Читать книгу The Love Child - Catherine Mann - Страница 11

Three

As the sounds of the spat faded, replaced by the light wind rustling through the low-hanging tree branches that gathered, sentry-like, at the left corner of the boathouse, Isabeau felt her heartbeat intensify.

Trystan’s slightly calloused hand wrapped around hers. His skin, rough from ranch work—hands clearly used to the brush of leather reins—sending her own skin humming with awareness. She was drawn to the dichotomy of him, a tycoon in boots.

She hated to admit it, but part of her eagerness to escape his family’s chaos had a lot to do with the draw of this man. In her line of work, she’d found herself frequently at the epicenter of familial disputes. It came with the territory of image curation.

But this felt different from her experience with any other client. Isabeau knew why too.

It had everything to do with the man with the charismatic, gruff demeanor.

She heard the distant bark of her dog and glanced over her shoulder to be sure Paige wasn’t fretting about being away from her. A quick check assured her that her yellow Lab was still enjoying playtime with her new pals—a husky named Kota and a Saint Bernard named Tessie.

Isabeau turned her attention back to Trystan, surprised at the ease in her steps. She didn’t feel the urgent need to have her dog close. A relaxed and mellow sensation flowed through her veins.

Along with a total awareness of this big, sexy man. An outdoorsman who danced with a confidence and smoothness that made her body burn.

And she couldn’t help but glory in the feeling. So many of her panic attacks stemmed from negative encounters with men.

Some of the males who had flocked to her beautiful, weary mother had crowded Isabeau.

And then came her college boyfriend, who’d never laid a hand on her but stole her privacy by stalking her every move until she’d been forced to take out a restraining order.

People could leave a scar on a person’s soul in so many ways.

Yet, something about Trystan put her at ease.

His total honesty.

He might be rough around the edges, but he was authentic and that kept her moving forward along with him. She would worry about the impropriety issue later. Right now, she could only think about how hot she’d found him since the first time she’d laid eyes on him.

Leading her inside, he flipped on the lights, the switch igniting the darkness in front of her with the warm glow of yellow-hued lamplight. Golden illumination revealed the luxury of even this aspect of the property.

Plush couches and well-appointed wooden furniture. A row of yellow two-person kayaks lined the wall farthest from them, complementing the neatly arranged fishing poles and nets. A powerboat docked in the water nearby, bobbing up and down, adjacent to a sitting area with Sedona-orange-colored cushions decorating a couch and two chairs. Waterproof, she realized, though they still seemed overstuffed...

Trystan turned a slow circle. “It’s definitely quieter here.”

She drew in a breath of the salt-laden air. “You did well at the wedding with the photo shoots.”

There hadn’t been media present, but still, he’d put on his game face for the shots to be released to the press.

“So I’ve earned my respite from the masses?”

“Is that what this is? An escape, a break?” She smoothed her silky dress, her fingers—her senses—hyperaware of every texture down to the timbre of his whiskey-smooth voice.

His blue eyes lit with a smile. “Actually, this was about getting time alone to talk to you about something other than work. I think we’ve both earned that. Do you agree? Or is it back to business for us?”

“I do agree,” she answered, wanting to linger in the mellowness between them a while longer.

“Good, good.” He strode toward the refrigerator and opened it, surveying the contents. “Ahh... What have we here?”

He pulled out a bottle of beer bearing the Mikkelson family brewery label—Icecap. He glanced at Isabeau. “There’s wine and water, as well.”

Inclining his head, he suggested they make their way over to the sitting area.

“The beer sounds good, but the water is probably safer for me, with my diabetes, after everything I enjoyed at the reception.” She eyed the deck of cards on the table suspiciously. “Why the cards?”

He dropped onto the sofa, his body relaxed. Open. Inviting, as he handed her the water bottle. Their hands brushed, a crackle passing between them.

A blush heated her face, warmth spreading further until her body tingled with awareness. She sipped the water, suddenly so very thirsty, then set it on the table alongside the two decks of cards.

“I’m not luring you here to play strip poker. Scout’s honor. I’m still learning my way around the Steeles’ home but Broderick invited me out here for one of their card games—and a drink. I guess this is a man cave of sorts.” He tipped back a swig of his beer. “I got the impression you’d had enough of the crowds too.”

“It has been a full day.” She offered up the minimal concession.

She played down her anxiety. Always. Very few people knew how she suffered. For a painstaking moment, she wondered if there’d been a hint of her discomfort today—the very thing she labored to hide. A small well of anxiety bubbled in her stomach at the thought, the reality of her condition threatening to break loose. She found herself reaching for her dog only to remember she’d left Paige out playing with the husky and Saint Bernard.

One steadying breath settled her nerves and she decided to stay put rather than bolt.

“So, Isabeau, what made you choose this line of work?” His sky blue eyes narrowed as he leaned forward, his knee just bumping hers.

