Читать книгу The Forgotten Cowboy - Kara Lennox, Kara Lennox - Страница 10

Cal was sure he was dreaming. He’d counted himself lucky that Willow didn’t throw things at him when he approached her at Mick and Tonya’s wedding. He’d thought divine intervention must have been responsible when she let him kiss her the first time, and when she’d agreed to go out with him, he’d thought he must be the luckiest man in the world.

But he’d never dreamed he would hear those words out of Willow’s mouth, not on their first date in five years. I’d like to be alone…alone with you. Yup. Had to be a dream.

If it was, he hoped he never woke up.

The Party Barge was about to dock. Cal left a generous tip for their server, then steered Willow toward the gangway. They were first in line to get off.

“You’re not getting too tired, are you?” He was still a little shaky from his own hospital stay, and he’d been released several days before Willow.

“No, I’m fine. And the Party Barge was wonderful, everything I always imagined it would be. But I’m ready to—”

She stopped, and Cal was dying to know what she was about to say. But he didn’t want to push her. He again helped her into the truck, then climbed in and started the engine.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked as he eased the truck out of the bumpy parking lot, glad they were beating the crowd. “We could take a drive. Lots of pretty country roads around here.” Though he would not go anywhere near the place where he and Willow used to go parking.

“Could we go to your place?” She sounded a little nervous. “Or maybe it’s rude to just invite myself over. You could—I mean, Nana wouldn’t mind if we hung out at her house. But you might not think hanging with my grandmother is that cool.” She laughed, then looked at him uncertainly to see if he was laughing with her.

He smiled. She was nervous. “We can definitely go to my house.” He wasn’t the best housekeeper in the world, but he hired a cleaning service to come in every couple of weeks and give the place a good going-over. Fortunately, they’d just come that morning. “Not that I don’t adore Clea, and I wouldn’t mind a few more of her cookies.”

“They’re outrageously good, aren’t they? You should try her fudge.”

It was on the tip of Cal’s tongue to remind Willow that he had tried Clea’s fudge dozens, maybe hundreds of times. They were his favorite, and Willow used to accuse him of dating her just so he could get to her grandmother’s cookies.

It was odd Willow wouldn’t remember that. But he decided to say nothing. He didn’t want to bring up the past at all. They were starting over tonight with a clean slate.

Cal rented an apartment in one of Cottonwood’s oldest neighborhoods, just off the square, on the second floor of a painted-lady Victorian.

His grandmother on his mother’s side had left him a farm up in Lancaster, a small town just southwest of Dallas. He could have sold it and used the money to buy just about any kind of house he wanted. But buying seemed like such a permanent decision for someone who didn’t know where he would be in five years. So he rented, and the money he collected from leasing the farm for grazing went into shares of a mutual fund that had performed steadily despite the roller-coaster economy. If Cal ever decided what he wanted to be when he grew up, he had the funds to do it.

That was a big if.

“Oh, my gosh, what a great place,” Willow said when he turned into the driveway. “I’ve always loved this house. The Whittakers used to live here, didn’t they?”

“They still do—on the ground floor. They rent out the second floor to me.” He took her around to the back and up the fire-escape stairs. They could have gone in the front door, but Mr. and Mrs. Whittaker would waylay them and talk their ears off, and he would never get Willow alone.

He unlocked the French doors that led from the balcony into the living room. Before he could switch the lights on, a familiar black-and-white blur met them, tail thumping, pink tongue lolling.

“Oh, a dog!” Willow stooped down to pet the border collie. “Hi there, fella.”

“It’s a girl.”

“Oh, sorry. What’s her name?”

“Clementine. Clem for short.”

“She certainly is well-behaved.”

“She likes to please. Clem, go outside.” The dog reluctantly but obediently slipped out the door and down the stairs.

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll run off?” Willow asked. “You don’t have a fence.”

“No, she won’t go anywhere. She’s trained. Besides, she knows she’s got a good deal here. Have a seat.” He switched on a couple of lights. He didn’t want Willow to think he had seduction in mind.

