she breathed, “please now.”

With a harsh groan, he drove himself home, covering her mouth to absorb her cry, holding them both still as her body grew accustomed to the fullness of his. He kissed away the tear at the corner of her eye, then trailed his lips over her cheek, across her mouth, his breathing harsh and heavy.

Then slowly, slowly, he began to move, rocking against her, cradling her face between his powerful hands, holding her gaze. She could feel his muscles rippling with his movements, feel her own body responding, undulating waves of pleasure flowing through her. Growing, swelling, as his thrusts became quicker, harder, and she was writhing beneath him, seeking the release—

That came upon her with the force of an untamed beast. Her back arched, her cry echoed around them, mingling with his guttural groan and his final thrust that sent him spiraling over the edge with her.

 

 

Matt thought that when she was gone, he would still smell her here, in his bed. The expensive freight he'd always resented having to pay to get this bed no longer seemed important. He was grateful he'd had it to offer instead of a cot.

She was nestled against him, her finger trailing up and down his chest while he lazily stroked her hip. He thought he'd be content to stay here forever. He'd extinguished the flame in the lamp, so the only light now was that provided by the moon coming in through the high window of his room. The darkness allowed for an intimacy he'd never before known with a woman.

The women he'd always taken to bed were the kind who expected a favor in exchange for a favor, and once the exchange was made saw no point in lingering.

“You claim that you weren't a hero that day, but Tom told me that you were violently ill and yet you still managed to save the town.”

He stiffened. Was that the reason she was here? To gather more information about him? Maybe he should tell her the truth. She'd know then that he was no hero, but he couldn't quite bring himself to reveal everything, to prove to her as her father and fiancé had that there were no heroes. But he could at least nudge her toward the truth. “I wasn't sick.”

“But Tom said—”

“I wasn't sick before . . . before the robbery. It was only after . . . after I . . . after it was all over. I'm not brave or courageous. I puked my guts out.”

She was quiet for a while, as though she had to ponder the ramifications. Finally, she said, “It says a lot about you that what you did made you ill. You don't take lives lightly.”

“Can we talk about something else . . . or better yet, not talk at all?”

He started to roll over onto her, but her hand came up and pressed against his chest.

“How old are you?” she asked quietly.

“I don't know. Is it important to you?”

“Don't you have an idea?”

“I didn't grow up in a house or a town. I grew up on the trail. My older brother”—he cleared his throat—“he taught me to read, to shoot, to fend for myself. If I had to guess, I'd say I'm on the far side of thirty.”

“You sound angry.”

And she sounded hurt.

“My apologies. I'm not used to talking after.”

He was used to leaving, to not hanging around. To never noticing how a woman smelled afterward. This woman at least smelled tempting, her perfume wafting around him, the musky scent they'd created together stirring his passion.

“I know so little about you,” she said.

“You know all you need to know,” he said, as he nestled himself between her thighs, kissing her with a feral intensity, determined to distract her from the questions.