Her heart hammered, the musky scent of him teasing her every breath. She spoke, even as she found her gaze locked with his, unable to look away. “I have a degree in marketing and public relations. I did some work in the media world, even reporting for a while, but found I’m more comfortable behind the scenes.”

“I bet the cameras loved you.”

“Thank you for the compliment.” She reached for her water bottle, the condensation seeming to cool her down, to give her a sense of stability even though another part of her wondered what his lips tasted like. She avoided his eyes, hesitant to bring up the real reason she hid from cameras while encouraging others to overcome their own anxieties.

“You’re welcome. What do you mean by ‘more comfortable’ behind the scenes?”

“I feel more in control.” And Isabeau did everything possible to give herself the trappings of control. Well-organized lists, binders, schedules. Anything that gave structure to an otherwise chaotic world. She’d needed those tools after her father left and her mother struggled to keep a roof over their heads. Then her anxiety had ramped up all the more when her college boyfriend decided breaking up wasn’t an option.

“Nerves?”

“You could say that.” She pushed aside thoughts of the past, unwilling to have that time in her life steal anything more from her. “I believe in some ways my anxiety makes me more empathetic to the people I’m hired to help as they search for an approach to fame that fits them.”

“Interesting viewpoint.”

She scratched a fingernail along the bottle. “I’m happy to help you, but you seem to have nearly a perfect life, and a good amount of family support around you.”

His normally assured smile fell, replaced by pain that crinkled in the edges of his eyes, the corners of his mouth. In a tight voice, his gaze too focused on the label of the bottle, he said, “No life is perfect. We all have plans, regrets, hopes.”

A strain in her heart answered. She had to touch his hand. “What are your plans and hopes for the future?”

“You mean like a bucket list?”

“Sure.”

“How about you start?”

“Okay.” She drummed her fingers along the bottle, thinking. “I want to learn a new language. It will help me with my business.”

“Pick up an instrument. My siblings play, but by the time I joined the family I was past those early years when kids usually start music lessons.”

“It’s not too late.” She found herself warming to this topic, to sharing hopes with him, the world narrowing to just the two of them. “What about the guitar?”

“Maybe. But it’s your turn...” He draped an arm along the back of the sofa, his skin brushing her shoulder, crackling the static in the air all over again.

Except she knew full well it wasn’t static snapping through her veins. Not that she could bring herself to pull away. “I want to learn archery.”

“Archery?” He picked up a lock of her hair.

She shrugged, thinking back to her love affair with the golden age of Hollywood, scenes of Robin Hood and Ivanhoe flooding her imagination. “It seems romantic.”

“What about a crossbow?”

She scrunched her nose, then relaxed. “Not for me, but it could be hot if it’s a guy using it.”

He chuckled, low and husky. “Well, that’s a distracting notion.” He tugged the lock of her hair gently. “What about your bucket list?”

There were so many things. So many things she wanted for her life. So many things she felt were out of her grasp because of her anxiety.

She released a deep exhale with the words as they took on the power of a flash flood. “Whale watching. Stomping grapes in Italy. Speaking in front of people. Riding a camel.”

“Whoa, back up.” He lifted a hand.

“Grapes. I know. Unexpected.” She clinked her bottle to his.

“I was focused more on the part about talking in front of a group. That’s surprising, given your job.” He stroked the side of her face, his hand then gravitating back to that loose lock of hair.

“I know what should be said and done. I just choke if I’m the one having to say it. So I teach others.”

He simply nodded, leaving her words there, giving her space—which somehow managed to draw her closer because he understood her. No judgment in his eyes.

She’d never known that peace and fire could coexist, but here, now, the two twined into an intoxicating blend. That, along with the whole fairy-tale day, sent her swaying toward him.

The thin sliver of space between them heated with their breaths. He lifted one hand, sketching the backs of his knuckles along her cheekbone. Her pulse quickened, her body tingling, and she tipped her head into his caress.

She swallowed, holding his gaze. Feeling the air become heavy with awareness until—yes—her lips found his. That spark exploded as she tasted him.

His hands felt like magic gliding down her back, the silk of her dress caressing her skin along with each stroke of his fingers.

With a whispery moan, she angled closer to him, the warm wall of his body a perfect fit against her. He deepened the kiss, his hold both strong and careful, the taste of him delicious. Her thoughts scrambled as Trystan’s touch drove her need higher, made her want more.

Want everything.

There was something about weddings that just made people do crazy, impulsive things. All that emotion running high with the promise of lifelong happiness.

Apparently she wasn’t immune.

She’d noted the effect of weddings on others more times than she could count during her early days as a wedding planner. Bridesmaids and groomsmen hooked up after their walk down the aisle, as if that moment had somehow made them yearn for marriage. Those feelings usually faded for at least one of the people, once endorphins from the orgasm waned.

Married couples who arrived at the event bickering and plucking at their formal wear soon got that nostalgic look in their eyes.