And he didn’t. Okay, it was in his mind, but he had no intentions of following through. His raging hormones had driven Willow away from him once. He had to prove that he was attracted to more than just her delectable body. Not that he had any complaints about the package.

“Do you want some coffee?” he asked, playing the polite host. Coffee would keep their hands and their mouths busy. They could listen to music. Watch a DVD. Play checkers.

“That sounds good.”

He was a patient man, he thought as he left her for the kitchen. He’d waited five years to make Willow his again. He could wait a little longer.

He’d just turned on the coffee maker when an ear-piercing scream split the evening calm. Cal raced back to the living room, visions of mayhem and blood making his pulse pound. He found Willow standing on the sofa, her eyes huge, her face pale as vanilla ice cream. She pointed down to the rug near a chair.

“I just saw the biggest rat in the entire world. It went under that chair.” She pointed more emphatically.

Cal groaned. “Oh, no. Willow, it’s okay. It’s just Rudy.”

“You name your rats?” She didn’t budge from her position on the couch.

“Rudy is a ferret.” Cal got down on his hands and knees and peered under the recliner. Two red eyes glowed at him. “You probably scared him more than he scared you.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

Cal reached under the chair and withdrew the cream-colored ferret. Rudy was trembling, but with a few strokes and some reassuring words from Cal, he soon calmed down.

The same couldn’t be said for Willow.

“I’m sorry he scared you,” Cal said. “He’s supposed to be in his cage, but he’s figured out how to escape. He squeezes under the door, I think.” Turning to his ferret, he scratched it under its chin. “Aren’t you a smart fellow?”

Willow looked at him dubiously from where she still perched on top of the sofa.

“Come down from there. Rudy is completely harmless, I promise.”

She stepped down to the floor using his hand for support, then sank onto the sofa. “Sorry about that. Guess I just proved the stereotype. I screamed like a girlie-girl, didn’t I?”

Cal laughed. “You did.”

She cast a cautious look toward the ferret, which had climbed onto Cal’s shoulder and was staring back just as hard at Willow. “Okay, let’s have a look at Rudy.”

Cal scooped Rudy off his shoulder and held him out to Willow. She lightly stroked his head. And when he seemed to enjoy her attention, she took him into her lap.

“Well, I guess you’re pretty cute. Not really that much like a rat.”

This was the Willow he remembered. Cal had always maintained a menagerie at the little farm just outside town where he’d grown up, and Willow had always loved the animals. She only objected a little when he tried to make a pet out of a giant king snake he’d found in the garage.

Clem yipped once to be let in. And right after that, two more members of his household darted into the living room, probably curious about the screaming. The two cats hopped up on the sofa, eager to make the newcomer’s acquaintance.

“Goodness, are there more?” Willow asked.

“The orange one is October. The black-and-white one is Tyson.” Time enough later to tell her about the other members of his family, not all of which were cute and cuddly.

Willow scratched each of the cats, showing a bit of extra attention to Tyson’s left ear. Half of it was missing. “These guys look pretty battle-scarred.”

“They’re shelter cats. Wild as March hares when I got them.”

“They’re tame enough now.” Both cats were vying for Willow’s attention, trying to climb into her lap with the ferret. “Wait a minute. How come they don’t try to eat the ferret?”

Cal shrugged. “They know it’s not allowed. You have to have rules.” Unfortunately. he wanted to throw away the rules when it came to Willow. “October, Tyson, that’s enough.”

Both cats froze and looked at Cal.

“You heard me. Scat.”

They left Willow’s lap and sauntered away. Willow stared after them in amazement. “I never saw cats mind like that before.”

Again, Cal shrugged. “You can teach them things if you’re patient. You just have to learn how to think like a cat.” He picked up Rudy from Willow’s lap. The ferret squeaked in protest. He’d taken an instant liking to Willow, once he’d recovered from the fright of her screaming. “I’ll put him up. The coffee should be ready in a minute.”

WILLOW WATCHED as he exited the living room, the ferret slung casually over his shoulder. Her still-nameless date had the cutest butt she’d ever seen, even in a pair of oatmeal-colored dress trousers. She wondered what he would look like in snug, faded Levi’s, and the thought made her light-headed.