Others just got drunk and stupid.

Isabeau wasn’t sure what category she fell into.

None of them seemed to quite fit. But here she was, in the boathouse with Trystan Mikkelson, desire firing through her veins, both of them ditching their essential clothing. Her panties. His pants unzipped and inched down. Their legs tangled as they backed toward a wall-long bench covered in a blue canvas cushion with cute white anchors woven into the pattern. What a strange detail to notice, but all her senses were in hyperdrive.

Slim stripes of light slanted through the vents along the ceiling. The window was sealed tight and shuttered. The door closed. The dim lighting added to the anonymity of the impulsive moment.

She knew better.

And right now couldn’t find the will to care.

She just wanted this man. Here. Now. And yes, maybe part of that wanting was a mourning for the future she couldn’t bring herself to hope for—home, family, kids.

Her trust had been too damaged when she was too young.

Perhaps that’s why this sexy cowboy oil mogul appealed to her. He was a lone wolf. A man more at ease away from people. He didn’t need her and made his lack of concern about getting married very clear. He was content to leave propagating to all his other siblings.

So she could indulge in some of that wedding event magic for tonight.

* * *

Her soft skin made him ache to touch more of her, but the chill in the air meant it was unwise to ditch all their clothes—not to mention there were dozens of people outside partying beyond the locked door.

He hadn’t expected things to go so far between them, but damn if he could bring himself to stop. She’d lit a fire in him since she’d touched him during that simple clothes fitting.

Simple?

Nothing with this woman was simple. She was a complex blend of bold and reserved, poised but with a wildness to the intense grip of her fingers sliding under his shirt, her nails scoring along his back.

Her passion seared him.

She shook her shoes free and they thudded to the floor. She sketched her foot along his calf, her legs gliding higher.

No question, this was escalating fast. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

“Trust me. I want. Oh so much.” She pushed aside his suit coat.

“We can find somewhere less rustic.” He slid his hand up her dress to her low-cut panties, simple strings along each hip holding the satin together.

“That would mean waiting and I am one hundred percent against waiting.” She loosened and freed his tie.

Her voice was husky but sure. A very, very good thing. Persuading her to be his date to a wedding had been a good idea after all, a plan that was going to lead to a much more pleasurable month than he’d originally expected.

“My wallet.”

“What?” Her hands paused along his suit pants.

“Get my wallet from inside my jacket. Condom.”

“Oh. Right.” With a speed and deftness he applauded, she fished out his wallet, found a condom and tossed his billfold on the floor.

Sheathed and very much ready, he stroked up her thigh and settled between her legs. Her soft arms looped around his neck and rational thought fled, replaced with a frenetic chemistry. Pleasure. Perfection. A coupling he hadn’t even known was on his bucket list.

But now he knew he couldn’t imagine having missed this moment with Isabeau.

And damn, but she was eager and more confident than he’d expected. She guided him and then... His mind was a blur of sensation and movement and this woman. This fluid goddess of a woman in his arms. So elegant and yet totally at ease in this earthly boathouse.

His heart pounded in his ears in time with their bodies moving against each other like the lap of the water against the dock, the roll of the waves. Her breathing hitched faster with little gasps as she urged him on, close already and sounding so earnest and honest. Her hands slid into his pants, her nails digging into his hips.

And just when he thought he couldn’t hold back any longer, her back arched upward, her soft breasts pressing against his chest and reminding him he had so much more of her to explore when they made love again.

And there would be more, damn it.

The thought sent his release slamming through him like a wave crashing free from under an iceberg. His arms clenched around her tighter as they rolled to their side, aftershocks rippling through them both.

The end of their lovemaking came in the form of ragged breaths growing steady. Quietness descended in the boathouse, despite the roaring elements of the wedding band filtering through the air. He gathered her close, noting the light scent of her perfume as he stroked her hair, fingers trailing down her shoulder.

Trystan could feel her heartbeat rattling in her chest as she leaned against him. Half-dressed, he wanted to keep this moment going. The taste of the chemistry leaving him intrigued—determined.

Isabeau moved slightly, and in the din of half-formed melodies...she winced against him. “Ouch!” she exclaimed softly.

He shifted up on one elbow, looking down at her pained face. “Ah hell, what’s wrong? Did I hurt you? The last thing I wanted to—”

“Charley horse.” The throw blanket clasped to her, she sat up, curled over and rubbed her leg. “In my calf. Ouch, ouch, ouch—it’s so fierce.”

He reached for her, and she pulled back, but he insisted, cupping her calf and massaging along the tensed muscle. “I want to help.”

Blanket clutched to her chest, she flopped back, surrendering her leg. “I’m embarrassed enough already. Just let me deal with this on my own. I’ll be fine in a minute.”

He soaked up the feel of her and searched for some of his newfound verbal skills. He needed to convince her to give them a second chance to be together like this. “Really, let me. It’s no different than rubbing a real horse.”