She hadn’t pegged him for an animal lover. Most of the cowboys she’d known over the years—and there were plenty in Cottonwood—thought of animals as commodities. Oh, they might have a slight thing for their horses. But cats and dogs and ferrets? It was like Wild Kingdom around here.

Cal had loved animals, too, she recalled. He’d taken in as many strays of all stripes as his mother would tolerate. That was why she always thought he would be such an excellent vet, like his father and grandfather before him. That was why she’d been so shocked and disappointed when she’d heard he dropped out of vet school.

It was an odd coincidence that Hank was an animal lover, too. She just must be attracted to that type of man, she reasoned. If there was an animal-lover gene, maybe she subconsciously recognized it and was attracted to the kindness that went along with it. She liked a strong, macho man as well as any girl, but she wouldn’t tolerate strength without a dash of kindness, too.

A man who was gentle and patient with animals would probably be a good father.

She sat up straighter as her skin prickled with awareness. Where had that thought come from? She wasn’t shopping for the future father of her children. Marriage and parenthood weren’t compatible with med school. They would be years down the line for her. It was especially inappropriate for her to be thinking those thoughts in connection with a man whose name she didn’t know.

This situation had gotten totally ridiculous. Maybe there was a clue here in his apartment….

She stood up and looked around for some stray mail, a magazine, maybe. But the only magazine she saw was TV Guide, and there was no address label.

She sighed. He was going to get suspicious if she called him “Hey, you.”

Hank returned a few moments later. “You want cream in your coffee?”

“No, black is fine.” She’d learned to drink it like that in college, pulling all-nighters when she literally didn’t have enough money for cream. Truthfully, she didn’t really want coffee right now.

She wanted Hank.

He brought her coffee in a thick, blue ceramic mug, then sat next to her, close but not touching. She blew on the coffee to cool it and took a sip. “Good.”

“Do you want to watch a movie?”

Only if we watch it while we’re making love.

The thought shocked her. When had she become so wanton? She wasn’t even sure she would like sex. Her one and only experience with it had been so horrible that for a long time she thought maybe she should just become a nun or a hermit.

But her hormones insisted that making love with Hank would definitely not be unpleasant. Quite the contrary. She could tell just by watching him that he would be slow and gentle, patient with her clumsy efforts, seeing to her comfort and pleasure before his own. Just as he could gentle a wild stray cat, he would calm her skittishness.

The silence had stretched uncomfortably. Willow knew she needed to tame her wayward thoughts before she said or did anything foolish. Her hormones were completely ’round the bend.

“Do you want to watch TV?” he tried again.

No. That was something staid married couples did because they were bored with each other. She wanted to rip off that starched blue-gray shirt and see what his bare chest looked like. “Sure.” Since her injury she found TV almost intolerable, since everyone had the same face. The few times she’d tried it, she’d been hopelessly confused.

They both leaned forward and reached for the TV Guide sitting on the coffee table. They collided, and half of Willow’s coffee sloshed out of her cup and onto her thigh. She cried out more in surprise than in pain; the coffee wasn’t that hot.

“Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” Hank said, jumping to his feet. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just—”

“Your dress. It’s not ruined, is it?” He dragged her toward the kitchen. “Let’s rinse out the stain before it sets.” Once in the kitchen, he stuck a dishcloth under the cold water, then began daubing at the spot on her dress, which was perilously close to…well, to where he shouldn’t be touching.

Her body responded immediately, starting with a fireball between her legs that grew and radiated outward. Her breasts ached and felt too heavy, her insides quivered and her legs trembled. She leaned on the kitchen counter for support even as she closed her eyes and desperately wished that he would move his hand just a couple of inches to the left—

“Willow?”

She opened her eyes and saw Hank peering at her, concerned. But almost immediately his expression changed to one that more closely mirrored her own feelings. He’d seen the naked hunger in her face, in her eyes, and she feared—and hoped—he’d read her every lascivious thought.

And then she was in his arms and he was kissing her like he wanted to devour her, hot, demanding, commanding kisses, on her mouth and along her jaw and down her neck, his lips trailing fire wherever they went.

The comb fell out of her hair and the heavy mass tumbled down, making her feel even more wanton, like a virgin preparing for sacrifice. Not that this was any big sacrifice on her part. She’d wanted this from the moment this man had first taken her into his arms on the dance floor at the VFW Hall. Maybe she hadn’t consciously been aware that was what she wanted, but her body had known. Her body had been absolutely certain.

Willow wrapped her arms around Hank and buried her fingers in his hair. She would have melted into him if she could have, merged herself with him; that was how keen her craving for him was.

Finally, she understood everything. She understood the craziness that made some of her girlfriends go completely nuts for a guy, put up with being treated like dirt, or completely forget the rules of safe conduct. She understood taking a risk, fighting anything that got in a woman’s way.

It was for this, this feeling. A sensation that felt as if she were a soap bubble in the wind, about to burst.

“Willow.” Her name on his lips was more of a groan. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I swear.”

She knew that. She knew he had more on his mind than conquest. It had been her idea to come home with him, after all. She was the one who’d said she wanted to be alone with him. But her brain was short-circuiting, sending sparks everywhere in her body. She found it difficult to perform the mundane task of forming words.

But she wasn’t interested in words anyway. She pulled his shirttail out from his pants and shoved her hands inside, next to his skin. Oh, yeah. Smooth and warm, just like she’d thought it would be. Rock-hard muscles covered with velvet smooth skin.

Was he tan all over, like his face and hands? Did he sometimes work without a shirt, all hot and sweaty?

The thought almost made her swoon.

“Willow…”

“I want you, Ha—” She stopped herself just before she called him by the fictitious name she’d given him. How in the world would she explain that? He would think she’d gotten him confused with an old boyfriend.

“What?”

“I want your…your hands on me,” she improvised, though he was already touching her everywhere, caressing her breasts through her dress, squeezing her bottom. She could feel his arousal pressing against her pelvis, and her body twitched as her imagination conjured up an image of him inside her.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt, like it had before. The time she’d made love with Cal, she hadn’t been ready. She hadn’t been aroused because she didn’t even know what arousal was. She’d been tense and terrified, a little girl in a woman’s body who hadn’t been ready for sex.

She was ready now. She was past ready.

He worked the zipper of her dress down her back and slid his hands inside, doing exactly what she was doing to him. She knew that once clothes started to come off, it would be very hard to change her mind about this.

She wouldn’t change her mind. For whatever reason, this felt right to her. As if her body had been waiting her whole life to find this man. Maybe those were her hormones talking, rationalizing her outrageous behavior, but she didn’t care. She was entitled to act like a crazy fool once in her life.

“Willow.” Now her name sounded like a plea. “I feel like I’m rushing you.”

“You’re not.”

“We could wait—”

“I don’t want to wait.” Willow knew she needed to explain herself. So she pulled herself together long enough so that she could string a few coherent sentences together. “A couple of weeks ago, I almost died. You could have, too. If that experience has taught us anything, shouldn’t it be that we don’t know what the future will bring? Sometimes it doesn’t matter how carefully we plan for something or how cautious we are, it can all get screwed up in a heartbeat.”

“Oh, Willow.” He hugged her to him. “Nothing’s going to happen to us.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“We don’t have to rush.”

“We don’t have to wait,” she countered. If they waited, by tomorrow her sensible self might return and nix the whole thing. She simply couldn’t bear that thought.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded, her eyes inexplicably moistening. Then she kissed him, pouring her heart and soul into the kiss. She felt like she’d known him forever. She’d always pooh-poohed the notion of soul mates, her scientific mind rejecting a notion that couldn’t be measured or proven. But if soul mates existed, she suspected she had found hers.

She didn’t need to know his name. She didn’t need to recognize his face. She knew this man on a deeper, elemental level.

Still locked in a kiss, Hank scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the kitchen. She thought they were going to the bedroom, but they didn’t make it that far. He stopped near the sofa and set her down.

Her dress was already half falling off. She shrugged out of it, and it pooled at her feet. She noticed, in a detached sort of way, how odd it was to be standing in a man’s apartment in nothing but her underthings. But she wasn’t embarrassed. The strangeness of it felt stimulating.

She shivered.

“Are you cold?”

Cold was the furthest thing from her mind. “No. Don’t stop.”

He nuzzled her neck as he unhooked her bra, struggling briefly with the fastener. She was glad he hadn’t just flicked it open one-handed. She liked to think that he hadn’t unfastened hundreds of girls’ bras before her. Of course, he would have more experience than her. Everyone did. Still, she wanted their lovemaking to be novel for him, as well as her.

Her bra landed on the floor. Then everything below her waist—slip, stockings, panties—were whisked down her legs. He pushed her onto the sofa so he could pull off her shoes, too. And she was gloriously naked with only her long hair to cover her, like Lady Godiva.

Not that she wanted to cover herself. Hank’s frank visual perusal of her body was like turning the heat up on the stove. He yanked his shirt the rest of the way off. Belt, pants, boxers, shoes, all dispensed with just as efficiently as he’d gotten rid of her clothes.

Oh, he was beautiful. Tan all over except around his hips. Just a little bit of blond, curly hair on his chest forming a rough diamond between his flat, brown nipples. And a scar near the center of his chest, still red and puckered.

Then she looked lower, at the evidence of his arousal, and she was glad she was sitting down because she really did feel faint. She wanted to touch him, to see how really hard he was, to feel him pulsing with desire. She settled for holding out her hand to him, beckoning him to lie with her on the sofa.

“I have to get something first.” He surprised her by turning and walking away. For the second time that evening she watched his butt as he exited the living room. Only this time it was a naked butt, and all she could do was sigh. In a few moments, those buns of steel would be hers, all hers. She quivered again.

He returned mere seconds later and set something on the floor by the sofa. Willow realized he’d gotten protection and felt even better about him. She hadn’t even thought of birth control, ample evidence of just how far gone she was. Completely insane.

She still didn’t care.

The sofa was big and wide, so there was plenty of room for them to lie side by side. Hank kissed her some more as he stroked and kneaded her breasts, pausing every now and then to kiss her nipples, teasing them to hard peaks with his clever tongue. The stimulation was almost too much for her. She made strange sounds in her throat as he stroked her belly and then the dark curls of her mound. Her entire concentration became focused on those few square inches of her body as, with each stroke, he grew bolder, inching closer to those once forbidden areas. Each time he dipped a finger to caress the soft folds between her legs, she gasped. And then he was gently probing, exploring, as tension built inside her. It felt as if she were breathing in gallons and gallons of air and forgetting to exhale.

All it took was one innocent brush against the ultra-sensitive nub of her sex, and she exploded. Wave after wave of ecstasy poured over her, shimmering outward in golden ripples. She grabbed a pillow from the sofa and pressed it over her own face to stifle the screams, so his landlords wouldn’t come running in the mistaken belief she was being killed.

Only she was dying, in a sense. Petite morte, that was what the French called a sexual climax. Little death. She’d learned that in some literature class, but it only now made sense.

Hank slid his hands underneath her shoulders and hugged her to him, grinning with obvious delight.

“Proud of yourself, are you?” she said when she could again form words. “That was a bit sudden. I would have waited for you, you know.”

“Simultaneous climax is overrated. Maybe even a myth. I prefer going one at a time. That way I can enjoy yours, as well as mine.”

She threw one leg over his, bringing his arousal into close contact with her. “Then let’s move on to yours.” She spoke the words boldly, but she was still a little apprehensive.

He kissed her, a sweet, soft kiss, then reached for the packet on the floor. In moments, he’d sheathed himself.

He coaxed her legs open, not rushing, ever patient. Perhaps he could sense her slight tension. But soon his languid strokes to her thighs and belly relaxed her. And when he moved atop her, she didn’t even blink when he slid inside her, smooth as silk.

No pain. Not even slight discomfort. Just the exquisite sensation of fullness, of completion.

Then he began to move, and it wasn’t complete at all. It was just starting and it got even better. With each stroke, she felt him more deeply.